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The Lord is My Shepherd
by
Alf Droy

Click here to download the book in PDF format to read offline.

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Index

Preface

Introduction

1 My Formative Years P 1-21

2 Out of the Frying Pan - into the Refiner’s Fire P 22-39

3 Shepherded into Evangelism P 43-59

4 Pub Evangelism P 60-73

5 A Time of Testing and Reflection P 75-86

6 Revival In Cambridge (My Jerusalem) P 87-92

7 Israel O Israel P 93-111

Glossary P 112-114

Preface

I’ve known Alf Droy for thirteen years and I can safely say that I have never before or since known anyone quite like him!

There’s no doubt that anyone who meets him will never forget him. He’s a man full of passion for life. He’s supportive, kind and willing to do anything for those he knows to be in need. He’s a great laugh, able to enjoy a ’wind up’ with people from all sorts of backgrounds. He’d be great value in any company.

When you read his life story you’ll see why! He’s experienced an awful lot of very difficult experiences and yet has come through to this stage of life with a joy and purpose outstanding to all who know him. Why? Because he came to trust in Jesus Christ in the most amazing circumstances and with the most radical of personal consequences. It’s a great story!

Finally, let no-one assume that Alf Droy is anyone’s ‘pushover’. He combines a warm, witty and gentle personality with opinions which he holds on to like a dog with a bone! Some of his theological opinions are very controversial and have received little favour, and are certain to polarise the readers’ opinions. Whatever your theological conclusions, having read the book you will know that in meeting Alf Droy you will have met one of the most interesting men in Cambridge today!

Graham Daniels

Director of Christians in Sport

Introduction

This autobiography is dedicated to my children, Kim, Leigh and Kerry from my first marriage of 20 years duration, and to Daniel from my second marriage which is still enduring after 20 years. Pauline is not only a loving supportive wife to me, she demonstrates her love and concern for others warmly. Most children inherit money and family possessions on the death of a relative, but I believe this book may prove to have more lasting qualities. Perhaps in future the children of my grandchildren Amelia, Louise and Richard will enjoy reading of their ancestor from the 20th century and of my lifestyle and customs. My nephew Andrew Hoare will regard this book as a valuable inheritance as his grand-parents and parents have already died leaving only memories and photographs which fade with time. Hopefully this book, primarily written for my relatives might lead others who are not part of my immediate family into effective evangelism.

I hesitated about producing this book, not because I thought the message that was contained within it was irrelevant, but because in my opinion, there was too much of me, and too little of Jesus. However, the Lord has released me to give free expression of what He has accomplished in my life, and given me a greater liberty than I have ever been aware of at any earlier time, to testify to His goodness towards me, and His outstretched welcoming arms to all others who would receive Him, perhaps having been influenced by something I have written.

I make no apology for my pride in the Christ who died for me, and it would be dishonouring to His name, if I did not testify to the fullness of His Grace. I pray that this book may cause some people to realise that the time remaining is shorter than they had thought, which might cause the hesitant to reflect on their lack of obedience to their declared faith, and their own mortality. May the reader be encouraged by my experiences of how the Lord has carried me into lofty places, through provoking me to exercise my own tiny spiritual muscle. I do not consider myself in any way superior, or for that matter any less loved by God than any other, but I know that it is God’s will that everybody should be saved. I have often felt embarrassed, and have hesitated at times when I have clearly heard what I am commanded to speak out to those in full-time ministry, who through the very nature of their position speak out to congregations far more often than I do and therefore would appear to be a worthier vessel than myself, but God uses the foolish to confound the wise!

I awoke one morning during Lent 1983, and again contemplated a problem that had been troubling my conscience for some time. My tax affairs were under investigation and although I knew I could lie and cover up my evasion, my better nature was telling me to confess and make a clean breast of my embezzlement despite the risk of imprisonment. I remembered that Dad had been called into the tax inspectors office to explain his financial affairs and he had talked his way out of trouble; I was confident that I could do the same but today was different – I just did not want to tell another lie. I hated the deceitful character I had become. I speculated whether one’s life was all mapped out, with points being awarded or deducted by some ‘ethereal being’ or ‘imperial court’ for performance. My accountant would always explain our previous years financial results by turning to the profit and loss page of the annual accounts. I mused that this supernatural being would not judge the commendable bottom line figures presented, but rather the methods used to achieve the results; before passing a final judgement of worth. My wife and I were well set up financially, as we owned two sports shops and a health club in the centre of Cambridge. We supplied sporting equipment as wholesalers and installed our own gaming machines to an extremely diverse market. I was currently negotiating with the Cambridge City Council to open the first amusement arcade in the city. Six years into my second marriage we were settled in an imposing house, which we furnished with expensive items. We had enough money to indulge in regular holidays abroad because I had not declared my true taxable income. I was thought of in the local community as a successful business man and was well on the way to realising my ambition to be a self made millionaire at 50 years of age. I could clearly see I was materialistic and self indulgent. As an employee I had deceived my family and cheated my former employer. Latterly as an employer, I was cheating both customers and the tax authorities. Even at 49 years of age I was physically fit, having three times won the veterans title of the Cambridgeshire Squash Championship. I was a minor celebrity locally in the sport of squash rackets, having played in representative teams for both Cambridgeshire and England and had been elected as the founder chairman of the Cambridgeshire Squash Rackets Association (SRA). I coached widely, in England and abroad, both individuals and teams. My wife and I also ran about 50 miles in training every week, taking part in many half marathons over a number of years. Superficially I may have appeared on the outside to have everything going for me, a good reputation, a fit and healthy body, an attractive younger wife who loved me, plenty of money, but inside I was a mess. I reviewed my own life; married at the age of 21; irreconcilably separated and divorced at 43, leaving three teenage children aged 19, 17 and 15 years of age respectively for my former wife to raise single handedly. Perhaps all the years of heavy drinking, whilst serving nine years in the RAF, combined with ten years as a member of the Round Table and 13 years as a Freemason had dulled my sense of decency. All that I held as desirable and respectable had turned to ashes. I realised that I was morally bankrupt!

Suddenly an authoritative voice impressed itself onto my ears:-

I realised that my life was an open book to a Holy God and that He knew the reason for every action I had taken, or not taken. There is a Redeemer and He wanted to save me! I am nobody’s fool and can recognise a good deal when I am offered one. Walking away from a failed marriage had not solved any of my problems, I had only washed my hands of the responsibility for failure. I could not, with impunity, turn over a new leaf as I would make a new year’s resolution, and avoid punishment without repentance for my past sins. I was morally and spiritually responsible for my own behaviour to an omniscient God. I leaped from my bed determined to be obedient to Jesus’ possible final offer. My wife was taken aback at my revelation although she calmly accepted my decision to confess all to the tax authorities. Later that day whilst wondering over the consequences, she felt compelled to read 1 Timothy Ch 1:19:-

Spiritually this day was the most significant day of my life, the day that the Lord revealed Himself to me. He released me from a bondage to sin that I had previously been unaware of. I knew what it was to suffer the pangs of a guilty conscience and to find relief through appeasement, but this release was completely different. Accepting Christ as a living Messiah meant the restoration of all broken relationships. Where previously, people whom I had vilified in some way, had their feelings mollified through my apology, without having forgiven me, Jesus forgave me on their behalf. As it is written in Psalm 51 ‘against God only have I sinned’. The instant I had genuinely repented of my sins, I experienced a peace in my heart beyond human understanding. I visited the office of the Inland Revenue without making an appointment and asked to see Mr Heap, the chief tax inspector, who was investigating my tax returns for year ending April 1982. I had obtained a large mortgage on our house, having increased its value by building an extension and paying for the cost out of undisclosed profits that I had embezzled from my various companies. Mr Heap was dumb-struck when I placed before him bank statements for a secret bank account in which I hid the money I had secreted away. I asked of him ‘What happens now?’ I had fully expected him to call for a policeman, who would hand-cuff me and lead me to a prison cell. Mr Heap said the fraud was too big for his jurisdiction and that the Fraud Squad would have to be informed. Later that day I wrote a letter to the Worshipful Master of the Masonic Lodge of which I was a member, informing him that I had become a ‘born again’ believer and no longer wanted to be associated with Freemasonry. At that time I was unaware that if I had progressed through to the 33rd degree as a Freemason, I would then have been calling on the name of Satan (Lucifer) for my guidance!

The very night of my confession to the tax inspector, I began to receive an incredible series of visions and dreams with revelation of their meanings. I have written fully of the revelations given to me in my apocalyptic book Wake Up! The Lord is Returning. I have read somewhere that a divine encounter is often the catalyst that releases the giftings of the Holy Spirit; and so it proved to be, for on the following Sunday, whilst I was on my morning jog, I was shown seven signs:

1 The reading of Job Ch 13, during my Bible study time:-

7 As I passed the next field, a white horse trotted towards me. I understood it to be the horse of Revelation Ch 19 and I was aware of ever present evil close by (in the previously passed field) and the need for constant vigilance and spiritual discernment. I wrote down my spiritual experiences at the time and sought interpretations from several Cambridge Church leaders with whom I enjoyed a friendly relationship. Four were Anglican ministers, one a Free Church leader and the other person was my house group leader. I never understood why not one of them asked me to explain why I had given them copies detailing the visions and revelations and none of them offered me an interpretation. Some weeks after my conversion, I found that my conscience was still bothering me. I had been invalided from the RAF after nine years of service, owing to a weak lower back problem. X-rays taken during my admission as a patient into RAF Hospital Wroughton, had revealed a prolapsed introverted disc (PID), for which on discharge, I received a 20% (per cent) war disability pension. I had lost 30 pounds (lbs) in weight, since taking up squash and was no longer troubled with back problems. It was the continuous receipt of this pension that was bothering my conscience. I wrote to the War Pensions Office and told them that I now felt perfectly healthy and no longer qualified to receive this pension. My candid action placed an even greater strain on my ability to meet all our bills. As a finale to this week of revelation, I experienced a dream or vision, in which I was on my knees praying in a huge darkened auditorium and yet I could see clearly. I was aware of beautiful prayers, like chords of low sung Gregorian chants, echoing in my ears. I could sense other worshippers close by, yet there was no one near to me. I felt I was one of a huge congregation worshipping God. I knew myself to be in the throne room of God, whilst He listened to the prayers and praises which went on unceasingly. I understood my own body as being a temple belonging to the Lord. I was a living stone in a greater temple infinitely larger than my brain could conceive of, it was an awesome experience. But I am getting in front of myself. In order for my reader to understand more fully my fears and inhibitions and my release from the 50 years of darkness and bondage that I lived through, I shall start at the beginning.

