“Dad, you don’t need that old baby’s stroller anymore, do you?”
Ted paused in the act of throwing his work bag over his broad shoulder. “No, I don’t think so, lad. Why do you ask?”
“Can I take a couple of the wheels and attach them to the bike frame that I bought yesterday?” he asked hopefully.
Ted thought a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he replied. “In fact, I’ll be interested to see what you can do with it.” He gave Walt an affectionate pat on the back. “See you tonight.”
When Walt arrived home from school that afternoon, he went straight to the back of the house, whistling merrily. For the next couple of hours, he laboured diligently. In addition to attacking the stroller, he scavenged an old piece of timber which he cut to length to form the handlebars, and a collection of old rags which he fashioned into a rough, round ball for a seat. Not only was the bicycle lacking pedals, his new contraption was also missing brakes, although he thought the soles of his wooden shoes should serve admirably in this regard.
He finished just before darkness set in, and with his younger brother Edward tagging eagerly along, he took the bike to the top of a nearby hill. He pushed off, and gathered speed rapidly. Before long he was flying down the hill in the near darkness, bumping and lurching crazily from side to side. Walt let out an involuntary scream of delight, exhilarated by the feel of the rushing air in his face. He took a hand off the handlebars, punching the air in triumph.
As he reached the flat, a figure suddenly materialised in front of him. With a muttered oath, the shadow leapt off the road. Walt turned his wooden handle bars sharply in the other direction. The sudden change in direction proved too much for him to manage with one hand, and he flew off the bike.
“I see you got your bike working,” was Ted’s icy observation as he picked himself up from the side of the road.
Walt dusted himself off. His knee was stinging, but he knew he’d get no sympathy so didn’t mention it. “Yes, isn’t it great? That was my first ride,” he exclaimed excitedly.
“Well since it’s now dark I think it’s also your last ride of the day.”
“What do you think of the bike?” asked Walt.
Ted inspected it critically. “It looks like you’ve done a good job, son.”
Walt grinned. The adrenalin generated by the rapid descent was still coursing through his veins; the praise from his father only served to add to his sense of accomplishment and excitement.
As they picked up the bike, Edward came running down the hill. “You flew like a bird, Wally! Can I have a turn now?”
Ted smiled. “Not tonight, Edward. It’s too dark. But tomorrow is Saturday, so I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time then.”
Walt lay awake in bed for hours that night. He tossed and turned, replaying the ride in his mind and thinking about the rides he would undertake in the morning. Not satisfied with what he had achieved, he also spent time imagining possible improvements to the rudimentary bicycle. He finally drifted into a restless sleep, filled with dreams and movement.
Walt’s typical outfit as a young boy was a pair of shorts, a shirt, wooden shoes and occasionally a pair of socks. His only concession to the Lancashire winters was the addition of a woollen sweater during the colder months. From their cottage in the countryside, they walked two miles to school every day. The shortest route was across the fields, crossing a number of fences and stiles along the way. During winter, the snowdrifts could reach up to two feet in height, which was too deep for his younger brother to manage, so Walt regularly trudged a good part of the two miles with Edward on his back.
He often joined his father on poaching trips. He would get up at six on a Sunday morning, and they would walk across the deserted moors for hours, dressed in long coats with large internal pockets and carrying a rifle each. He shot his first rabbit at the age of twelve, although the recoil from the rifle was much stronger than he expected, knocking him off his feet. As Walt fell backwards, the gun left his hands and flew skywards, whilst the mortally wounded rabbit somersaulted forward.
Walt didn’t last long at school. He was a bright boy, and despite multiple bouts of serious illness, consistently topped his class. Despite his academic prowess, he was caned regularly, often for minor infringements. Once he started high school, the family’s tight financial conditions compelled him to maintain an ongoing search for employment. At the age of fourteen, he noticed a sign, ‘Boy Wanted’ in the window of Walmsley’s Butcher. He entered the shop immediately.
Sam Walmsley, the local butcher, called out over the counter. “What can I do for you, son?” His blue eyes twinkled cheerfully beneath white, bushy eyebrows. His head was bald, although a thick, white moustache adorned his upper lip.
“It’s not what you can do for me – it’s what I can do for you. I’m a boy and I’m looking for a job.”
Sam hired him on the spot.
Walt started work the next morning at seven. His main task was delivering meat to customers in the village and surrounding countryside. He was also responsible for cleaning the shop, sharpening the knives and cleavers, and assisting with serving customers. Collectively, these tasks occupied him for fifty-six hours a week.
He bought himself a better bike on payments to be paid off at the rate of sixpence a week over six months. In addition to weekday and Saturday morning deliveries, he often rode into the countryside on a Saturday afternoon with a tent, a small Primus and a few cans of baked beans for a weekend of camping. He covered hundreds of square miles on these expeditions, usually camping in fields alongside rivers or streams. He enjoyed many aspects of these jaunts – the solitude, the exercise and the close experience with nature.
