Ian Giles:

By the end of the Second World War, Burton, like Britain was exhausted, if asked, I would liken Burton to a Lowery-esk scene, its buildings were tired, its people were stooped and the town itself was drained of energy and colour.  I suspect someone alive and well during the heyday of the industrial revolution would have had no difficulty in recognising the Burton of the 1950’s.  Coal was king and steam was the power, the grime belching from the Lowery chimneys permeated everything and everywhere, the brickwork of the town was layered with grey as was the once gloss paint on the brewery buildings.  Looking back, to me, Burton was drab place, typical of a medium size industrial town of the day.  At the time, as a twelve year old, I never even noticed, I had known nothing different. Ask any good citizen of Britain with what did they associate the town of Burton and the unhesitating reply would be beer, this was undoubtedly true, but the more knowledgeable would nod sagely and tell you there was more to Burton than just brewing. 

It seemed to take a long time, for the country to shake off the tired image of war, it took several years in fact and as a result Burton entered the fifties indistinguishable from the forties.  This was a period blighted by shortages of all kinds, due in part to the rationing of the wartime years, which continued well into the early fifties.  Burton had changed little over many years, a fact that I must have taken for granted, for I thought it would remain the same forever.  How naïve and innocent the young are, how on earth was I, and the whole of my generation to know, that within a few short years, we, and everything around us, would change so much.  At this time, I was twelve years of age and the finger of youth was seductively beckoning, when looking back, I see in the kaleidoscope of my mind, a myriad of images and impressions of those times, a few of which, I will share with you here. 

When, thinking of where to start story, my mind harked back to a fairly recent conversation I had with acquaintance of mine, he is a tad older than me and we were discussing the changes our generation had seen over the years, he went on to tell me about the times when his mother used to send him to do the weekly shopping during the war.  He was then in his teens and owned a racing bike, which he would ride to the Co-Op in the next village to collect the shopping, on the return journey, two carrier bags hung from the handlebars as he cycled home.  Today, we drive several miles out of town to our favourite supermarket in our off road 4x4’s, we return with the boot of the car stuffed with food for just one week, plus a full tank of petrol for good measure, some contrast with the youth on his bike and two carrier bags. 

At least a decade before the import of American style supermarkets, food shopping was altogether a different experience, unlike to-days once a week visit to the supermarket, in those days, shopping was done on a daily basis at your local shop.  Such a shop would be in your own street, road or village, or perhaps it would be a corner shop in a town street, it was in such a shop that I used to go on errands for my mother, it was a meeting place where news and gossip was exchanged, it was a community centre, to an observant person it was a place where the mood of the nation could be gauged.  These shops performed a vital role by stocking the basic needs for life’s existence.

For several years after the war, rationing was still in force, every man woman and child was issued with a ration book, which consisted of pages of stamp like coupons, which would be cut out by the shop owner to the coupon value of the goods purchased.  This was something I was familiar with from the time I could first remember, of course had no idea at the time what it was all about.  To my recollection, sweets, chocolate and biscuits were very scarce.  With hindsight, by to-days standards, the rations allocated to a family of four seem barely sufficient for one person.  In addition to the local shop would be the door to door deliveries of milk, and bread, in the earlier days, I can remember the milk being delivered by horse and cart, the milk would be contained in a churn and it came straight from the farm, the milk would be ladled out and poured into a jug which you, yourself would provide.  Quite often we would have a ride in the cart.

Shopping for other than foodstuffs, which would be mostly for clothing and footwear, a visit to town would be required; it would be by bus that you would travel.  There was neither heated mall, nor pedestrian-only streets and as mentioned, very few privately owned cars, above all, the number of people in town would be barely a fraction of what you see today, especially during weekdays. All shopping was done in purpose built shops lining each side of the busy streets, these would vary from multiple stores to small locally owned premises, some staffed by the owners themselves.  The practice of self-service was unheard of and business was conducted over a counter in a congenial and respectful manner, all goods were paid for in cash (or more rarely by cheque,) the age of the credit card was a world away, there was no wandering about the premises with goods in hand looking for someone to take your money.  These were the days before the corporate image, before bar codes and before the ‘one size fits all’ retail warehouse, there was no checkout-queue to join as there was no checkout, for this was a time when shopping was carried out in a time honoured genteel way.  The range of choice of goods on sale was but a mere fraction compared with today, the only financial houses were the solid respectable banks, no cash dispensers, no cash-back, no building societies, no estate agents, no DIY stores, no flash pubs and certainly no fast food outlets, other than the traditional fish and chip shop.

My overall memory of the town centre was the almost total reliance upon public transport in the form of buses, with very few cars there were no car parks as such, there were two major bus terminals, one at the end of the Trent Bridge and the other in New Street.  Bus companies that come to mind were, Burton Corporation, Midland Red, Stevenson’s, Victoria, and The Blue Bus Company.  Another form of transport was the much seen bicycle, hundreds of workers would cycle to work on daily return journeys of five or more miles.  Strange that these days we are being urged to take more exercise to improve our health yet in those days life expectancy was much shorter than today, even with a much more physical lifestyle.  An interesting feature of the town at this time was the Leeds-Exeter trunk road, perhaps better known as the A38, this main North-South West artery bisected the town centre, try and imagine, before the by-pass, from the Derby Turn inn to Branston Road, via Horninglow Street, Guild Street, Union Street and Park Street being the principle route for all through north-south west traffic, of course, the volume of traffic was nowhere near today’s levels.