I was born on 22nd September 1934, at 25 Gerrard Road, Islington, which is within the sound of Bow Bells, therefore I am a ‘Cockney’, as anyone who has heard me speak will discern. I was conceived out of wedlock, although my parents married on All Fool’s Day, 1st April 1934, and so I was not what was euphemistically called a ‘love-child’, which back in the 1930s bore a stigma. No members from my father’s side of the family attended my parents’ wedding, I presume Dad’s family disapproved; perhaps they considered themselves of higher social standing. Although I was the first child of a new generation and a male to boot, Grandad Trixie and Grandma Cissie Droy, with seven children of their own, disinherited me. Although Mum’s parents, Grandad and Nanny Rosam, (Harry and Maude) were financially poor, they did not complain of the adversities of life. Mum often repeated the tale that one particularly cold winter, during the years that Grandad Rosam was unemployed, he used to hope for snow to fall, so that he could earn a few pence by clearing the snow from the pavements for the London County Council (LCC). He travelled many miles on foot on hearing that workers were being ‘taken on’ for a job. He finally found regular employment as a maintenance man, with the Pearl Assurance Group, based in High Holborn, that lasted until his retirement. Mum’s elder brother Harry had died in infancy of meningitis. My grand-parents also had two surviving sons to provide for; my uncles Albert and Charlie. Albert had developed poliomyelitis at 13 months, this left him with a wasted and shortened right leg resulting in his walking with a bad limp. He attended what he called a ‘school for cripples’ for most of his school life The 1930s was a time when back-street abortionists operated in unsanitary conditions with non-sterilised instruments, and no after care being provided, often leading to post-operative complications. Many an unfortunate impregnated female, seeking an abortion, for a variety of reasons, risked not only their health, but their life also. Not for me the good old days, but I am appalled at the present abortion laws in Britain, which were introduced to stop the earlier tragedies but have led to a greater carnage. Thankfully no stigma is attached at the turn of the 20th century to being born out of wedlock. I never told my parents how grateful I was to be born to them, I was too tongue-tied and embarrassed, but I hope I communicated my love for them in meaningful ways. Not long after my parents married, Mum resigned from her job with the Initial Towel Company, where she was employed to wash and iron laundry that customers brought to the shop. Mum laboured at this back breaking job for 12 hours each day, and six full working days each week with no paid holidays. British society today would never accept such conditions, although there are still areas of exploitation being exposed in the 1990s. Following my birth, until we moved to Greenford, Mum worked for a friend in a haberdashery shop in Holloway Road. The friend was the separated wife of the landlord of the Star public house (PH), the local pub. Albert regularly wheeled my pram to the shop, at the time for my feeding, until his parents moved to Greenford.

In 1936, at the age of two, before the general availability of penicillin in hospitals, I suffered an acute appendicitis. The poisoned sac in my abdomen ruptured during its extraction, resulting in the poison spreading throughout my body. Following the operation, I spent a further six months in hospital, lying flat on my back, in my bed, with the bed-head raised towards the ceiling. Glass rods were inserted into my abdomen draining contaminated blood from my body into a receptacle. It was a wonder to me, having seen other patients in hospital propped up in a similar fashion, that I never slid out of the tucked-in sheets, onto the floor! I was discharged from hospital with 24 boils covering my tiny body (a decade passed before, in my late teens, I was finally freed from the plague of boils).

Within two years I was again admitted to hospital for emergency surgery, having fallen from a table onto the floor, twisting my intestines in the process, this time over a Christmas. Albert remembers that at a family Christmas get-together everyone was singing the song He’s the Little Boy that Santa Claus Forgot, when Mum burst into tears at my absence! After recovering from surgery I was transferred to a convalescent home to recuperate, again for some weeks. My earliest childhood memory is indelibly etched in my memory. The event occurred during my convalescence, brought about by my refusal one day to eat every morsel of the lunch put in front of me. Together with some other children, I was transferred from the dining table to a cell (at least that is how I remember the room), from which we were allowed to leave on eating the cold and congealed food on our plates. Some children were physically sick at this treatment; others were slapped because they cried. I do not think that the Board of Governors of that hospital would have approved of the aftercare, which was quite Dickensian. As the resistance of my companions weakened and our numbers dwindled, I felt even more vulnerable to the intimidation, but also very determined. I was the last child remaining in this cheerless room. As the daylight faded and the room got colder than the food, I felt quite alone and unloved. I cried long and loud, but it was not until bedtime I was allowed out, with my congealed food still uneaten. At six years of age I was fortunate to have survived two life threatening operations and had 40 stitches in my stomach to remind me of my experiences. These operations occurred long before keyhole and cosmetic surgery were practised and the appearance of my stomach bears witness to that fact.

Nanny and Grandad Rosam, were persuaded by Nan’s sister Charlotte and husband Bill, who occasionally visited them, that life was better in Greenford, which at that time was still a leafy suburb, in the country, a one hour journey by train from Islington. In 1937 they rented house at 26 Burwell Avenue, in the adjoining street to relations. I do not know how reconciliation between the families was made, but Mum and Dad persuaded Grandad Droy to drive them over to Greenford on a Sunday, quite often for family get-togethers. On these occasions both sets of grand-parents, together with me and my parents, would visit the nearby pubs and during the drive would comment over how much nicer the district was than the area they lived in. Trixie was persuaded to buy a house as an investment, which he would rent to my parents. He must have been concerned for his childrens’, future, for magnanimously he agreed to buy a ‘paper pitch’, (as opposed to a paper booth which is a tiny weather proofed house), outside of Waterloo railway station, in order for Dad to develop his own business. These transactions were completed in 1938 and we moved to 17 Bourne View in Greenford, less than a mile distant from my grand-parent’s house. I remember clearly being dressed in my Sunday best and being taken round to my grand-parent’s home, on the day that Mum came home from hospital with her new baby daughter, my youngest sister Jean, who was born on 24th February 1940. In that same year in the September of 1940, on my first day at school, I remember throwing a tantrum as Mum left me to the tender mercies of a teacher; my tears soon stopped once Mum was out of hearing! It was much later that I realised how very well blessed our family was in settling into what we thought of as the ‘countryside’. My grand-parents continued to bring some of Dad’s brothers to visit on a Sunday. They would enjoy a pre-lunch drink at the Ballot Box PH at the foot of Horsenden Hill. One of their amusements was to offer me a bag of crisps or a lemonade as an inducement to sing a song as a party piece. I never refused to be lifted onto the table and give my own rendition of the requested song. I would do anything for a treat, I became an extrovert at an early age!

On the occasion of my own engagement to be married, Mum advised me to buy the most expensive betrothal ring that I could afford. She explained that many a time following her marriage she had pawned her engagement ring to finance her through the week. Until that conversation I had never realised that my parents had struggled financially to keep free from debt. I will never forget the picture of Dad going off to war in 1940, dressed in his army uniform, with his kit-bag on his shoulder, smiling bravely, whilst he kissed and hugged us all in a final goodbye, prior to his departure, for what turned out to be six long and poignant years. Whilst away, Dad wrote letters home regularly, which for security reasons were heavily censored, full of nostalgia and love for us. Mum would gather us children around her, and read the well-thumbed letters over and over again. We would then break into a sing-song of all the popular love songs of the day. Our concert often lasted for an hour or so. My favourite song even today is a song from that era, ‘You’ll Never Know’ (just how much I love you). Unfortunately these nostalgic times were never repeated following our evacuation, although I often asked that they should.

All through the war years, in order to keep Dad’s business going, for the first three years Nanny Rosam and then Mum, for the remainder travelled, by tube train into Central London, over an hour’s journey from Greenford. They did this, without complaint, Monday to Friday of every week, despite the ‘blitz’ and in all weathers. Mum coped with running the paper-pitch, whilst Dad was soldiering, whilst seeing to the needs of her three children (all aged under six at Dad’s conscription). My health gave continuing cause for concern, both of my eardrums were perforated which caused dreadful pain, quite often a bloody discharge soaked my pillow case. I was often comforted throughout the night in my mother’s arms. Eventually my perforated ears healed themselves, only scar tissue remained. Both inside and outside of my body, there is visible scarring, as evidence of pain and suffering. On occasions, if I was off school sick, I accompanied Mum to the paper pitch, for there was no-one else to look after me. I remember the tiers of bunks constructed along the platforms in the tube stations, where civilians who lived or worked nearby might sleep during the air raids. Sometimes during the height of the blitz, the workers would not be allowed to leave the underground shelters, being detained there for their own safety throughout the night. I never ceased to be fascinated by the partly deflated barrage balloons, over central London which seemed to fill the sky. At night, during the earliest air raids of the war, I recall looking through the drawn curtains of my unlit bedroom, watching the searchlights, trying to catch the enemy bombers in their beams, in order to give the ‘Ack-Ack’ gunners a visual target to aim at. I will never forget the night sky on these occasions which was lit up like a big cinema screen by searchlights or tracer bullets.

During the air-raids that occurred whilst we were at school, classes were abandoned as the teachers transferred the pupils in their charge to the school’s underground shelter for safety. We rehearsed air raid drill weekly to avoid any panic measures. Our education was badly disrupted but at that time as far as I was aware, the routine of earlier generations was probably little different. Many a morning I got to school early and surreptitiously climbed onto the roofs, in order to look for shell shrapnel. Some pieces of iron shrapnel were the size of a man’s hand, other pieces were quite small but each piece was jagged and needed careful handling to avoid cutting a finger. I remember spitting on my fingers as a precaution in case the shrapnel was hot to the touch, for I had earlier burned my finger on a piece that could not have fragmented very much earlier. How commonplace and natural it seemed at the time, but how macabre now! I stored my shrapnel at home until Mum objected to the proliferating pile. I did not protest at the disposing of this rusting collection of jagged metal because I realised that it was potentially dangerous.

Every evening the members of the Air Raid Patrol (ARP) patrolled the streets, to ensure that no chinks of light shone through the drawn curtains of any window. I don’t think the German navigators were put off their bearing by this ploy, for their bomb loads were destructive and well targeted. Early on in the war, at every air raid, Mum accepted the advice of the ARP, who urged us to leave our beds, and walk the half mile distance to the deep shelters allocated to our neighbourhood. We sleepily arose from our beds and made our way to the shelter, until the ‘all clear’ signal was sounded, when we were allowed to return home. On some occasions having sounded the ‘all-clear’ and being allowed to leave the shelter, a second wave of enemy bombers attacked, and we were urged to make that tiresome journey all over again! I remember carrying bedding and walking through darkened streets, illuminated only by a dim blue light from a street lamp. Wearing a coat hastily thrown over my pyjamas, our family shuffled in convoy with our neighbours, to and from our respective homes and the deep shelters. Not many families owned cars during the 1930s and 1940s, which made our ‘sleep walking’ very tedious and it was also very wearing on the nerves. The broken nights sleep made everybody irritable and tired; us kids more so than the adults. Mum could not cope with three fractious children and successive nights of disturbed sleep. so she decided that on future occasions, she would ignore the warning of an imminent air-raid and would trust our safety to chance! Shortly afterwards we had an Anderson shelter constructed in our back garden. A hole about 1.2metres (m) deep and 3m square was dug, into which was poured a reinforced concrete lining. Above the ground a semicircle of corrugated iron was bolted together and then covered by earth about 0.3m deep. These shelters were named after the Lord Privy Seal, Sir John Anderson, who was the government minister in charge of civil defence, who had commissioned the development of a reasonably priced but well designed shelter that could be built, in the garden of every home and made available to every family on demand. The short walk to our new shelter was pure joy in comparison with the neighbourhood deep shelter system.

Evacuation from our homes, when we were awoken by the air-raid siren, in order to travel to the communal underground shelter was no longer necessary. It proved to be little different for us to fall back to sleep, from being disturbed by a call of nature in the night. We were more disturbed by Mum rushing around in agitation and calling out to us to hurry than we were by the air-raids themselves. One night Mum spotted a huge spider in our shelter and from the time of that incident, she again trusted our preservation to chance. We never used the Anderson shelter again, other than as a playhouse. Early in 1942 Mum bought the new Morrison in situ house steel shelter, so named after Herbert Morrison the British Home Secretary. Our new shelter was 2.5m long, by 2m wide and 1m in height. The shelter dominated the floor space in our front room taking up most of the lounge. It was built like a giant Meccano construction kit, four steel legs, supported the steel roof, which doubled as a table top, to which was bolted 50mm steel mesh sheeting enclosing three sides. Entry was gained by crawling on all fours, in through the front or fourth side, as if entering a small tent.

Initially the bombing raids were carried out at night, but daylight raids soon became a common occurrence, as the enemy grew both more powerful and more desperate for an early victory. I occasionally saw enemy planes being pursued through the sky by our fighter aircraft. On one occasion whilst playing in the school field during a lunch break, an enemy aeroplane flew by, just a few metres over our heads, no doubt the pilot was ‘hedge-hoping’ hoping to escape detection. On another occasion a bomb exploded in the next street to where we lived, but that was the closest we came to the war zone. All children were issued with gas masks which we had to carry at all times, in case of a gas attack. Walking to school one morning one of the boys caught me full in the mouth with his gas mask, which he had been swinging around over his head as a cowboy might throw a lasso. Blood was flowing from my nose and mouth all over my clothes. On arrival at school the teacher cleaned me up and consoled me as best she could. I am sure that this incident was the cause of my protruding teeth, for in pre-National Health Service days, funding for specialist dentistry was a family responsibility and ortho-dentistry was not well advanced anyway.