He established himself as an integral part of Sam’s business, and as the months passed, settled into a routine of working and camping. His work was typically diligent and focused, although on one particular morning this was not the case.
Walt had been working at the butcher’s for a couple of years by this time and was now sixteen years of age. As he polished the inside of the window, his attention was diverted. Instead of concentrating on the task at hand, his gaze was directed at a point across the street. A petite young girl with the most attractive face Walt could imagine was examining the wares in Kenyon’s Gift Shop.
Walt was examining the girl’s wares, and he liked what he saw.
A clear complexion adorned her pretty face, which bore a hint of a smile even as she concentrated on the knick-knacks in the window. Her legs were slim, shapely and well-toned.
“Get on with it, Wally.” Jolted out of his reverie by Sam’s barking command, Walt’s face reddened as he resumed his polishing. “Actually, you can take a rest – there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Walt put down the scrunched up newspaper, turning to face Sam who was leaning on the scarred surface of the counter. “What is it, sir?”
“I’m selling the shop, Wally,” replied Sam. He patted his expansive paunch. “As you know, I’m not getting any younger and the time has come for me to retire.”
“I’ll be sorry to see you go, sir. I feel I’ve really got to know you over the last year or two that I’ve been working here. Although you’ve worked me hard, I’ve enjoyed myself. Things won’t be the same without you.”
“Thank you, Wally. You might like to know I’ve had a bit of interest from potential purchasers so far, although nothing firm. I’ll be recommending to whoever buys the shop that they keep you on. The last five minutes notwithstanding, you’ve been an excellent employee – punctual, hard-working and cheerful.”
Although pleased to hear the praise, Walt couldn’t help feeling a little trepidation about what a new boss might mean. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s all, Wally – back to it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Walt redirected his attention to the window. He snuck a quick glance across the street, but the girl had obviously moved on and the window at Kenyon’s was now bare. He looked up an
d down the street but there was no sign of her. With a sigh, he resumed his polishing.
At the end of the day, Walt jumped on his bike and pedalled furiously home. He only knew one speed, and that was flat out. The fixed gears on his bike meant his legs never got a rest, even on downhill slopes. The three mile trip only took him ten minutes or so. As he did on most days, he rang his bell as he overtook his walking father whose daily commute was closer to an hour.
That night, Ted told Walt about a second change that would impact him, although he could not have foreseen the extent to which it would do so. “We’re going to move into town, son,” announced Ted as he finished his dinner. “I’m fed up of walking nearly an hour each way to get to work. It stretches an already long day too far.”
Walt was unconcerned. “I’ll miss the countryside, Dad, but you know what they say: a change is as good as a holiday.”
After dinner, Walt continued working on his latest project – a crystal radio. He had been building things for some time now. His first project, a model plane, had been built from first principles and flew successfully. The satisfaction from building the plane and the thrill of seeing it airborne awakened his interest in working with his hands.
This was Walt’s fifth radio. The idea of building radios grew from a more altruistic ambition. He bought the parts individually, put them together, and sold the complete radio set for ten shillings to neighbours and acquaintances. It was a handy supplement to his meagre butcher boy wage. As Walt put the finishing touches on the radio, he was conscious of the surreptitious glances of his father over the top of his newspaper. The knowledge of the value his father put on such work was just another reason for Walt to continue.
A few months later, Sam announced the sale of the shop. “Mr Williams will be taking over. He has a boy who he will be bringing with him, but he’s agreed to keep you on for a period to see how it goes.”
Mr Williams’ boy was actually his own son, Arthur, which caused Walt to hold grave fears for the future of his job. Although Walt continued to work diligently, Mr Williams called him into the back room after only a month.
Mr Williams’ pinched face held a serious expression, and Walt noticed he did not look directly at him. “Walt, I’m sorry to say that I’m going to have to let you go. It’s nothing to do with your work, which is excellent. The business simply can’t support two boys. You’ll have to finish up in two weeks. I’ll be happy to provide you with a reference, and I know Sam will as well.”
Walt’s face gave nothing away. “Thanks for giving me the chance, Mr Williams. I’ll continue to work hard over the next two weeks. However, is it okay if I start thirty minutes late each day over the next two weeks so I can look for a new job in the mornings?”
“Of course. That won’t be a problem.”
Walt’s bike ride home was slower than usual that afternoon. He was thinking about the events of the day and what to tell his parents. One part of his mind was telling him that there was nothing to be worried about; the job loss was not his fault, and he could always find another. However, another part of his mind felt such a sense of shame and disappointment, he contemplated hiding the news from his parents. He changed his mind a number of times, and the optimistic part of him only won out as he arrived home.
Walt raised the subject with his father that night over their small dinner table, explaining the factors which had led to his dismissal. “I think I’ll try for some sort of manufacturing job,” he concluded. “Although I’m upset to be losing my job, it might actually be a blessing in disguise. I don’t think I was ever going to progress to being a butcher, and if I can get some sort of trade, it might actually set me up for a career.”