Burton was definitely a brewery dominated town and was the towns major employer, such names as Ind Coope & Allsop, Bass, Truemans, Everards, Marstons, spring readily to mind, the town and the breweries were as one, inseparable.  The town’s breweries were famous for their own internal railway system, it was not so much the private system in itself that made the brewery system unique, it was more the scale of it, the whole area of the town was interconnected and criss-crossed with rails, junctions, signal boxes, marshalling yards and crossing gates, even the busiest of streets would be interrupted by railway traffic.  It was this internal system, which connected to the outside world that enabled the name of Burton to become so widely known.  It was quite a common occurrence to be walking or cycling along a main street in town when, one’s ears would be assaulted by a loud clanging bell coming from the direction of the controlling signal box.  The crossing gates would then be opened, effectively sealing off the road from the rails, then shortly, a clanking, puffing ensemble of wagons, pulled by a Thomas the tank engine, would trundle across the road, usually with a precariously perched shunter clinging to the engine, when the last wagon had disappeared between the high buildings, the signalman, satisfied that all was clear, wound a huge wheel and closed the gates, at which point, the jammed up flotsam of pedestrians and traffic would burst through and flow freely once more.  Little was it known, that in a short few years this scene would be no more, as the whole brewery rail system would be made redundant due to the transfer of beer traffic from rail to road.

By the mid 1950’s the effects of wartime austerity had at last ended and consumer production had swung into gear, this transition had been a long time coming.  I was soon to work for a company that had a large factory with a workforce of two thousand people.  It was a time when you could get a job anywhere, later, recruitment of labour became an acute problem, so much so, production always lagged behind demand, meantime, the people of Britain were not slow in wanting the consumer products they had long been denied, demand for the latest labour saving device continued to increase and there was a new dynamism and optimism in the air, a Prime Minister (Macmillan) told us later, ‘Britain had never had it so good,’ people had money in their pockets and Burton like Britain, was booming.

It would be unfair not to mention other industries operating in the town at that time, household names like Pirelli, Etoughs, FNF, BTR, and many more, (I will leave it to the reader to add their own personal favourite.)  Looking through this list of diverse industries is a reminder of the myriad of skilled trades required for the factories to function, trades that were once instantly recognisable but have since almost disappeared. It was a tribute to the education and training system of the day, which consistently turned out, year on year, first class tradesmen who kept the whole industrial machine working.  I find it strange there is now a shortage of skilled tradesmen of all types, where did it all go wrong?  It is also all too easy to forget the important services of the nationalised industries, EMEB, CEGB, British Gas, South Staffs Water and the NCB, and British Rail.  I don’t know about you, but I preferred those public utilities to what we have to-day, you could speak to someone locally who had a job title and a name, he/she would know what you were talking about and go out of his/her way to be helpful, it was all cosily local based.  If someone had suggested, that in years to come, we would all own a telephone and our local queries would be dealt with by people living hundreds of miles away, I wonder what their reaction would have been?

Travel for the average person was by public transport by bus or train, private cars were not generally available to working people until the late fifties and early sixties, even then, it would only be to the above average wage earner.  People would travel to work by bus in their droves, I doubt whether there were many people who did not have a bus stop within easy walking distance of their home, some firms even had their own bus parks, the sight of seeing the rush to get to the bus after finishing the days work was well worth watching, a procession of tightly packed double decked buses would zoom off as soon as the last passenger was on board. (‘Traa Mave’-‘Traa Duck’)  

Going on family annual holiday was the same, it would be mostly by train that you would travel, the journey would be more than just a journey, it would be an adventure.  Each member of the family would be dressed in their Sunday best, (boys-short trousers, jacket, complete with tie) out early to catch a bus to Burton station, (goodness knows when I last travelled on a bus) the station is still in the same place, at the top of the bridge.  The approach to the station building was across the impressive forecourt; which lead you gently into the cavernous booking hall, the atmosphere of one time grandeur was all around, even if a little faded and dusty.  The booking hall floor was timbered and expansive and over to the left, were two booking office windows protected by a simple barrier, one window seemed to be permanently closed.  Armed with your tickets you made your way across the wooden floor to the ample stairs leading down to the platforms, the woodwork was impressive, mahogany perhaps?  bereft of varnish and dull maybe, but like a grand duchess from a once regal age, still elegant and handsome.   Once down on to the platform you could relax a little, hopefully there was still plenty of time.  If I remember rightly there was a bookstall immediately opposite the stairs and nearby stood a train board indicator to confirm you’re thinking or otherwise.  Members of staff were about their business, mainly porters, it was reassuring to know you could always ask someone if need be.