The LCC decided to build reinforced shelters above the ground in every street around our neighbourhood. I believe they were built because it was felt that the blitzkrieg might be extended, which fortunately was not the case. Presumably these monstrosities were constructed as an alternative to the more distantly located deep shelters. These huge constructions, which I never heard of anyone ever sheltering in, took up half the width of the roads and were about 30m long and 2.5m high. The LCC did not demolish them very quickly after the war, the shelters became a traffic hazard and I became a statistic. One day, forgetting my kerb drill whilst playing, I ran from behind the street shelter (built immediately outside our house) and was bowled over by a passing car. I rolled over and over coming to a stop with limbs akimbo, as I crashed into an unyielding brick wall marking the boundary between a front garden and the pavement. It was fortunate that I did not finish up under the wheels of the car and that I did not break any bones, I had escaped injury very lightly. I did have plenty of cuts and bruises both internal and external but they soon healed although I was off school convalescing for many weeks.

It had been drummed into me to never let my two sisters out of my sight, so we always played together. Whenever an air raid alarm blasted out after school hours, or during school holidays, Nanny Rosam would come looking for us wearing slippers and apron, she knew instinctively where to find us. I well remember, during an air raid, when we were playing in the street, becoming aware that the loud engine noise associated with Germany’s V1s and the V2s (doodle bugs) had run out of fuel immediately overhead. I knew that these pilotless planes were little more than huge bombs that exploded on impact with the ground. We huddled around Nan’s skirt, but there was no need to panic as the rocket drifted about a mile from where the cut-out occurred. She used to round us up and then take us to our house until Mum returned. Mum’s time of returning home was not dependable, as trains were often delayed, so Nan would tuck us up in bed. Nothing appeared to frighten Nan, she was a tower of strength to Mum and a great comfort to her grandchildren.

My first pet was a stray cat that I found pitifully mewing in an alleyway, it was obviously distressed and Mum reluctantly agreed that we could keep it. Tabby was greatly loved by us all, but I really wanted a dog. Mum delighted me when she gave me, for my birthday, a Jack Russell puppy that I named Jip. Jip and I were inseparable, except at night as Mum would not let Jip sleep on my bed. One Sunday morning as was our routine, we children were dressed in our best clothes and walked our dog to our grand-parents house where we had lunch (Mum followed on later after tidying the house etc). Horse riders often cantered along the roads near our home and I, as I had done many times earlier, simulated the rolling gait of the horse by running alongside of the horse with one foot in the gutter and one on the kerb. I tripped and fell headlong, breaking both of my protruding two front teeth. Once again the blood from my mouth soaked my clothing only a short distance from where I had received my previous bloodbath. Not long afterwards one front tooth had to be removed for I had exposed a nerve that became infected (poisoned), causing my face to swell and was very painful. The teeth either side of the resulting gap grew unevenly during the following years.

I suppose I have been in denial throughout most of my life, offended that Mum had bundled off us children as evacuees to Hunslet, (a town in Yorkshire) well after the blitz of London had ended. Mum was a slimly built attractive 34 year old auburn haired 1.6m (5 '3") tall female, who was ‘chatted up’ on the train taking us to Yorkshire by a string of servicemen on the same train. I had never heard before the interaction between the sexes, that sparked flirtation and I was surprised that Mum seemed to respond, but I just hoped it was out of politeness. It was only at this time I became fully aware of the possibility of my parent’s marriage being under threat. I knew deep in my being that we were being ‘dumped’, in order for Mum to have time to consider the position of her marriage and of us children, she was in a similar situation to many of her contemporaries, and who am I to point the accusing finger? I lodged with one of Nanny Rosam’s brothers, Uncle Alf and his wife Aunt Doris. Pat and Jean lodged with Doris’ sister Bertha and her husband, who lived on the opposite side of the same street. My memories of Hunslet are very hazy, but I do remember running along large diameter water pipes, that had been laid at the pavements edge in the gutters, as an emergency measure. I also recall for devilment climbing into the structure of an arced iron bridge-support, that crossed the River Aire, and running along this one m wide surface! What made this so dangerous was that iron bolts used to secure the structure protruded through, leaving a ‘dimpled’ effect and possibly I could have tripped and fell either into the river or onto the pavement ten m below! I did this on several occasions, sometimes when it was wet and windy, which was even more scary. I could write of even crazier escapades, but I still cannot believe how unconcerned I was then, for I was well aware how dangerous such behaviour was. I always sensed an alienation from our Yorkshire relatives, although we were loved by them and accepted by the school children with whom we played. We were in some indefinable way separated from them by a common culture and language. I was never able to decipher the Yorkshire brogue very well. We could have been living in a foreign land, but fortunately our evacuation was only of six months duration owing to the war ending. On the 8th May 1945 Britain celebrated Victory in Europe Day (VE Day). I well remember the street party in Hunslet that we attended prior to returning to London. The houses we lived in had no gardens front or rear. A narrow pavement dropped at the kerb into cobbled narrow streets, too narrow for vehicles to pass each other by without mounting the kerbstone. The housing units ran from one end of the street to the other and a veranda style walkway ran the whole length of the rear of the houses at first floor level. Our party was held in the street behind the houses in which I was living. The standard of education in Yorkshire was way behind that of my old school; which, considering that I had spent such a lot of time in air-raid shelters, did not say much for the education in Hunslet where schooling was never interrupted by air-raid drill or air-raids.

I visited my Uncle Albert, my oldest living relative at 76 years of age, in the emergency ward of Guy’s Hospital in April 1999,where he had been admitted having suffered his third stroke. I wanted to spend some quality time with him, for he had played a large part in my formative years. During our conversation concerning the publication of this book, Albert whilst reminiscing told me that he had travelled to Hunslet to bring us children back from evacuation and the journey back to London was a nightmare, for we children were practically uncontrollable. I know that we were all excited at the prospect of being re-united back home. I asked Albert why Mum had not travelled with him and without thinking of what he was saying and to whom, he told me it was due to Mum being very ill recovering from an abortion! I was numbed by his chance comment, but the declaration only confirmed what I had believed in my heart since those days. Albert confirmed that which my heart had told me, Mum had succumbed to the attentions of a lover, with whom she sought to escape from the misfortunes of her teenage years. She was carrying her lover’s child, which I believe she would have birthed if the war had not ended. However he turned out to be a married soldier stationed at Greenford, whether she was aware of this fact, prior to their relationship, I will not know this side of heaven. Mum’s recovery, from the effects of the abortion to full health, took some weeks. Nanny Rosam staffed the pitch until Mum was stronger. However as soon as she was able to work, she went out every night dancing!

I was unhappy with Mum’s changed life-style, having firstly ensured that we were safely tucked in bed for 7.30pm,she went out. One warm summers evening we were enjoying ourselves outside so much that we were 15 minutes late in getting home. Mum was furious with me for making her late and dire threats were made if I should be late again! We three slept in a double-bed, but as soon as Mum went out I would introduce some noisy games, which resulting in Mr and Mrs Edwards, our neighbours banging on the wall to quieten us down. I realise now that this protest was my appeal to alert others of circumstances over which I had no control, but would wish to alter. After some weeks of our noisy games, Mum was persuaded to act out a charade that she was going out as usual, but instead returned to the Edward’s home, in order to listen to the noise we created. We really got a tanning that evening! I sense retrospectively that I arranged this behavioural exhibition to persuade Mum to revert to earlier happier days. Unfortunately my cry did not result in Mum staying at home. I knew that Nan disapproved of we three children being left on our own every evening, for she never came around in the evenings any longer, even though she knew we were on our own. Albert has confirmed, supported by Jeannie’s memory that his mum (Nannie) adored us. I was overjoyed to be reunited with our mother and grand-parents, but I was distressed that my dog was missing, never to return. I was never given a satisfactory explanation of what fate befell Jip. I was fond of the Enid Blyton stories that were read aloud by my school teacher in class and ‘The Five’ were my special friends. I wrote a short story with my two sisters and I and our dog Jip as the main characters, which I was often asked to narrate to the school children in the other classes. I am sure it was my concern for our future united family life that caused my failure of the eleven plus exam. I had been away from school recovering from the car accident, which might have made a difference.

I had been christened as a baby and on my return from evacuation, at the age of 11, following a series of confirmation classes I was confirmed by the diocesan Bishop into the Church of England at All Hallows Church in Horsenden Lane. In my days at junior school I thought that everyone born in Britain was a Christian, regardless of denomination. At morning assemblies in my school, Roman Catholics (RCs) and Jews were excused from joining in with Church of England members ‘C of Es’ as children who had been christened were known as (that is, the remainder of the assembly). I did not understand the purposes of assembly, although I enjoyed the singing. I did ask one or two of my classmates who were excused why they were sent back to the classroom early. I am sure they didn’t know the real reason for they would silently shrug their shoulders. I did not regard the times of assembly as ‘worship’ of anybody, let alone Jesus the Son of God the Father. I don’t know if any of my schoolmates knew better than I. I attended church services, three times every Sunday, and I supported the youth club, which met in the church hall every Friday and my scout-pack was also affiliated to All Hallows Church. Following Dad’s demobilisation my attendance at church was not as regular.

I was almost 12 years of age when I received my first ethereal experience. I had been lying awake, terrified by the thought that one day I would be pronounced dead, only to wake up in a coffin, to realise that I had been buried alive. I do not remember if I cried out to Jesus, but I certainly received assurance from Him that my fears were groundless and that I would be quite safe in His hands. I received my first supernatural vision a few weeks later. As a child I had never experienced a nightmare or bad dreams, although I did sleep-walk on several occasions whilst I was living with my Aunt Lizzie, during the separation of my parents. I occasionally experienced pleasant dreams, during which I could walk 20-30m above the ground. I would call out to people on the ground who would stop and wave, but for some reason they couldn’t join me in the air. My second spiritual experience was a visitation. On this occasion I was wide awake, for it happened in the middle of the iling, yet not unfriendly or threatening, neither of us spoke. I turned on my heels and fled! I have written the sequel to this event in Chapter 3.

On the 15th August 1945 Britain celebrated Victory over Japan day (VJ Day). I expect there were street parties again, but my sisters and I were taken to Southend on Sea by Mum for our first ever family holiday over the week when the celebrations were held. I went to the cinema three times during that holiday and on each occasion I watched the 20 minute film of the fireworks display in London that had taken place as part of the celebrations marking VJ Day. I wished Dad could have shared this holiday with us but Dad did not return to England for his eventual demobilisation until early in 1946 and it was very soon afterwards that my parents separated. I understand from Albert that it was another trader at Waterloo who told Dad of Mum’s lover, which led to a blazing row, within weeks of Dad returning home, which ultimately ending in their divorce. I can only assume that Mum’s abortion had meant that she had decided that her affair was of the past and was to be covered over in her attempt to restore their marriage. Perhaps she had decided to ask for Dad’s forgiveness, but Dad was too hurt to forgive. Mum took us children for a weeks holiday to Southend in the summer of 1946. Dad came twice for the day. I experienced very bad sun-burn on the final day of this holiday and subsequently suffered a great deal of pain, as blisters formed all over my back and then burst, as I was tormented into scratching my itching skin. I was as ginger as Albert and, like him, I was freckled all over, which was the reason that my skin was so easily burned by the sun. My father’s parents and all their children were of dark complexion with jet -black hair. Dad never had a grey hair even though he had been very ill for some years.