“As long as you’re learning something, son,” Ted advised. “You’re a smart lad and you don’t want to be hired just for your muscle. You want a job where you can use your brain. Look at me,” he continued. “I’ve been using my muscles all my life. They’re still working for the moment, but the day they give up is getting closer all the time. Where will that leave me?”
The next morning saw Walt up an hour earlier than usual, riding his bike on the narrow towpath that bordered the canal. He was dressed in his best shirt and his hair was slicked back. His first stop was the cotton mills. There were still three running in Oswaldtwistle, and he hoped one of them would have a position for him. However, he received the same negative answer from all three.
He visited a brass foundry the next morning – which was a Wednesday – and spoke with Mr Gordon, the assistant manager. Despite his senior position, Mr Gordon was dressed for work in dark coloured overalls and boots. He was a large man, although his face was friendly.
“I’m looking for a job – maybe a trade or cadet position,” began Walt. “I’m smart, resourceful and dedicated.”
Mr Gordon looked him over. “Are those references that you have there?”
Walt handed them over. “Yes. They relate to my time working at Walmsley’s Butcher Shop over the last year or so.”
Walt stood to attention as Mr Gordon skimmed the documents. He rubbed his chin for a second as if in thought, and then spoke decisively. “We might have something for you, Walter. Things have picked up recently, and Mr Norton has talked about putting on an apprentice. Come back on Thursday at eight in the morning. Mr Norton and I will interview you then.”
Walt was on the doorstep of the foundry at seven thirty on Thursday morning with two references and his last school report card in his hand. He was also holding his most recently completed crystal radio set.
Five minutes later Mr Gordon called him in. “You’re early.”
“I don’t mind waiting, Mr Gordon.”
“That’s okay,” Mr Gordon replied. “Mr Norton is here already.”
Walt walked through the front office. It looked functional and business-like, containing only a row of filing cabinets and two desks, each supporting a typewriter and a pile of neatly stacked folders. Mr Gordon showed him into a small office. A middle-aged man with bags under his eyes stood from behind the desk and extended his hand.
“James Norton.”
“Wally Johnson. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Take a seat, Wally. What do you have there?”
“I have my last school report card, two references from recent employers, and a crystal radio set that I recently finished making. I thought you might like to see what I do with my hands.”
James extended a well manicured hand, so Wally handed over the radio. James held it up, examining it closely from all angles. He moved some papers on his desk to the side, placing the radio on the newly vacated space. Extending the aerial, he flicked the switch. The sound of the BBC announcer filled the room. “You’ve been listening to News of the World.”
Mr Norton flicked the switch off. “Very nice, Wally. What do you do with these?”
“I sell them, sir. This is my seventh one. We have one at home, and the others have gone to friends and family. I usually make ten shillings from each one.”
“Hmm. Do you mind if I buy this one? I could do with a radio here in the office.”
“Of course, sir. You can have it”, replied Walt.
“No, no. I’ll pay for it. And there’s no need to show me your references. Your previous boss, Sam, is an old buddy of Mr Gordon here, so we asked him a few questions. He told me that you’d been an excellent employee, and the circumstances under which you left.
“We’d like to offer you a one-month trial as an apprentice. If things work out during the trial period, we’ll keep you on. You’ll work in each of our departments for a year at a time – the brass foundry, brass finishing section, moulding shop, and fitting and turning. What do you think?”
Walt couldn’t prevent a smile from crossing his face. “That sounds excellent, sir. I’d be delighted to accept. I can start the week after next if that’s alright.”
“That sounds fine. Do you have any questions for us?”
“Just one, sir. What will I wear?”
/> “We’ll provide you with a uniform. You can get measured and pick it up next week. Any other questions?”
“No, sir.”
Mr Norton smiled. “Would you like to know what you’ll be paid?”
“I am interested in that, Mr Norton.”
“Your pay will be fifteen shillings a week.”
“That’s grand, sir.”
“Thanks, Wally. That will be all. I’m looking forward to you joining us. See you soon.”
Walt turned and headed for the door, carrying his references. He felt dazed at the speed at which things had progressed. Mr Norton interrupted him. “One last thing before you go, Wally.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Here’s your ten shillings for the radio. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Wally left the office, smiling at two girls seated at their typewriters. He pulled up his bike, hopped on and started pedalling at full speed for the butcher shop, his mind racing.
A piercing whistle interrupted his thoughts. “You, there! On the bike. Come here.” Walt turned to see a solid-looking constable beckoning to him. His face was stern beneath his hat, and he was pulling a notebook out of his pocket.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Walter Johnson, sir.”
With his tongue sticking out, the bobby carefully traced out the letters in his book. “You’re riding at a breakneck speed, boy. I don’t know if you noticed, but you nearly knocked Mrs Brown over back there. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ride dangerously. I always ride fast, although this morning I’m excited because I’ve just got a new job. I’m on my way to work now, and I don’t want to be late,” responded Walt breathlessly.
Reasons to Leave (Reasons #1) Page 27