I remember my first holiday, standing on the platform waiting for the train to arrive; I was gripping my dad’s hand with a determination that surprised him. There was a perceptible expectancy among the waiting crowd of passengers with suitcases at the ready.  I knew the train would arrive from my left under the soot blackened arch of the bridge, at that time I childishly thought it was the mouth of a tunnel and it was only much later I learned that it was the bridge which the road above went over.  Porters started to manoeuvre heavy four wheeled barrows laden with parcels of all shapes and sizes, nearby, propped against a stanchion, a bicycle with luggage label attached, and on another barrow a basket of racing pigeons rested.  Porters appeared and people started to shuffle forward picking up their luggage, excitedly craning my head I could I hear something coming from under the bridge and just at that moment, a filthy soot caked steam engine limped into view, wheezing and coughing, barely crawling into the station with steam hissing from all around, as it went slowly past I noticed the engine had a name over one of its wheels, it spelt FIJI, I thought what a funny name, I also thought what a dirty engine it was.  Behind the engine were equally dirty carriages gliding silently past, soon coming to rest.  Still clinging to my dad, we shuffled forward and got on the quite full train, at last, we were on our way.  (Burton station - bound for Exeter - 1947)

Television was still very much in its infancy, and like owning a car, only the better off could afford them. So, it was to the cinema (pictures) they would go, for generations, a visit to the cinema, had been an integral part of the nations way of life, the Hollywood dream factory was still running flat out in an effort to sate our appetite for the latest means of escape.  There were three cinemas available in Burton, there was the Electric cinema in High Street, the Ritz cinema in Guild Street and the Picturedrome theatre in Curzon Street, (near to the station,) each theatres showings would usually be two major films a week each with a supporting film and perhaps one film on a Sunday, which all in all would total about six to eight films showing each week.  Of interest today is the old cinema newsreel which was shown between films, it was an important instrument of the media of the time for communicating to the masses, although radio had long been the favourite media for instant news the cinema came into its own with visual stories, ‘one picture being worth a thousand words’ being the maxim.  To think it must have taken several days for a news items to be imparted in this way, imagine, a news item from Australia for example, would have taken weeks to arrive in Britain, all so hugely different now, with instant visual satellite communication.

Going to the cinema, provided entertainment and escape on a massive scale and was a recognised national institution, I cannot speak for the older generation of my day, but for us young ones, cinema played a most important part in our lives, a visit to the cinema was much looked forward to and took place at least once, or more likely, twice a week.  This was probably the last decade of cinema dominance as television was to gradually replace the cinema as the principle means of mass entertainment.  I find it very interesting to compare the fifties cinemagoer and the sofa TV viewer of today, if I was to hazard a guess, I would guess they are basically the same people, but much dummer these days.  There is no doubt in my mind that decades of hypnotic viewing, has taken its toll.

Today, there is almost a complete absence of religion, which does not compare favourably with the days of my youth, I cannot profess to ever having leanings in that direction but I fervently believe in living my life in a certain way, I think religion does play an important role in the way we think and do things.  Somewhere along the way we made the transition to a new age religion, from worshipping God in church to worshipping consumerism in the Malls of Sheffield and the West Midlands.  People now worship the new gods, the rich celebrities, the famous and the infamous.  From the beginnings of understanding, children were acquainted with the Christian faith and it’s values. Our leaders placed great importance upon such matters and it was commonplace throughout the land, every Sunday, we were packed off to our local Sunday school.  I suppose there are still many children going to Sunday Schools, but nowhere near the numbers as then.  The absence of that ‘something,’ which cemented our society and gave it purpose, has now gone, and it shows.

All teenagers think their own heady days of youth were the best, I am no exception, for me, and a whole generation of teenagers the 1950’s became alive with the explosion of ROCK and ROLL music.  Up until that time, vocal music for teenagers had been predictable and unexciting, pretty tame stuff compared with what was to come, also there was the big band sound, still popular from the days of the Glen Miller Orchestra.  At the start of the decade, there was no hint in the music world of what was just around the corner until the film ‘Rock Around the Clock’ was released in 1955. The title song was sung by an unknown (to us) American singer, Bill Haley, it was an instant sensation and quickly became a phenomenon, we, the youth of Britain and Burton was hooked.  I used the word ‘explosion’ to describe the arrival of rock and roll and that’s exactly what it was, the rash of raw music that erupted during this period has been written into rock music folklore and will remain so as long as music is played.  I have read on this website an account of the music scene in the Burton of the 1950’s, I cannot add to that as I was simply not into the music club scene, this doesn’t mean I was not into rock and roll, far from it, I was an avid listener on 45’s and the old Dansette Record Player.  Elvis Presley was the undisputed king of rock and roll and made many films (of flimsy storyline) to use as a vehicle for his talents, one film that comes readily to mind is ‘Jailhouse Rock’.  I was in the RAF during this period doing my National Service, we would go to the NAAFI canteen in the evening; (a sixpenny?) coin proffered to the jukebox would yield Elvis belting out to the strains of ‘Jailhouse Rock’.  Heady stuff compared with what went before.