The Christmas before Dad returned home, one of Mum’s ‘friends’, a soldier named Bill, had taken Mum and we children to a matinée performance of a pantomime, at the Shepherds Bush Empire. I have thought that he must have been the man ‘responsible’ for our evacuation although he loved Mum until the day he died, as he told each of us three, whenever he saw us. It is only right for me to say that I have never stopped loving or praying for my first wife Pam and our children, so I can sympathise with Dad, for I shall continue to pray to God for them until I go to be with my heavenly father. The night prior to their separation, I crept out of my bed and listened from the top of the stairs to their voices raised in loud argument. I was bewildered as to why they could not love each other as I loved each of them. I crept back to my bedroom and cried myself to sleep, realising that it was not in my power to prevent what was happening. I often wonder if I had made a tearful entry, whether it might have influenced their decision to separate. It later became obvious to me that five years of separation involving a great deal of struggle, after only five years of marriage, had resulted in recrimination and unforgiveness. Mum and my two sisters moved in with my grand-parents, whilst I chose to live with Dad. It was ironic that, within weeks of my father’s return home he suffered the loss of that which he held most dear; the permanent loss of his wife and children.

Following my parent’s separation, after school I used to have tea at Nan’s house with my sisters and Mum at the end of her working day. She was a factory worker for Glaxo Pharmaceuticals at their head office a half a mile distant from Nan’s house. Dad would join me at Nan’s and having eaten his dinner would take me home. As the evenings grew lighter and longer Dad would take Mum, Nan and Grandad and us children out to the Black Horse PH at Greenford. We three children would play in the pub’s garden which ran alongside the Grand Union Canal, where we had great fun with other children who like us were enjoying an evening out with their parents. The pub was frequented by re-united families with their loved ones relaxing following the hard times they had experienced. I loved to hear the pub’s resident pianist knocking out familiar tunes and the singing by the appreciative consumers of the songs that I had grown up with. Family and community singing was the most common form of entertainment before the advent of tv. Nan used to invite Dad and I over for lunch on a Sunday they would all go down to the Black Horse leaving us children at home in the charge of Albert. Lunch was often delayed because Grandad was often the worse for wear. After lunch we children were packed off to the cinema whilst the adults slept. In some way I hoped that my living at home with Dad might lessen his loss and also that Mum might return home when she realised how much she missed normal family life. During the early months of separation, Dad and I continued to live at our home in Bourne View. But once Mum had regained her independence and found a boy friend Dad knew that reconciliation was not a possibility. Mum wanted her boyfriend John to be able to have Sunday lunch with her and get to know her parents. When these visits occurred Dad and I would collect my two sisters, from Nanny’s house and they would spend the day with us. After lunch Dad would take us to the cinema, and then home for Dad’s favourite tea, of cockles, winkles and shrimps in sandwiches. Later we would walk the girls back to Nan’s house before returning home to our empty house. On the Sundays that Mum went to visit John’s parents in Watford, then Dad and I were welcomed at Nannies!

Most of the boys who lived in my street with whom I played, were three or four years older than I and were in the senior classes of our secondary modern school. I was thrilled to be allowed to join their gang. I always accepted whatever they collectively decided to do and joined in all their adventures and expeditions. As a group we walked to Wembley Stadium to watch the speedway racing each Thursday evening (the journey took about half an hour). The team captain Bill Kitchener (a former motor bike world champion) was my hero. Our gang regularly went to the cinema, where we were often successful in ‘bunking in’. Our trick was to wait for someone to leave the cinema through an unguarded emergency exit, when we would just walk in as our unknown benefactor left by this door! The long school summer holidays of 1946 to 1949 were particularly memorable. With my friends I regularly travelled by steam train to Denham quarries to catch frogs and newts, which I sold to my school friends. On most days of any holidays, I used to play on Horsenden Hill, which was the local play-area for children. Our playground extended over many acres of woodland. We flew kites, played ball games, had fun on the swings, climbed trees, and generally led a healthy outdoor life, untroubled by sex pests. I didn’t even know what a paedophile was until I was an adult and therefore not troubled by them. Scrumping fruit from gardens and allotments provided my friends and I with a wicked thrill, because I was well aware that I was an accomplice to theft. Sometimes I would feel quite ill if the fruit was not ripe or I over-ate. It served me right, but I wish that I had not been so easily led. Catching butterflies in the summer and tobogganing in the snow during winter offered a seasonal variation of fun. However, I was not convinced that school days were the happiest days of my life. Collecting conkers was fun, my friends, being older and stronger than I, were able to climb the trees and shake the conkers down. My own efforts of throwing sticks into the tree produced few conkers and was a fairly risky process, particularly if other children were also throwing sticks or bricks from the other side of the tree obscured from my sight by the huge trunk. I felt very privileged at being included in the games and expeditions of these older lads and I enjoyed no longer having my two sisters in tow the whole time.

My ready acquiescence to follow the lead of my peers led me to accompanying them on more daring stealing expeditions; no longer from unattended allotments and gardens, but from high street department stores with security guards. We pocketed smaller items and put larger objects into shopping bags, which we would take into a secret place and share out between us. I was too frightened to take stolen goods into our house and hid my trophies in a weatherproof sack in our garden! One day I took to school a serrated edged bread-knife that I had stolen from Woolworth’s store. Whilst showing the knife to a friend during a lesson, it fell to the floor with a clatter. On questioning by the teacher as to what I was doing with such a dangerous weapon, I confessed to her and then to the headmaster, what had happened and together with the rest of the boys, whom I had named The police were called and we were all questioned by them. They then took us to our homes, where our parents were interviewed over our activities. Fortunately our crimes were found out very early into our adventures and we were not prosecuted. The police gave each of us a caution, which proved to be a salutary lesson that frightened me, but only convinced me from having any third party involvement in any further stealing. I suppose the excitement of this sin entered into my psyche, for my ‘taking ways’ continued until I became a ‘born again’ believer. I was a strong-willed child, perhaps because I did not receive much parental correction, but I am inclined to think that my confidence had grown because quite a lot was entrusted for me to do. Every Saturday morning I queued with other shoppers for hours to obtain bread and vegetables that were in short supply. I checked the prices charged, was never short changed and carried the shopping home unaided. I was given sixpence (old money) a week for doing this task as pocket-money. I supervised my sisters welfare, often for many hours, without their coming to any harm. I do not remember any of my family ever saying I was uncontrollable or even especially naughty. Dad had not long been discharged from the army, he had never struck me as a punishment and he did not do so on this occasion, although he was obviously distressed by my conduct. I now realise my parents were both worried sick by my involvement with these older boys, they were anxious that I broke my friendship with the gang and found friends of my own age.

As the summer drew to an end, Dad explained that because he was concerned at the influence that could be exerted over me by some of my older friends, who in the following term I would join in the senior section of our school, he would like us to move back to his parents home, prior to the next school term. Also with the long days he would be working, Dad knew he would not be troubled by my lack of parental control. He wanted me to return home from school to a house with a responsible adult in charge, to provide for my welfare. Granny Droy was prepared to assume the role. I agreed and we moved to 72, St Peters Street in Islington. I was glad to be able to please Dad by accepting his authority in this way. It is never easy for a child to be uprooted from all that is familiar, placed in a new environment and to adjust without distress, but I suffered in silence. I did play with all the other children of my age in the neighbourhood, but I never made any lasting friendships; today I cannot even remember any of my play-mates names. I did have a childhood girlfriend named Judy Harbour who lived a few doors away from our home in Bourne View. I remember feeling very gauche at her birthday party, the first party I had ever attended. I only attended one other birthday party, that was my cousin Rita’s. At the second party I was 14 years of age and the only boy present. We played ‘Postman’s Knock’ and through connivance I was continuously called outside to kiss each of the girl ‘postmen’. I was not interested in the opposite sex and was quite embarrassed. I never had a steady girlfriend until I met the girl I married.

Once Dad and I moved to Islington, I would travel on the Friday evening directly from school to Greenford in order to spend the weekend with Mum and my two sisters. I continued to attend both scouts and youth club meetings, but only infrequently. I shared the bedroom of Mum’s unmarried brother, my Uncle Albert. Uncle Charlie had been conscripted into the Royal Army and also married Eileen in 1946 and no longer lived at home. Dad used to collect us all from Nanny’s house on Sunday morning and our Sundays were little different from what they had been before we moved into central London, except that Dad and I would travel back to Islington together. As in the days when we had lived in our family home in Bourne View, we would walk the girls back to Nanny Rosam’s home and then Dad and I would travel by bus back to Islington, always on the top deck, because I enjoyed watching people about their business in the thoroughfares below. The journey took a little longer than by train, which I didn’t mind because I desired Dad’s companionship more than any other person. Having been denied fatherhood for so many years, I hungered for restored relationships. I knew that Dad suffered the same longing for family companionship that I yearned for.

Grandad Trixie Droy was a charismatic figure, always immaculately and expensively dressed in a smart suit. A portly 60 year old man with black hair and a ready grin, he had an eye for the ladies and spent little or no time in his own home and he didn’t lift a finger to help Granny. He was the ‘patriach’ of the Droy’s, just as I became the patriach on his death. Cissie Droy spent her days, in her slippers, working hard to keep ahead of all the household chores that needed attending to. This is a characteristic that I have inherited from her, even now friends are mystified over my wearing slippers when outside of our home. Occasionally she would dress up in her ‘glad-rags’ and accompanied by her daughter, my Aunt Lizzie, would visit the Star PH, on the intersection of Noel St and St Peter’s St, where Grandad ended his evening in this small pub 200 metres (m) from our home and about the same distance from the home in which Mum grew up in, at 13 Provence Street. At the higher end of St Peter’s Street, about 1,000 m long was Islington Green, where the Collins Music Hall was located. Phyllis Dixie and Gypsy Rose Lee were two of the regular performing acts, who, amongst others, disrobed on the stage. In those days naked women were only allowed to pose motionless, like an artist’s model. Grandad was ever present, always sitting in the front row, with his racing binoculars around his neck! St Peters Street ended at the Star PH and became Wharf Road, some 1,000 m long, which ran into City Road, just a two minute walk away from Petticoat Lane Market where Dad often took me on Sunday mornings, when I was not at Greenford. I was amazed at the number of people he knew throughout the district. He always answered my question of, ‘How do you know that person Dad?’ with ‘Oh that’s a cousin of mine’, or, ‘I went to school with him.’

The houses on the opposite side of the street in which Mum grew up in, were hit by cluster bombs and turned into ruins during one bombing raid and the houses which backed on to them in Noel Road were also destroyed. The LCC had not cleared this bomb site and this unsightly yet unrestricted area became my playground. My derring-do from my exploits in Yorkshire were repeated. Sufficient to record here that in my playing, I daily walked or ran across the third story brickwork that had been exposed following the removal of the roof trusses after the fires caused by the bombing had been extinguished. I remember that this play area only looked clean when it was covered in snow, which melted very quickly!

Four of Grandad Droy’s six sons worked for him in his business as a turf accountant, travelling to the various horse and dog tracks around the country. My Uncle Reggie was the youngest son, and lived away from home in digs. Reggie was single and only a few years older than myself (although he was the first of the brothers to die. I spent more time in his company than with any of my other uncles. Quite frankly, none of them put themselves out to show that they loved me. As Christmas was approaching I thought I would demonstrate what I thought of their indifference by buying each of them something and tell them it was an early present as I didn’t want to risk buying presents at the last moment! Some of them were shamed into giving me some money but this generosity was never repeated. Uncle Frankie was the eldest child of the family. He and my Auntie Ethel lived three houses away from Granny Droy’s house and although they had children of my age, we didn’t play much together and I was not often invited around to their house. Frankie had a ‘steady’ job which did not allow him the freedom to help very often in the family business. Uncle Tommy was separated from his wife and lived with my grand-parents. Uncle Johnny like Uncle George was married, but did not have any children at this time. Both Johnny and George lived in London, but in adjoining postal districts to Islington. Most of my great uncles were barrow boys operating in Petticoat Lane and Chapel Street market. Grandad’s brother, Harry Droy, ran the boxing promotions at Caledonian Road Baths, Islington. It would be true to say that Dad’s family knew the seamier side of life.

My grand-parent’s home was a four-storied terraced house and Granny Droy’s family occupied the basement and ground floor area. Whilst Aunt Lizzie lived with her husband Lennie Bellamy and their two children (both younger than I) in the top two stories. Initially I had to sleep head to feet between Dad and my Uncle Tommy, which was not to nacceptable conditions as standard. The water used for cleaning crockery and metal cooking pans was poured into a ‘slop’ bucket after use, in which it congealed into a greasy mess. When the bucket was full it was carried down several flights of stairs and the contents flushed down the toilet, which was installed in the basement. I came to really hate the circumstances I found myself living in. The house had no bathroom, nor central heating, which was common at that time. Once a week I bathed in a zinc bath in front of the kitchen fire, into which Granny periodically poured further kettles-full of hot water. Initially I was embarrassed undressing in front of Granny, but she was very considerate and always busied herself until I was submerged. Once I came under the supervision of my Aunt Lizzie, my cousin Evelyn (Auntie Lizzie’s eldest child), who was two years younger than I, was allowed to share bath nights with me, I protested at this intrusion on my privacy. Perhaps Evelyn’s curiosity concerning my body was natural, but I felt uncomfortable with this turn of events. My objections went unheeded, until I told Dad of my embarrassment. He understood my feelings and from then on, once a week I was sent along to the Theberton Road public bathhouse, where everybody in the neighbourhood went for their weekly bath. Looking back our home life in Islington, it was primitive by comparison to our home life at Greenford, where we had a bathroom with running hot water, and a front and back garden.

Each house in St Peters Street had a cast-iron circular coal-hole cover built into the pavement at the street level immediately above the coal cellar, into which coal deliveries were poured through into the coal-cellar below. The coal had to be shovelled from the coal cellar, into a coal scuttle and carried through the lounge into the kitchen, where there was always a warm fire. Keeping the basement rooms heated meant continuously stoking the fire in the kitchen and the living room, which involved constant refilling of the coal scuttle. It was back breaking labour for Granny, who was always complaining to me that none of the men in the house ever filled the coal scuttle unless shamed into doing so. During the cold and wintry weather no room in the house was warm. All the family huddled around the fire place. When I had to answer the doorbell or make a call of nature, it took ages for my blood to warm up again! Today’s background central heating may not be as inviting as a coal fire, but it sure produces a cleaner, warmer and less labour intensive environment to the times I experienced as a child, although I still enjoy sitting in front of a natural fire. The wash-house (laundry room in modern parlance) was entered through the kitchen, where Granny ‘blued’ and boiled the washing, before mangling and pegging the laundered clothing out to dry on the line in the small bricked-in back yard, very hard work for a frail old lady, remembering what I have written about stoking the fires and cleaning the resulting ash from all surfaces in the house.

I was an avid reader of comics. The owner of the local corner shop operated an exchange system for which he made a small charge. I became adept in stealing comics by inserting another comic into the pages of the comic I was about to purchase. My deception was soon discovered, but I protested my innocence and the episode was soon forgotten. My earlier escapade had not taught me anything. Uncle Lennie, like my Grandad, was an independent turf accountant and was totally disinterested in my well-being. Never speaking to me unless he wanted something done and then I was ordered to do whatever chore he had in his mind. He too, like my Grandfather, was a heavy drinking, foul mouthed womaniser. I hardly ever saw Dad and never spent time talking and sharing with him.

Once a week I would be given entrance money to attend the Collins Music Hall (really I was the childminder for my younger cousin Evelyn). This form of entertainment no longer attracted much of a following because usually the theatre was 90% empty, for most families could not afford evening entertainment. There was supposed to be a shortage of food and clothing after the war, though you would not have believed this to be true, from the food we enjoyed at my grand-parents’ home. The Droys and Bellamys did not want for anything, most of the food that I came to know of as being in short supply, appeared on our dining table. Most goods were available on the ‘Black Market’ and my family could afford to buy whatever their perceived needs were. Clothing was rationed at that time, but that did not bother me. However, I was bothered by the rationing of sweets! Each child was entitled to only a 113g in weight per week. On one occasion I bought the one month’s allocation one Saturday morning, and ate the lot by lunch time! I was aware that many of my friends’ parents had little or no money to spend even on food, let alone luxuries, which always made me feel uncomfortable. At no time did I feel better off than or superior in any way to my school friends. I am not sure that the wealth of the Droys was a blessing, for neither of my parents’ families were Christians. Grandad Rosam died at 78 years of age, outliving Grandad Droy by a decade. Nanny Rosam died in her mid 60s, having spent three years in St Alban’s Mental Hospital, in Shenley. Granny Droy was 70 years of age at her death.

On one occasion I was walking with Dad and his brother Tommy through the park, Tommy was hunch-backed due to a childhood illness and shorter than Dad’s 1.6m (5 '3") height. Tommy worked at Highbury Billiard Hall, where he played snooker against the punters for money; a fairly precarious life style. A man stood silently stationary on the pavement in front of us, blocking our passage. He was a well known local villain, named Dummy Snow. Dummy always seemed so menacing to me, probably because of his size, but undoubtedly his broken nose and cauliflower ears, together with a scarred face, which attested to his many fist and razor fights, completed the picture of a man not to be trifled with. Once Dummy recognised my companions, he acknowledged them deferentially, by standing respectfully to one side, nodding his head and raising his hand in salute. As we passed him by, the brothers both unsmilingly answered ‘Hello Dummy’ without breaking stride.

Eventually, the new school term that I had been dreading duly started. Prior to the term commencing my Granny bought me my first pair of long trousers to wear to school. I felt very self conscious, but nobody passed any comment and I quickly overcame my embarrassment. The boys at the Tudor Rose Secondary Modern School, in the main were rough and coarse and not very bright. I was the brightest child in the class, but because we were taught at the speed of the slowest among us, I did not learn anything new in the academic year. I was always called out to the front of the class to narrate stories aloud to my classmates. My teacher maintained that I could read aloud better than he could. In the eyes of the teachers I had achieved my potential. I attained the highest marks of my age group following the end of year test, but I don’t believe I learned very much during that academic year. I wondered if perhaps my studies at the Horsenden Road School had been blessed by high calibre teachers, or whether, because I was unsettled when away from our family home, my interest in understanding new insights became less important. My family never encouraged me to succeed academically Natural acumen was held in higher regard than book learning. I did initiate and supervise the school library single handedly whilst at secondary school, which introduced me to classical books and to the Encyclopaedia Britannica and increased my appetite to learn more. I was very studious, but with no ambition or inclination to push myself forward. My father’s absence for the duration of the war, my evacuation followed by the family break-up and then moving to Islington, had been very traumatic and deeply scarred my future life. I was recommended for and awarded a place, at the Northern Polytechnic following an interview, the result of which was that I was accepted into the highest intake class without taking the written test, that all other potential candidates had to take. It was at this time that I became interested in the smutty side of sex as an adolescent. I read salacious books and paid attention to the graffiti which was scrawled everywhere and stimulated my fertile imagination. The ‘Poly’ was a trade training school, that I attended for the remaining three years of my school days. During my first year at the polytechnic, I received tuition in painting and decorating, carpentry and joinery, plumbing and heating, and bricklaying. After one academic year my teachers on checking my year’s results, decided which stream of the building industry I was best suited to. I was streamed into the trade of plumbing and heating. A normal school curriculum was pursued, but we also spent time on building sites and had tuition in preparing technical drawings. I managed to maintain a place in the senior stream each year but I did not have the ambition or the need to succeed drive exhibited by my classmates. Once my second years class work had been assessed, and during my final school year, I was one of 13 boys from a school numbering 200 students, selected to study architecture with the view to continue study into further education at university.

I was always glad to visit Mum at weekends, mainly because I had a break away from Aunt Lizzie’s vituperative tongue. She said such horrible things about my mother and poisoned my mind against her. She also coached me to learn swear words and repeat them to Mum’s new boyfriend, later to become my stepfather. Following my return Lizzie would interrogate me over what took place over the weekend. I developed a distressed mindset over the mental cruelty. I was exposed to threatened violence by Lizzie, when I tearfully sobbed I would tell Dad of the mental cruelty to which I was subjected. Many of my readers will, by this stage, consider that I had suffered an unfortunate start to my life. I believe it was all predestined by God to develop and equip me for future service. I pray that I am able to finish my task (race) successfully. On the Sundays when Dad did not visit my sisters, I returned to Islington alone. It was always dark when I arrived at the Angel tube station, because it was quite late in the evening. I steeled myself to walk through the unlit and deserted park, which I always hurried through. One never heard of muggings, rapes or murders in those days and although I was fearful, I never told anyone of my fears, for I was still hopeful of seeing our family restored. I would not have been allowed to travel alone if Dad had known of my anxiety.

Lizzie often took her children over to the Star PH where they were given treats of lemonade and crisps. I was taken along if the weather was warm when we could play outside the pub, at which times I was made responsible for the safety and well-being of my younger cousins. During the inclement evenings when it was so cold or wet my cousins were permitted to sit in the pub with their parents, I was left at home and an excuse was found to send me to bed. I was quite frightened on the occasions I was alone, during the long winter evenings, when the weather was wildly windy. In the silence, that followed a noisy gust, the empty house creaked eerily, my imagination led me to believe that I could hear the soft tread of a burglar’s foot on the stairs. I had to summon up all my courage during such evenings to visit the toilet in the basement, which I delayed as long as possible. I was fearful of negotiating two dark landings and passing several doors, from which a nefarious burglar might jump out and overpower me. Dad returned home one Saturday evening at 7.00 pm and was surprised to find me in my pyjamas in bed, and was concerned that I may have been unwell. I was alone in the house, as was often the case, Lizzie having given me my tea, took her two children to Dad’s brother Reggie’s wedding party and sent me to bed. Lizzie obviously did not know that Dad would come home from the dog-track early to freshen up prior to attending the party. It was my good fortune that Dad decided, as an afterthought, to check my bedroom to ensure that I had already left with Lizzie and her children. On my assuring him that I was not ill, I then had to explain why I had not gone to the wedding party with Lizzie and her two children. I broke down in a flood of tears, confessed that I was miserably unhappy, my loneliness and all my frustrations came tumbling out. I had not spent much time with Dad, who like his own father, was at home very little. Dad insisted I accompanied him to the party. I was reluctant because I knew that Lizzie would make me suffer for what she would see as disobedience. Lizzie’s face was a picture when she saw me walk in with Dad. I do believe that if Dad had not looked in my bedroom, Lizzie would have told him I had a temperature or some such tale and my unhappiness would have continued. I never did learn what Dad said to Lizzie, but they must have had an argument for Dad decided that we should return to our home in Greenford. I was elated for this decision meant that I would have more time to share with Dad. Our daily travelling in and out of central London committed Dad to an extra 2½ hours away from home and it was fairly costly to travel for him, but he never complained.