A feature of this era was the phenomena of strange creature known as the Teddy boy, whose emergence I witnessed first hand, I have no idea from whence he came, but I would guess his origins arose from the bomb-blitzed sites of London.  His credentials were, a smart suit in the Edwardian style of various garish hue, complete with a velvet collar, bootlace tie and drainpipe trousers, the whole ensemble topped off with a DA haircut and quaffed forelock, footwear was a pair of felt, crepe soled shoes which relished in the somewhat dubious title of brothel creepers.  Rock and Roll in the 1950’s and Teddy Boys were synonymous with each other, like bacon and eggs or cheese and pickle, in some quarters they gained a reputation for being a bit thuggish, and perhaps this is the reason my dad went spare when I suggested I might like suit of that ilk, I was 20 years of age mind you, imagine any father of today having any say in such a matter.  Eventually, I toned down my ambitions and bought a silver threaded jacket with narrow bottomed black trousers, looked quite smart, my dad still went mad.  

We went to the Rink at Swadlincote occasionally, I don’t remember a great deal other than a group who called themselves ‘The Red Rockers’ my wife tells me they had a ‘spot’ during the interval, I thought they were pretty good. A couple of numbers they played was ‘Red River Valley and ‘What Do Want to Make Those Eyes At Me For.’ they were not bad at all.  My own favourites I would listen to on my Dansette record player; artists like Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, Buddy Holly, Bobby Darrin, Eddie Cochran and Elvis of course.  Britain tried to emulate the Americans and scoured the country for likely talent which was thin on the ground and could only come up with people like Tommy Steel, Marty Wild and Cliff Richard who were lightweight in the big league, but never-the-less, went on to make long, successful careers in their own backyard.

My interest was sport, football and cricket, when not doing either I enjoyed fishing, I used to fish the canal at the back of the Pirelli factory, in those days it was quite rural, you might even say countryside, nearby was the Tutbury Jinnie railway line, where steam hauled beer trains battled their way over the gradient up to Stretton, the trains and the track have long since gone, replaced by tarmac and an endless stream of traffic.  The once Pirelli car park is just up the road and is now covered with houses, as is the entire area; it is barely recognisable from the pastures and hedgerows of my fishing days.

Earlier, I mentioned the amount of land that became available due to the contraction of the brewery industry and rail system, this land was distributed mainly within the confines of town and released for redevelopment. The town centre (if you can call it such) has since become squares, precincts, shopping malls and revenue earning car parks, the remainder has been replaced with new roads, utility type ‘warehouse’ retail outlets and the awful industrial estate.  These ‘shantytown’ industrial estates consist of small units, each employing only a handful of people, they say small, is beautiful.  One cannot help but ask the question, how many units did it take to absorb the thousands displaced from the shrinking breweries and closed factories?

The age of the motorcar was now well under way, as was the new religion consumerism, I do not know who or when the word ‘consumerism’ was coined, but it certainly has a lot to answer for.  The now availability of the motorcar was synonymous with the craving for freedom and all things labour saving and modern, for the first time, ordinary people had the means to acquire these things.  By now, television had become commercialised and was articulating these desires.  From the small screen in the corner of the living room came a bombardment of advertisements, seducing the viewer with refrigerators, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, washing up liquids, washing powders, even cough medicines, the list was endless and with easy credit the getting was easy, optimism was seen to be everywhere, people were walking with a spring in their step toward the sunlit uplands.

The change from rail transport of beer to road, combined later with the contraction of the brewing industry in general, allowed the release of much prime land, acres of it in fact, trouble was, this didn’t happen all at the same time, it happened piecemeal over a period of several years, the planners followed likewise and as a result there was no big picture, the end result is plain to see, Burton became a disjointed shambles.  I know it is easy to be wise after the event but really, the planners should have done much better, after all, they practically started off with a blank sheet of paper.  If a competition were to be held to find the best way of bringing a towns traffic system to a complete standstill, the planners of Burton would surely win the Nobel Prize.

By the close of the fifties, Burton was on the threshold of leaving the past behind, the next decade would herald in the swinging sixties, which for more pressing reasons passed me by.  I wonder if the people of Burton had any inkling of the changes that would take place in the ensuing years?  Well, I for one certainly didn’t, my life carried on just the same, as I suspect it did for them.  When you live side by side with change all around, it goes unnoticed and is absorbed into the psyche, life has more pressing needs.  Come the day you pause and look around, you ask yourself the unanswerable question, where had it all gone?                           END

Footnote:  The history books (and the internet) now tell me that the life of my generation coincided with the age of oil and plenty, it is this fact that has driven the changes I have written about.  It could well be, that my generation has been the most privileged in the history of the human race so far.  By date of birth we have avoided war and have enjoyed an unparalleled life-style of wealthy and healthy living.  But the soothsayers also tell me that, storm clouds are gathering and all is not well, they tell me the type of life I and my generation have led, has been unsustainable and the cost to our world has been too much.  They are predicting it cannot continue.  Perhaps we were the generation that, ‘Never Had It So Good.’  

An infant child cannot see beyond the immediacy of his needs, he is oblivious to what lies outside the bubble of his world, it is only with the passage of time will his awareness of other things register upon his mind.  So, when looking back and recalling ones childhood, it is through the eyes of an old man that one must look.  By to-days standards I am not old but I am much nearer the end than the beginning, I was born on the eve of the Second World War.  My parents were of working class, even so, they had sufficient fortune to embark upon buying a new house in a desirable area, my father was a brewery drayman and my mother, like most married women of her time, was a full-time housewife.