I was fortunate in that I was granted a free educational season ticket, in order to continue my studies. The train I travelled on every morning to school, for the two years I attended the Northern Polytechnic, stopped at 17 railway stations between Sudbury Hill and Holloway Road. The journey lasted an hour, with a quarter of an hours walking to and from our home and the tube station. I must have been one of the earliest commuters! I enjoyed the one-hour tube train ride, as Dad always travelled most of the journey in my company, I revelled in Dad’s company. Dad was able to buy a reduced priced weekly workman’s ticket, because he was travelling before 7.30 am. Dad could have delayed his own travelling arrangements by a couple of hours, but he knew how much I appreciated the time spent in his company. He changed trains at Kings Cross Station to the Northern Line, whilst I continued on the Piccadilly Line train to Holloway Road Station. Although I lived farther from school than any of the other children, I was always the first person to arrive in the playground. My early arrival meant I always played in one of the two opposing sides at cricket or football, depending on the season. Play was halted only when the whistle was blown for assembly at 9 am. Dad spent most morning, around his mothers house, making arrangements for transporting all the paraphernalia needed to run a mobile betting shop to the race track, where the stall would be positioned. After an early lunch Dad would catch a bus to arrive at Waterloo Station, in time to receive the first editions of the ‘Star’, ‘News’ and ‘Standard’. There was always great demand for all three editions of these newspapers. He often ‘sold out’ before the later editions were delivered.

The return journey home from school also passed quickly, as I used to complete quite a lot of my homework on the tube train. Quite often in the winter, it took longer to return home owing to the ‘pea-soupers’ (fogs), that London suffered. Smog often proved deadly to the old and frail, but to me returning to an empty house it was just another depressant. I would light a fire and get myself some tea, before completing my studies. Dad returned home at about 7.30pm when he would cook a meal for us both. We owned a television (tv) set as early as 1946, but there were not many televised programmes in those days, whilst the radio was a constant source of pleasure. I spent a great deal of time studying, to escape the trap of boredom and loneliness. I always waited up for Dad, on the three evenings of the week, (including Saturday) when he did not return home until midnight. We would have a short conversation concerning the events of the day whilst we shared a pot of tea, during which time we bagged up all the small change Dad had received in his daily taking at the newspaper pitch. It gives me pain to admit that I regularly stole small sums of money from Dad’s waistcoat pockets, about 10 shillings (50p) a week. For years I suffered with a troubled conscience due to this aberration. It wasn’t until I had children of my own that I confessed my crime to my father and asked for forgiveness. Dad made light of my failure by saying that all kids stole as part of the growing-up phenomena, and there was nothing for him to forgive. My heart and conscience were so greatly relieved by this absolution. I now think that this episode is a good illustration of God forgiving His truly repentant children. With my funds, which I am sure Dad would have given to me if I had only asked, I used to buy drinks and cakes in a café before I went into the school playground and had enough over on occasions to sneak off classes and visit the cinema in the afternoon. I was the register monitor and the register was not given to the teacher to check those attending on the occasions that I skipped lessons. Dad had fought throughout the North African Desert Campaign, as a sergeant in a tank regiment, without sustaining injury. Many of his regiment lost their lives or a limb throughout the various campaigns. Dad and I shared a bed, quite often he would recall his wartime experiences in charge of a tank crew. But mostly he would agonise over the cruel hand of fate over his life. Dad believed his fatherhood ed and the weather became warmer, my enthusiasm for attending scouts, youth club and church re-awakened. As a boy scout, I had thought of myself as a Christian, for I lived in what I had been led to believe was a Christian country. I had never received satisfactory answers to my questions on obscure Bible passages at Sunday school or confirmation classes. I could see no reason to continue attending church four times each Sunday. My best friend Peter Perryman, in whose company I spent much time, persuaded me to join his Sunday morning football team for the under 18 years of age league matches. It was a very good standard of play and I enjoyed a game that I had not had much involvement in before, other than as a spectator. I had a natural aptitude for the game and was always selected to play. Our team included two youth internationals and some other players who were on the books of professional teams. Peter’s parents were very good at whist and taught us teenagers the skill of playing cards during the long summer evenings of 1948 and 1949. After we had improved our game well enough to explain the reason why we had played a certain card, in response to the game plan opened up,they felt we would be confident enough to attend whist drives, where we often received praise for our knowledge of the game plan.

Mum remarried on 22nd July 1949, I refused to attend the wedding. She moved to Plymouth with her new husband and my two sisters, Dad and I then shared our weekends together without distraction. Invariably on the Saturday we would visit the home of Dad’s parents for lunch, before watching a football match at White Hart Lane, or Highbury. On Sunday morning I played football whilst Dad cleaned the house and prepared lunch. During Sunday evening we would listen to the radio or watch TV together. I could have played football on Sundays and continued to attended evening services, but I felt it better to make a total break from my former routine. Mum wrote to me regularly and although I had not visited her during the Easter half term, she was most insistent that I visited her during the long summer vacation. Dad had been living an unfulfilled life for four years at this time. Together we faced the fact that at almost 16 years of age I could never have the family life I yearned after. Dad said he believed I would be happier if I lived permanently with my mother and sisters and took his place as head of his house. In my heart I knew that Dad would prefer to move back into Islington, to save on the expense and time taken by commuting. Dad was also being badgered by his family because Uncle Reggie was shortly to marry and wanted to take over the tenancy of our home. I would not willingly move back into Islington, although Dad arranged that if I chose to, we could have continued to live in the house with Reggie and Pat, following the completion of my final term at school, whilst continuing to commute daily into London for my degree course. I was shortly to sit the entrance examination of the College of Preceptors. I now believe that I was afraid of not passing, as well as hating the quandary in which I found myself. On reflection I acted stupidly. I reasoned that if I moved to Plymouth, Dad would have a more agreeable way of life. I could not bear to think that I was a burden to him, and I really hated the thought of extending my commuting to yet another school of learning by a further three years. I felt quite embarrassed at my last Monday morning school assembly when I was called to the podium. The headmaster said I would be sorely missed at the school, particularly by the cricket team, as I had caught or bowled six of the opposing team out on the previous Saturday and had amassed the highest individual amount of runs and had been declared as the ‘man of the match’.

As a teenager I collected stamps, but because I had few friends of my age to swap my duplicates with, I was never passionate about this hobby, which I often dropped for months on end and returned to later. During the 1948 Olympic games held at Wembley Stadium, I collected cigarette packets and matchbox covers, that were of different design. On cycling up to the stadium each evening I always found quite a few foreign packets discarded by spectators. Albert took me to the opening of the Olympiad, he had been given free tickets for almost every day of competition, owing to his job. Albert was working as a telephonist at Alperton when the switchboard had been operated manually. The automatic exchange was introduced just before the Games started, but the manual system was retained to allow an especial facility between the organisers of the Games and their many links to keep events running smoothly. Albert was the personal connector between clients (have you dear reader had recourse to use that archaic manual telephone system?). I developed a habit of regularly going to the cinema and buying magazines about the life styles of movie stars. I was familiar with all the latest releases of films in which my favourite stars had appeared and which film they were currently appearing in and who their co-stars were. It was this interest that resulted in my starting an album of autographed photographs of film stars. At one stage I had a collection of over 300, which I passed on to my sisters eventually. It was at this time that I developed my one and only crush and it was for an older woman, Esther Williams, the Olympic swimming star. I was infatuated by her! I had no interest in girls. My only interest was the pursuit of knowledge and sport. As a hobby I cut out action pictures of sporting events from newspapers and pasted them into a scrap-book. I had become very much a loner, particularly after our first summer back in our own house in 1947, when Dad caught me with my older friends scrumping fruit from our own back garden, on his early return from a race meeting that evening at Wimbledon which had been unexpectedly cancelled. Dad didn’t punish me but teased me for years over my gullibility in telling the older boys that he wouldn’t be home for hours.

I had no wish for the high life, I enjoyed school routine and my sporting interests. I was a quiet lad, not wanting to attract attention in any way. When crew-cut hair styles were fashionable, I kept the traditional style of short back and sides. Teddy boy hair style and Edwardian suits, brothel-creepers and winkle-picker shoes were all the rage during the early 1950s. I was not interested in being fashionable or wearing designer labelled clothing. At no time did it cross my mind to have my skin tattooed, or my nose or ear pierced in order to wear a stud or any other jewellery. I had no desire to own a motor bike or a car, being contented with travelling by bus or bicycle. I guess that I was a very ordinary boy, who had missed much of the joy of a normal upbringing. I had not had an idyllic childhood, but it could have been much worse. Perhaps in a funny kind of way, I went through a similar process to many children who had lost their father or been bombed-out (made homeless) during the war, as they came to terms with growing up. I was conscious of the fathers of other families who had served overseas during the war, contentedly resuming their pre-war life. All that had happened in my situation was that I had exchanged my mother for my father. In effect I was raised in a one parent family tragically missing out on God’s best designs for families. This chapter is about a lonely boy, who yearned for a normal family upbringing; during a war that had beggared our nation, costing the country dearly in terms of broken families’ through both death and divorce. It was only later in my life that I became aware that no citizen is exempt from the expediency of its elected government. Each country is entrusted to the government it deserves.

My earlier dream of a restoration of our family had turned to ashes. I did not have any possessions only some changes of clothing, which I packed in a suitcase on moving to Plymouth. My school days were over, except for compulsory night school attendance in support of my apprenticeship. For a few weeks I attended a few Sunday morning services at an Anglican Church in Salisbury Road, the street in which my family then lived. Mostly those attending, were pensioners and being only a teenager; we had little in common. Unlike my previous church, which had been well heated and well attended, this church was unheated and damp and therefore unwelcoming, in a mausoleum of a place. I decided that my attendance at Church was irrelevant. Until we moved house I became a member of the Boys Brigade, which was affiliated to the Methodist church (adjoining our basement flat), it was a more modern church and was at least more user-friendly. Mum allowed me to enjoy the summer holiday, but just prior to my two sisters returning to school, she enquired whether I intended to permanently live with her in Plymouth, or return to London to live with Dad. I told her that I had decided to live with them, but I didn’t tell her I had left school early having already made my decision. I don’t remember if I even told her of the entrance exam I had been groomed to sit. I really did not want to be a plumber, but I had no success in the several office and factory jobs I applied for and agreed that I should look for a job as an apprentice plumber. I successfully applied for a position as an indentured apprentice plumber with John Ford Ltd, a plumbing and heating firm.

At the age of 16 years, I had been sharing the only bedroom in the flat with my two sisters, aged 13 years and 10 years, whilst Mum’s double bed was in our lounge. Within a year of my moving to Plymouth, my family unsurprisingly were allocated a council house within a new council estate under construction at Whitleigh, near Crownhill, five miles from the city centre where my firm’s headquarters (HQ) was based in Park Street (which was later demolished in the redevelopment of the city centre). Our new three bedroomed, centrally heated house at 12 Dorchester Avenue, was of a Cornish Unit construction and was luxurious compared with our former flat. After we moved I ceased attending the Boys Brigade and never attended church regularly again until I married for the second time.

Initially I made the half an hour journey to work by bus, but the bus fare was four pence half-penny (4½d old money – about 2p new money) each way, which was a princely sum to me when earning less than £2.00 per week. Buses were infrequent and were therefore practically full from terminus to terminus. Quite often I would have to walk home because I was often working at a place mid-way between the two termini. My sister Pat often recounted the tale of her watching me from the front seat of a full bus, carrying her home from school. I was waiting at a request stop vainly attempting to wave the bus to a halt when it became obvious from the sound of the engine that the bus was accelerating and not slowing down. Despite the prospect of a three to four mile walk to endure, I was wearing a wide grin as the bus passed me by. I remember telling Pat that I had thought to myself at the time, ‘Oh well, at least it isn’t raining!’. This tale always caused much laughter, for my cheerful disposition and ear to ear grin was attested to by everyone who knew me. I bought myself a bicycle soon afterwards, which saved me both time and money.