When flicking through the scrapbook of my mind, I suppose one of my first images is of sitting in a huddle in a small cupboard under the stairs, my Mother and Brother’s faces flickering in the light of a single candle.  I certainly detected an air of disquiet and concern in my Mothers’ uncertain voice, trying to reassure us all would be well, other than that, I had no idea of what we were doing there.  It must have been several years before my conscious memory reasoned we were sheltering under the stairs of our home.  Enemy bomber aircraft were overhead.  I cannot recall any sound of explosions, so assume we were never under direct attack.

I think of what my Mother, and indeed all mothers of that time had to contend with, not knowing from day to day what would happen next.  My Mother used to tell me the story of when she was pushing me in my pram to visit her Mother, (My Grandma.)  It must have been around May/June 1940, (the history books would tell me) apparently, it was a beautiful summer day and people had their windows wide open.  As she passed one house, she heard from inside a radio news bulletin, announcing that France had capitulated and Britain now stood alone in her fight against Germany.  My Mother told me her heart stood still and her knees weak, she felt very frightened, because she knew, as did everyone else, an invasion of Britain by Germany was now a distinct possibility. My Mother was of a nervous disposition and easily scared, hearing this news must have been terrifying for her.

Our house was built about the same time I was born and for those that are interested, it cost £650.00, this was just a year before the outbreak of the Second World War.  It was a detached three bed-roomed house built on a main road in the ribbon development style of the period, the roadside development plan utilised the open space each side of the road and as a result we enjoyed uninterrupted views across the open countryside. From my bedroom window I could see for miles a vista of trees hedgerows and fields, dotted with the occasional farm building.  Even as a small boy, I appreciated my good fortune in living in such surroundings.

At the bottom of some gardens was an air raid shelter, a hole dug in the ground with concrete slabs covered with soil. Our neighbour had one, I remember it always seemed to be full of water and frogs, we were lucky for as far as I know, it was never used.  At the front of our house, was a wide modern, main road, on our side, there was a wide strip of grass verge separating the pavement from the road, immediately in front of the house, the planners had thoughtfully left a fully mature Elm tree, and a little further away were two more of similar stature.  Elm trees are no longer with us, having been almost wiped out by Dutch elm disease many years ago, yet they remain a vivid favourite in my memory, the street lamps were gas lit, the traffic on the road was sparse and consisted mainly of heavy lorries carrying war materials.  Private ownership of cars was rare, I can only recall the local farmer with his Rover and of course, the local corporation buses were performing their indispensable services.

By the time I started school, the war had been in progress 4 out of my 5 years of existence, so obviously, I knew no other life.  There were air raid shelters dug deep into the playground, inside these earthen molehills was a dark, dank cavern with wooden benches lining the walls.  By this time, 1943, air raids were becoming much less frequent and so these interludes of practice evacuation to the shelters had dwindled accordingly.  From my perspective, war had very little impact on my early school days.

During those wartime summers, from up above you could hear the constant drone of aircraft.  The area around Burton was host to at least two flying training aerodromes which were always working to capacity, Wellington bombers from the Operational Training Unit at Fradley near Lichfield and single engine Tiger Moth trainers from Burnaston near Derby, were constantly in the air, of all the memories of my wartime childhood it is this sound I shall remember most.  Whilst out playing one day, I saw a Spitfire dive down from on high towards a huge ivy covered tree, which stood alone in a field, I stood watching fascinated as the dive was steep and I had my doubts whether the aircraft would recover in time, which it barely did. I can only suppose the pilot was making a mock attack on this lone tree.

Another time I saw a Lancaster bomber flying very low close to our house, so low in fact it vibrated the chimneys with a crescendo of noise.  I found out in later years, the crew were testing their aircraft on pre-operational flights from their base (Bourne-Cambridge) they were from a pathfinder squadron, an elite bomber unit.  The pilot lived across the road from us and occasionally flew directly over his house to show off his plane to his wife who would be waving from the garden. Much later in life, I met the pilot and a gunner of the plane’s crew, most interesting it was too.

It was around this time I can claim my allotted fifteen minutes of fame.  Swinging idly on a farm gate, I casually announced to our number I could see a double decker bus coming down the road, this observation was met with scorn and derision as there were no such buses operating in Burton at that time. I shouted and pointed up the road, sure enough, coming along the road was a double decker bus in the livery of Burton Corporation colours, the exaggerated excitement shown by the gang was genuine, as it was indeed the first double decker bus to operate in Burton and the first double decker bus we had seen, I could be wrong when I say it was 1944, if this is so, I’ve no doubt someone will waste no time in correcting me.

I accepted as part of everyday life, images such as the brick built air raid shelter with a thick concrete roof, there was also a huge brick lined static water tank, the size of a swimming pool dug deep into the ground for water storage in case of fire.  In wintertime, the water in these tanks would be frozen and covered with debris where we had tried to break the ice.  During the summer we would look down and clearly see the antics of the newly arrived newts who, had taken up residence there.  By this stage of the war, the driver of our school bus was a woman, but even this fact had no special significance for me.  Strange new words could be heard, such as D Day, Allies and Advance, each day the newspapers contained graphics of the position of our armies, my parents were overjoyed at the rate of progress being made, so was I, but for no other reason than they were.  As for the wars proceedings, I was really unaware what it was all about, even when, at the age of seven, it all came to an end and war had ended.  Victory only became clear when celebrations were held nationwide and parties were held in every road, street and village in the land, our road being no exception. 

Double summertime had been in force for some time, this meant instead of adding one hour to the clock, two hours were added, the reason being to increase daylight hours to aid farmers and industry in their unequal struggle for production. This measure was a bonus to us children as we sometimes stayed up ‘till eleven o’clock at night, when it would be still daylight.  The field at the bottom of our garden mostly grew wheat.  Harvesting the corn was always interesting to watch, an old Fordson tractor pulled a cutting and binding machine which cut the corn and bound it into sheaves, which in turn would be stacked into ‘stooks’ for drying in the sun. We children would play and make our dens in these corn ‘stooks’ and have a great time.  When the corn was dry, tanned, waist-coated farmers would heave the sheaves on to carts with a two-pronged fork, the carts were pulled by magnificent shire horses and would haul the huge loads to the farmyard, where the sheaves would be thrown off and stacked to await the threshing gang in the autumn.  .

Later on, around September time, word would quickly spread the threshing circus was coming to town, someone from our number would have spotted the threshing convoy chugging along the road, enveloped in smoke.  This annual event was cause for great excitement, the procession was led by a monstrous steam engine chuffing out swirling black smoke, the hypnotic smell of which has no equal, we would excitedly dance around this magical scene, for this noisy procession was our pied piper leading us to the farm. 

The stack yard had already been prepared for the visit, tarpaulins had been removed from the stack tops, and towering ladders were placed in position, a wire netting fence ranged around the base of the stack.  The steam engine would draw up alongside the stack and the crew would prepare to start.  A long length of conveyor belt would be placed around the huge drive wheel of the engine and fitted over the wheel of the thresher behind, the burley driver would push the lever into gear and the whole scene would erupt into a cacophony of noise, drive wheels, gears, belts, the whole contraption would explode and shake but soon settle down into a splendid humming piece of Victorian wizardry.  To our eyes and ears it was pure magic. 

Two men at the top of the stack would pitch the sheaves into the thresher below, the gaping mouth hungrily devouring them, demanding more.  From the outset it was man against machine, a marathon struggle to keep this beast fed, the men would have to pace themselves for it would be a long hot day.  At the back of the thresher were wooden shoots from which a constant steady trickle of corn would flow into the already waiting sacks.  For the children the most exciting bit was about to start. As the stack became lower the rat inhabitants would sense all was not well and started to vacate, which was a given signal for all hell to let loose.  Below, an assortment of experienced dogs sensed with excitement what was about to happen, rats would emerge from around the base of the stack and try to escape helter-skelter in all directions, thwarted by the wire mesh fence they would frantically seek any route of escape, it was usually in vein as the combination of dogs and stick proved hopeless, to the others it was all great fun, to me it was a nightmare scene

 Through my bedroom window, I could see the farm, only a field away.   Next to the farm was our playing field, which was always kept as grass for grazing.  In wintertime we played football, in summer it was cricket.  Word would soon get around there was a game going, friend and foe would come from their homes to join in, teams would be picked and coats or stumps laid, we would have endless games and fun in abundance.  This field we shared with the cows was our Wembley, it was our Oval, for a fleeting moment we became Stanley Mathews or Dennis Compton, we were Derby County and we were having fun.  In summertime, games were played late into the evening, ‘till failing light signalled it was time to go, gathering our coats we would contentedly make our way home.

 The railway line was a little further away and at least half a day would be allowed for this excursion, it was a country line used mainly by freight trains, which we children called goods trains.  ‘Our spot’ was out in the countryside, where a small junction siding connected to a colliery spur, where two signal boxes controlled the junction and sidings.  We could overlook the entire scene from a farm over-bridge, where the twin tracks stretched arrow-like into the distance, on our right, was one of two signal boxes, the other, being some half a mile distant.  At this point, the railway ran through a cutting with grassy banks either side, for miles ahead the railway was fenced off from the fields by a substantial tarred-timber fence.

 Coal was the life-blood of the nation and must be kept moving; there was an endless stream of passing coal trains.  Two collieries were nearby with connecting sidings, loaded trucks were brought down the colliery spur into the sidings where they would be sorted and assembled into trainloads.  An engine and crew were on duty to assemble the trains, part of the sidings came under the bridge to the buffer stops some two hundred yards distant, we would huddle under the arch of the bridge as the engine shunted up and down.  From a distance, the puff of a steam engine seems quite innocent, I can assure you, when the engine came under the bridge straining at the leash, there was a tremendous ‘whoosh’ ‘whoosh’ and smoke and steam would blot out everything, we would break cover and run for fresh air, eyes watering, coughing and spluttering, even the engine crew seemed to join in the fun.