I served a full five year apprenticeship, not realising until three years of service, that because of my time at a trade training school I was entitled to serve an apprenticeship of only four years, also I should have been receiving a higher wage. I was intimidated into submission by my boss with the threat of losing my job if I chose to ask my union to take up my case and chose under threat to accept the situation. One of the earliest contracts I was employed on was at the Western National Bus Depot at Plympton a contract taking several weeks to complete to specification. The contract included replacing worn, rusting iron guttering and down pipes with pre-formed asbestos which was believed to be less corrosive and would require little or no maintenance. In those days the injurious effects of asbestos were unknown. Working quite often in confined spaces, it was my job to caulk the joints between material surfaces with an asbestos fibre, which was very friable on the addition of a little water, but hardened like cement when it solidified, completing the bonding. At the end of each working day I was covered with splashes of this mixture from head to foot. Some months later I worked on a contract laying asbestos water mains through several miles of farmers’ land in the Roborough area of Dartmoor, this contract went on for many months. I often reflect that the Lord must have protected me from asbestosis for no one was agitating for the wearing of protective clothing in those days. Whilst attending Plymouth Technical College, I often cut my hands on lead sheeting or tubing, which I regularly worked with in seeking to improve my practical skills for the forthcoming exams. Sometimes I despaired of the infected blood coursing through my body (of which I wrote in Chapter 1) as ever being restored to normal. Once or twice I suffered lead poisoning, the veins of my arms becoming so enlarged and colourful they looked like a modern-day motorway map! I recall on one isolated occasion that I had spent some days painting a protective rust proof paint inside the large water storage tanks of a hospital. I had used an electric light connected to an extension lead, plugged into the main electricity supply, as the main source of light. On refilling the tanks, I stupidly lowered the light bulb on to the surface of the water and watched the bulb ‘swim about’ as I pulled the rubber coated lead first one way and then another. Fortunately I suddenly became aware of the danger of my actions, and I carefully and slowly worked myself to a position of safety. I felt quite shaky at my narrow escape from death. I had been crouching on dry wooden planks which were traversing the galvanised iron tanks. If the planks had been wet, or I had put my hand into the water, or touched the tank, I would have been electrocuted, but I only became aware of the danger later.

During the summer months whilst living in Plymouth, I played cricket for the Plymouth Nondescripts. I was an all-rounder and loved this sport. I played football for the ‘B’ team of Plymouth Argyle Football Club (FC), (the fourth and most junior of teams for the two seasons 1951-53 in the Devon minor counties league) having been recommended to the manager Jimmy Rae, by the manager of the Sunday League team in London that I had previously played for. I was overawed at sharing a dressing room with international players such as Jack Chisholm, (England) Billy Strauss (South Africa), and Bill Short (Wales) who played for the premier team. I neither managed to break into professional league football, nor move into a senior squad, although I did play representative football for Devon, as a member of the National Association of Boys Clubs. On match days when I had not been selected to play for Plymouth Argyle, I played for the Virginia House under 18 years football team. I arranged a friendly match between my former London-based team (the name of which I have forgotten), at Gunnersbury Park (near Hammersmith) over the following Easter holiday weekend.

Our coach party slept at the Clapham deep shelters that Saturday night. Dad, accompanied by a lady named Joan, came to watch the game. Afterwards they took me to London Zoo, where Dad actually asked for my approval of his intended proposal of marriage. I was so pleased to give my assent. At least I had guessed correctly that Dad would enjoy a more fulfilled life if he did not have to worry about my upbringing. The Registry Office wedding was held on the 26th April 1952, when Joan became Dad’s adoring wife. I didn’t attend the ceremony, I wish that I had, but the journey to London took four hours by steam train and was expensive on my low wage. Dad had sold the paper pitch and was working for Lennie in his Betting Office in Kings Cross Road and had set up home with Joan in the flat over the stationery and sweet shop that Lizzie was now running in St Peters Street. I did visit Dad and Joan quite regularly, although not as often as I would have liked. Later they had two daughters, Vivienne and Denise and they were a very happy family for 22 years until Dad’s death through emphysema. Dad’s health deteriorated until he reached a time when he could no longer climb the two flights of stairs to get to his home. They had to move to two other third floor flats before they were allocated a ground floor flat in a new high-rise block in Packington Square, where his family enjoyed the remainder of their time together. Joan had to move to a new flat in Popham Road, after Dad died Both my natural parents died of smoke related illnesses and Joan died through an asthma related condition, in1989.

At the age of 17, I became curious in supernatural phenomena, in crossing the divide between the living and the dead. My interest in psychic phenomena was aroused by reading an article in the Sunday newspaper, ‘The News of the World’, about Harry Edwards, the spiritualist faith healer. I bought psychic magazines and looked for spiritual enlightenment, through the Spiritualist Church and experimented with faith healing, spirit writing and emptying my mind of thought, in order that I could be more receptive to spiritual vibrations. I clearly remember on the 2nd June 1952, being invited to the home of Alf Screech, the plumber under whom I was working as an apprentice at the time, to watch on TV the special public holiday celebrations on the occasion of Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation. Having watched the ceremony on TV, we played cards until enjoying a late tea. Once we had cleared the table of our dirty crockery, it was decided to hold a seance as part of the fun. Alf’s parents were spirit mediums and held seances in their home every week. A spirit guide manifested itself as a Chinese mandarin, with arms loosely folded, bowing his head repeatedly, smiling at me whilst addressing me. I was told that the material trappings of life, particularly money and success, would be my prime interest, but that at about my 50th year, I would walk through the heavenly gates of gold and silver, as my spiritual life took a change of direction. This prophecy was fulfilled, for I was almost 50 years of age when I became a born again believer. It does seem strange to me that the spirit guide did not lie, nor curse me, but could in fact only bless me, with the message of promise that his medium delivered (similar in fact to Balaam not being able to curse the Israelites, Numbers Ch 22 to Ch 24). However, on reflection, perhaps I was being told that my life was not sanctified and that I would remain a subject of Satan until I repented and was born again, thereby changing the spirit guide’s words into a subtle curse. My own spirit guide was an American Indian named Silver Birch or so I was told. I was also told that if I developed the habit of staring transfixed at a mirror and emptied my mind of all thoughts, after a minute or so my face would change into an image of this guide. I was willing to try anything, but I did not experienced any kind of manifestation, mainly because I sensed that such behaviour would be unwise. Alf also introduced me to picnic days on the beach, which was great fun and new to my experience, even though I had lived only a few miles from the sea during the two previous summers. I had declined previous invitations to attend the weekly seances at the home of the Screeches, but following my intriguing introduction I did occasionally attend, more out of friendship than interest.

At 18 years of age I became interested in ballroom dancing, but attending dances and having dancing lessons proved to be expensive. I needed a larger income to finance my new hobby. I worked overtime on Saturdays in order to earn extra money and gave up playing in football matches. Perhaps I should have persevered. In time I may have become a full-time professional with Plymouth Argyle, but the effort didn’t seem worth the slog, with so many other gifted players on the club’s books. The wages were at that time only £8 per week, no higher than my wages as a plumber and the prospects of a career in football were uncertain. Even at that time all players were advised to insure themselves against sports injury, for fear of receiving a crippling injury that would result in being laid off work. Due to the sustained practising of dribbling with the ball at my feet whilst running and jinking, passing the ball repeatedly from foot to foot to improve my control, I had become pigeon toed! It was not long before I had corrected my gait. I enjoyed attending the dancing studio and quickly made some new friends. I overcame my shyness with girls, but not my self consciousness over my ‘gappy’ wide grin. The school of dance which I attended organised a coach trip to Torquay where the Devon and Cornwall Open Dance Championships were held. I was surprised to see Mr Johns, my plumbing instructor from the College of Arts and Technology, with his wife as his partner, competing in the preliminary rounds. Having watched from the gallery as one of an appreciative audience, ecstatically clapping the wonderfully executed syncopated dance routines exhibited, I determined that I would venture further than Mr Jones into the heats, in later years and so events proved.

I knew of the Bobbie Cooper School of Dance, to where most Plymouth couples who were interested in competitive dancing gravitated. Finding an unattached attractive dance partner, prepared to enter into a platonic relationship in order to practice dance routines for four or five evenings a week, proved to be very difficult. Pam was a sophisticated young lady, three years older than myself and was employed by a firm of solicitors as a private secretary. I always made a bee-line for her when the next dance was announced and tried regularly and unsuccessfully to persuade her to be my full-time dancing partner. I chased Pam so persistently that rather than be embarrassed by my unwanted attention she stopped coming to the dance studio. I thought her refusal to accept my overtures was owing to my larger than life approach to circumstances or my uneven toothy grin, which was the reason I decided to have the remaining chipped front tooth removed. This tooth had grown unevenly in the space meant for two teeth. I was pleased with my new denture, I felt more confident in my appearance. Whilst at a dance in the Spa Ballroom in Torquay, I met Barbara, a very pretty and talented girl who lived in Newton Abbot. Barbara was also searching for a permanent competitive dance partner with whom to enter into dance tournaments. We decided to team up and we worked hard over six months at developing our combined skills, achieving some small success. Because of the hour of travelling it took for either of us to make the journey to the others home town, our practising was limited to weekends only. Achieving a higher placing in a tournament than Mr and Mrs Johns was the highlight of this brief relationship

Pam started attending the dance studio again after an absence of some months. Once again I tried to persuade her to become my dancing partner, she was finally persuaded by other dancers, friends of many years standing, (who had witnessed my own improvement over a short time) to try out her own undoubted but untried competitive dance skills with myself as her partner. Pam allowed herself to be persuaded. Like myself, Pam had proven her individual skills in passing the gold medal award for individual ballroom dancing. Pam and I often travelled to the Hammersmith Palais in London for dancing lessons from Wally Friar, a former world dance champion. Wally believed Pam and I had the qualities to become his professional successors. We always arranged our dance lesson in London to coincide with a dance competition, for all the top dancers and would-be aspirants like ourselves competed. I was too overawed to speak to those we competed against, but mostly they were friendly and helpful. Pam would have a fitting for a new ball gown, made by a top fashion designer during our weekend trip, when she would stay with family friends, whilst I stayed with Dad and Joan. I avidly read dance magazines repeatedly and recognised most other competitors from pictures printed of them in magazines either dancing or collecting their prizes for their success in competitions. Neither of us were romantics, we never went to restaurants for candlelit dinners, picnic lunches on the beach was our idea of fun. I am afraid I never developed the habit of giving chocolates or flowers as presents, probably because of my frugal upbringing. I often used to walk several miles home from a late dance as I could not afford the taxi fare. Pam and I enjoyed going to the beach on Sunday, where she introduced me to her circle of non dancing friends. Over a period of time our platonic relationship deepened and developed romantically with our constant companionship. One married couple, Les and Margaret Cardew, whom Pam had known since her school days held weekly ouija board sessions, at which they summoned up friends who had died. Les and Margaret had other friends who held weekly seances, which I attended over a few months, but Pam, because she was a practising Roman Catholic, chose not to accompany me. I learned that everyone had an aura and my aura was coloured blue or turquoise which identified me as having portrayed healing power. Certainly my mother believed in my gifting, she always claimed she felt better after I had prayed for her. Over many years, whenever my mother was sick, she asked me to lay hands on her and pray for her healing, or release from pain. After I married and moved abroad, she still asked me to lay hands on her ‘in absentia’ and even that worked!

Having completed my five years as an indentured apprentice plumber, my entry into the RAF was further delayed whilst Pam and I took part in the Devon and Cornwall Open Amateur Ballroom Dance Championships. We were delighted to dance our way into the Grand Finals at our first and only attempt. We had been dancing partners for only two years and had become the top exponents in Plymouth of modern dance, but once we married and moved to Malta, our situation changed. No couple would dance against us, but instead wanted us to teach them all the latest dance routines! We were regarded as exhibition dancers, a situation we had grown accustomed to, but not an area in which we had ever been approached by dance hall managers or studios to perform in. We would please the others attending dances by dancing exhibition routines, but our efforts were very low key and not for reward. I would not have asked Pam to marry me so soon into our relationship if it had not been for the inducement of an extra six shillings a day pay award that married servicemen were paid. I wish we had waited longer, I always felt that I had married for the wrong reason.

Pam’s parents, Frank and Muriel Tunstall were the proprietors of The Ferry Hotel PH, which they had managed for almost 20 years having been licensees for most of their married lives. The dockland area of Devonport in which the pub was located was very seedy, but some real characters frequented the pub. Frank and Muriel were nominal Roman Catholics and paid for Pam’s private education at a Catholic Convent school. Since Pam’s schooldays she had regularly attended services of worship in Mount Pleasant Catholic Church, where we married on 4th February 1956 during the leave period granted, following the completion of my basic military training (square bashing!) at RAF Bridgenorth. We had planned to marry on the 29th of January but were told I could not leave the unit prior to all other personnel of my intake departing. I even arranged an interview with the chaplain to plead on compassionate grounds, but all in vain. However it appeared that on being given an overseas posting, different rules applied and I was sent on embarkation leave prior to the unit’s dispersion. It had proven unnecessary and expensive to alter our wedding plans, but we had no choice. Our wedding ceremony was a shortened version of the full Catholic wedding service, because I was not of that faith. I also had to promise that I would not interfere with the upbringing in the Catholic tradition of any children from our marriage. Once we married I never again attended a spiritualist church, or played the ouija board. I found both the Church and spiritualism to be of no further interest to me.

On arrival in Malta on the 9th February I was posted for trade training as a pay clerk to RAF Luqa. For the two months before Pam joined me I had lived in a barrack-room dormitory on the camp. My recreation times were taken up between playing cards and sport. I started playing football again and quickly regained my former enthusiasm. During the evenings I would accompany friends to a nearby dance studio for relaxation. The studio had no dance instructor and because of my obvious ability, I was approached to become the official instructor. Before long I was giving individual lessons and most of my free time was given over to teaching, for which I received payment, but automatically I had forfeited my amateur status. On Pam’s arrival, we moved into a one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a block of four flats also occupied by servicemen’s families, in an area named Marsa. When the cricket season started, I was selected to play for the Administration Wing team as I had been for the football team, and I played on each Thursday (which was ‘sports afternoon’) until I was posted to RAF Takali some 15 months later.

Perhaps because I was not a ‘shift’ worker, I was detailed to become a permanent member of the Guard of Honour, formed to parade before visiting dignitaries, and occasionally to fire a rifle salute at funeral services. I well remember practising the ceremonial drill prior to the Queen’s birthday parade at the parade ground in Floriana with the other armed services in 1956. The military services of Britain paraded in Floriana and marched through the city streets of the capital Valletta for the march-past salute at the ceremony of the city keys being bestowed on Her Majesty’s (HM) Services through Queen Elizabeth’s emissary. I was the right hand ‘marker’ on the front rank of six men and was the only man who did not respond to the ‘eyes right’ order, so that our column did not deviate from our course. My companions in the ‘other ranks’ at these times were all Church of England (C of E’s), however on the occasion of Station parades, all RCs and Jews, were ordered to ‘fall out’, whilst the padre offered a prayer to the God whom the rest of us on parade presumably worshipped. The padre’s prayer meant nothing to me at all. Shift worker or not, for several weeks after my arrival I was detailed to take part in night patrols around the camp and airfield. General Nasser of Egypt had the temerity to ‘liberate’ the Suez Canal from control of what was left of the British Empire and there was much talk of war. Within a few weeks of regular night patrols, a dog patrol team was sent out from the UK and my part in the likely war was over.

Initially our aspirations had been to save up as much money as possible, in order to finance a mortgage on my demobilisation when I intended to take up my trade again. I decided to sign on for 12 years service in the RAF because the pay I received as a long term serviceman was greater than I could earn as a plumber and I was enjoying my change of occupation, not to mention the lovely climate of Malta. I had also received the added inducement of a £100 gratuity for signing on. Over the Easter of 1957 I was given a free flight to the United Kingdom (UK) in an RAF Shackleton aircraft which was in need of a specialist refit. I returned to Malta on a commercial air flight after my two weeks leave. During my leave period in the UK. I had intended to buy a motor car (with the money I had saved from teaching dancing). Unfortunately, on arrival at the London office of the Ford Motor Company, I was required to sign a document agreeing to my arranging for the car’s immediate shipment to Malta, whereas I had intended to leave it garaged in England, until returning from my posting. Although I could have lied and escaped detection I felt uneasy in proceeding with my earlier plans. On the flight back to Malta, the airliner flew over the American Sixth Fleet, which was steaming out to the Suez where again Britain was rattling the threatening sabre once again. It was an impressive sight! The cost of my seat was £32 at the time and I confess I was apprehensive of a ballistic attack against our aircraft, which would have meant I had paid to attend my own funeral!

Pam made her intentions clear to me very soon after her arrival in Malta, that she did not want to prepare my breakfast. We did not argue over this matter, although I had always nursed a belief that love could better flourish if all meals were shared together. Pam discussed the subject at a party with an army wife who had long ago refused to cook her husband’s breakfast and recommended Pam to do the same. I was the third member of the tripartite conversation, sipping on our drinks at the time but my views were not sought! We received a letter from Pam’s younger sister Sheila, who had married some time before our marriage, advising us that she was pregnant. Pam’s reaction was jealousy, she also wanted to have a baby, although we had not discussed earlier starting a family. Pam had previously obtained a secretarial position within the RAF Malta HQ administrative system, obliging her to get out of bed at the same time as myself, in order to prepare for her own day’s work. We did have breakfast together from that time, but only until she stopped working later into her pregnancy. During the earliest weeks of Pam’s pregnancy, when suffering morning sickness, she would irritably say that if I wanted more sex than was acceptable to her, then I should look elsewhere for satisfaction. Later, whenever we had a minor altercation,, she would not compromise over our differences but would withdraw sexual favours until I submitted to her conclusions! She would nurse her hurt feelings and I would respond by pretending that I was not bothered by her indifference and I fell into the sin of denial which only exacerbated our problems. I remember that we cohabited six weeks without sex and no other expressions of love. Pam had refused me sex one night, soon after the birth of Leigh and childishly I determined that we would not make love again until she asked me, for what I had previously believed to be joint conjugal rights.

Shortly after ‘signing on’, I volunteered to be posted to a smaller station in Malta, RAF Takali where two of my friends were working in the pay accounts section. There was not the opportunity to play sport at RAF Takali as there had been at RAF Luqa. Takali was a much smaller station and the times of duty on the station were different than those of RAF Luqa and internal unit sports leagues were non-existent. In order to have the weekends free, personnel were ordered to start work at 7.30 am throughout the week and work through the Thursday sports half day. On alternate Wednesday nights I was detailed to sleep on the premises to guard the night safe which housed the pay of the men who served on the outlying signal stations, whose pay I was responsible for calculating and which was distributed on the following day. (I never understood why our officers could not have collected the sum of wages to be distributed from the bank, and deliver it earlier in the day of the pay-parade concerned, - no big deal, that was how we arranged matters at RAF Luqa). My extra duties were totally unjustified, for I was the only married airman in the accounts department, whilst four other airmen of my rank, all of whom were single and living on the campsite., could have shared this duty with me. At every other unit I knew of, the night duties were shared on a roster basis. I was also the Accounts section’s sole member on the funeral party which practised and performed very regularly for surprisingly quite a few personnel died, even when not on active service. One of the non commissioned officers (NCOs) in charge (I/C) of the pay accounts section, through vindictiveness, threatened me with disciplinary action, if I continued to give dancing lessons, forcing my compliance with his orders. My previous section officers at RAF Luqa had not adopted such a tyrannical attitude. The lame excuse given to me was that I was a serviceman for 24 hours of every day and was not allowed to have any other employment. I was just beginning to experience how the ‘old boy’ network could be used to spoil the advancement of my career in the RAF. I regretted my posting to Takali, where I was truly victimised. The only happy memory I have of Takali is that my daughter Kim was born whilst I served there, at the Queen Alexander’s Hospital at M’dina which towered high above RAF Takali and close by. I was dogged in all my subsequent postings by superior ranked people who sought to crush my spirit and who seemingly found satisfaction in inhibiting my aspirations of promotion, by awarding me very negative annual assessments.

Alcohol features very highly as the fuel needed to stimulate a party or to relieve boredom or loneliness for servicemen when off duty and feeling homesick. Amongst the servicemen, bottles of spirits were available very cheaply. The aircrew brought back duty free supplies and wines from some of the countries they flew to and most of the crew were amenable to bringing back extra supplies to order. Pam and I had many aircrew friends who invited us to their parties and of course we hosted our own. Often I would attend stag nights or farewell parties on the occasion of a colleague completing his tour of duty. I drank to excess on most such occasions and confess inebriation, not nightly or even weekly, but more often than was good for my well being. Pam accepted my behaviour because it was intermittent and was common among servicemen overseas. Weekends and during leave periods we spent our days on the beach in the hot sun, bathing in the Mediterranean Sea. We returned to England in August 1958, Kim was two months old and Pam was two months pregnant with our daughter Leigh. Our bodies were well tanned, but because the weather was abysmal during my six weeks disembarkation leave, we were hardly ever able to display our tans on the beaches around Plymouth.

Malta was affectionately known as ‘The Island of smells, bells and pregnant women’! It was certainly an eye-opening experience to accept from my non-religious upbringing. Roman Catholicism was the national religion and the people were very law abiding and hard working. Churches were packed out at every service, which were held several times every day. Those unfortunate to arrive late knelt on the steps leading to the church entrance. It was a common occurrence, during street processions on ceremonial occasions, to witness devotees flagellating themselves in penitence for their sinful lives. The most prevalent way to express sinners’ mortification, was for the mortified to shuffle on their knees in line (as a chained slave might do) behind an icon that was paraded at the head of the procession. A brass band played a suitable mournful dirge, presumably to attract the attention of those engaged in more mundane activities. All public transport and most private cars featured a religious cameo, which included pictures of the Madonna prominently displayed. This was done to ensure that anytime an accident occurred or was narrowly averted, drivers would genuflect to thank the Holy Mary for protecting them from harm. As a side benefit it was believed that would-be thieves would not steal from a car displaying a shrine. Contraception was frowned on by the priesthood and one couldn’t buy any form of birth control from any chemists shop. On one occasion Pam inadvertently left our flat in a sleeveless dress, a policeman sent her home to dress more modestly! When swimming in the sea or sunbathing on the beach, Maltese females, including their young children were fully covered from shoulder to ankle, in a black cotton garment, that went as far as their wrists. They took this precaution for the sake of modesty and in order not to reveal their bare skin, which might provoke the lust of a beach boy.

Two and a half years service in Malta ending in August 1958 was followed by less than a year of service at RAF Innsworth in Gloucestershire, which was followed by a further two and a half years posting to Singapore between June 1959 – December 1961. With the constant comings and goings of personnel, there were always plenty of invitations to parties. At least I could choose my friends, if not my immediate superiors. Pam and I enjoyed a very good social life, totally different from my former civilian lifestyle, although service life as a married man in England was little different from that of my civilian counterparts. Whilst serving overseas, I was entitled to overseas family allowances which greatly increased my non-taxable income. In Singapore all personnel were expected to employ an ‘amah’, a servant woman who also carried out the duties of a nanny. Her wages were paid for courtesy of the British government. Meenachi, our Indian amah, had two children and loved our two little ones as if they were her own. She lived in Seletar village some five miles from the village of Sambawang, where we lived, which itself was 13 miles away from the RAF station where I worked each day. This arrangement enabled Pam to spend more quality time with the children than she would have been able to provide in England. We lived in our two bedroomed bungalow at Sambawang for a few months until I was fortunate to learn of a large house in Hong Kong Park, which the owners were prepared to temporarily rent to the RAF as a hiring. This palatial home was about five miles nearer to my work place, which was very convenient. The only drawback was that we had to find a new Amah; for Meenachi was not prepared to travel the extra distance to our new home. We kept in touch with her though, through my friend Stan Brockelsby, who moved into our former home.

Shortly after moving into our fine new house, Pam became pregnant. She had not wanted a third child and made m