 At this particular spot, the engines had to work very hard pulling their load up the gradient, the laboured efforts of the engine would always seem to me to be almost human, “I can do it” “I can do it”, they would snort in rhythm with their exhaust, their speed would barely be sufficient to maintain momentum, quite often it seemed to me, they would stall to a halt, but they never did.  For some inexplicable reason I would compulsively count the number of trucks as they trundled by, (still do, sad) even now, I can see the guard on his van, throwing overboard the unwanted remains from his tea urn, in preparation for a fresh brew.

 On one of those childhood summer days, when all was warm and quiet, save for the shimmering grass, the faint tingle of bells would waft across the shimmering tracks, there was silent movement in the box as the signalman pulled a lever, not far away, a signal arm would clang and point accusingly up at the cloudless sky, telling us a train was coming down the line.  Sometimes, it would be a passenger train, which would canter down the gradient with its two or three carriages, this was not a line where express trains came thundering down, it was pastoral line, it was country line.  Country railways are the same all over, for they are spasmodic places, where periods of calm are interrupted with sudden movement, only to return to calm again.  As the last coach went under the bridge, the signalman moved again in his box, the signal clattered back to rest.  Silence returned once more,

 The war was over and yet for me, nothing had really changed, my day-to-day life continued to revolve around school, I must have thought school was an agreeable way of life, because I have nothing to remind me otherwise.  In the war years, the teachers were exclusively female and almost all of Victorian vintage, with Victorian values and ethos.  I never gave it much thought as I had never known it any different, it was only upon the arrival of a male teacher that I realised there was such a thing, and what’s more, could make such a difference.  Actually, it came as a bit of a shock, his name was Mr. B. and he had just returned from the war, we were not at all sure we knew what that meant, but we accepted him just the same.  For me, Mr.Bs’, arrival heralded a dramatic change, this man’s idea of maintaining discipline in lessons was totally different to the women’s way, perhaps not so much different but certainly harsher, as we were soon to find out.  To put it bluntly, this new regime took us all completely by surprise and we all felt quite cowed by it, however, for us boys, this feeling didn’t last long as we learnt Mr.B. was keen on football and was soon to form a school side, this was certainly music to my ears as football was my first love

 As I have mentioned earlier, outside the front of my house, on the grass verge, was an Elm tree, and a little further down the road were two more, close together.  The housing developers had thoughtfully left them as part of the scenery, the trees were fully mature and reached to a great height, they were lovely trees and the best climbing frames you could wish for.  The one outside my house was the most difficult to climb, consequently it was not my favourite, that honour was given to the middle one, because it was the easiest.  I climbed these trees regularly, for no other reason than they were there and also because I enjoyed doing so, there were holes in the trunks high above where birds used to make their nests and lay their eggs, I never took more than one egg and watched the remainder hatch out and become young sparrows, sometimes, a pigeon would nest in the branches lower down, from my perch above, two pure white eggs could be seen nestling on a layer of fine twigs, the eggs defying the breeze by clinging to their flimsy platform.  For me, climbing a tree on a hot summers day was a memorable experience, sat swaying high above in a huge Elm, surveying the countryside in a cooling breeze whilst listening to the rhythm of the rustling leaves.

The way it was.  

Life is punctuated by defining moments, how many defining moments we are allotted in life I have no idea, but do we recognise them when we experience them?  Well, looking back on my life I can trace several, but at the time, they came and went without even registering a flicker on the Richter scale of defining moments.  Apart from my birth being the first, the next must have been the year 1945, when as a 7 year old, the ending of the second world war was signalled by having a victory party held in the street where I lived, races were held, and during the 60 yard sprint I stumbled at a critical moment, it robbed me of victory my Uncle always told me.  I only mention this, because 6 years of grinding war had passed me by almost unnoticed.

It was the following years of the late 1940’s, my education, such as it was, progressed to me winning a scholarship to the Grammar School, which in a way must have been another oblivious defining moment, because apart from my Mother announcing the fact, very little else in the memory department seems to have registered.  Yes, there was one thing, to celebrate this result I was rewarded with a BRAND NEW gleaming Hercules single speed bicycle, with rod brakes.  I well remember preening up down on my new bike telling anyone who would stand still and listen, that I was going to the Grammar School, what a complete prig I must have been.

 Another defining moment was ‘lost’ when; in the September of 1949 I started at Burton on Trent Grammar School.  Try as I might, I can honestly say that I cannot recall a single happening of that day, so, it is to elsewhere that I must look for help.  First, I would like to take a look at what the social conditions were like at that time, looking back, I was clearly aware that Victorian values were still in evidence, as the foundations of the Victorian era were still very much in place, like all institutions of the time, Burton Grammar School reflected and promoted the ethos and values of the Victorian age, it was a fact, anyone over the age of 50 was born a Victorian. 

How hath the mighty fallen, from being a respected member of the hierarchy of Junior School I found myself catapulted into the abyss of the unworthy, mine was to obey, to be seen and not heard, to touch my forelock and passively submit, anyone older than me was god, and if I momentarily overlooked this fact, I was instantly reminded by a swift ‘kep’? around the ear.  Beware of those clad in beribboned blazers for they were the High Priests and to be revered accordingly, for they were the police lieutenants of the Masters themselves. 

When the grading of newcomers took place, each pupil was allocated to a Form, (class) in other words selected and streamed according to intellectual ability, the elite went into Form 1A, the midstream went into Form 1C and the also-rans went into Form 1B, the logic of A C B alludes me to this day, needless to say I was in 1B. In addition to being selected into a Form, every one was also allocated to a House.  The House system comprised of Drake (blue), Nelson (black), Clive (green) and Wellington (maroon) we soon discovered the importance of the house system, which more will be said later.  We had barely become accustomed to our new surroundings when 1B had its first incident, we were all waiting in the gym for the PE teacher to arrive and start our first PT lesson. Standing around, curious at the site of strange equipment two or three of the boys started messing about on the ropes, suddenly the cry went up, ‘somebody’s coming,’ by this time one of the climbers was at the top almost touching the ceiling, on hearing the warning from below, he slid down to the bottom like a fireman on a ‘shout’, the state of his hands and legs told their own story, as did the look on his face.

 I was struck by the difference of the routine at my new school, laden with books in the ubiquitous satchel (leather bag) I navigated my way around my new surrounds, unlike my previous school, here, different classrooms were used for different subjects. Classrooms were positively Victorian in appearance (probably were) heavily constructed desks made of oak and wrought iron, complete with inkwells.  On top of the thick, hinged lid of the desks, was generations of graffiti engraved by former occupants, what stories could they tell?  Behind the master’s desk a huge blackboard was affixed to the wall, indispensable, for theses were the days of traditional blackboard teaching, nestling handily nearby, the blackboard rubber, which in experienced hands could be hurled with unerring accuracy at inattentive or fidgeting youth. The be-gowned eagle eyed master, would be perched in his eerie with a clear view of his charge and within handy distance would lurk the whip-like blackboard pointer, which doubled as a rapier when called upon to quell the unruly mob.

 All work and no play made Jack a dull boy; cerebral exercise was generously alternated with exercise of the body in the shape of PT in the Gym or games on the playing fields.   This is when I came to life, for sport of any kind was the elixer, inter house competition was promoted by the school, thereby inculcating ‘team spirit and what is known nowadays as bonding, victory was desirable but never paramount, modest in victory, magnanimous in defeat, win or lose, it was the taking part that counted.  Rugby, cricket and athletics were all played on the schools sports ground, which was located off Branston Road next to the Peel Croft (Burtons RFC playing field) I had completely forgotten (until I recently read on BGS website) that we were also bussed to Shobnall fields for games afternoon.  To be caught playing soccer with an oval ball was a cardinal sin and the assembled culprits would be bawled out. (Brab Smith?) Actually, many of the better Rugby players were in fact very good footballers, Gary Jordan (Burton Albion)- Dennis King (Gresley Rovers) - Keith Miller (Albion).  I’m sure readers can name more.  Obviously, Cross Country was different, an excellent account of the courses and wheezes are documented elsewhere on the website, my abiding recollection was, when on the return home, on the straight passing the Victolac (?) paint factory, the place was turned into a world war I battle scene, as skinny, singlet clad bodies, collapsed, clutching their throats and coughing blood, having inhaled the vitriolic fumes wafting across the fence.  What price health and safety at work?

  I became acquainted with discipline during my time there, both as a recipient and as an observer, I lived the other side of the river and travelled to school on my now, not quite so shiny Hercules, I had to use the Ferry Bridge and of course had to dismount and walk across the bridge, the penalty for being found guilty of riding was a Fixed £2.00 fine (not an inconsiderable amount) Well, you guessed it, one day I was caught riding by a member of the ‘allo, allo’ allo, who, decided to give me a good ‘wigging’ on the spot, just as this was taking place a Master from the school came walking by pushing his cycle, he strode over to join us, enquired my name and then carried on his way.  He duly reported me to the Headmaster who, in due course, kindly invited me over to his study.  He proceeded to read me the riot act about bringing the school into disrepute, after which, he picked up a whiplash cane and instructed me to ‘bend over’.  In this undignified position he fine-tuned my posture for maximum effect, just like a golfer addressing his next shot, he calmly took aim and proceeded to thrash my backside.  This is procedure is euphemistically called ‘six of the best’ or more commonly the ‘Whack.’ There was no emotion from either side, just  “Now get back to your lesson” from the Headmaster.  There is a sequel to this story, for not long afterwards, the Master who shopped me to the headmaster, was himself caught riding his bike and was fined £2.00.

 On another occasion I witnessed a further example of how errant pupils were dealt with.  A class was taking place and the master called for ‘quiet’ as some pupils (who were standing behind his desk) were talking.  The master was examining a boy’s work and the talking continued.  With no more ado, the master casually turned round and grabbed the nearest offending boy, got hold of his ear and proceeded to twist it, at the same time forcing the boy’s head slowly down on to his (Masters) desktop, the boy’s features were contorted and twisted as he was forced to look up at the ceiling to ease his pain, I wanted to shout out and stop it, but couldn’t, I did nothing, I just sat there I was impotent; we all were.  This type of behaviour was by no means rare; in my time I saw numerous such incidents.

 Mentioning the Ferry Bridge reminds me of a strange bird (of the feathered variety) which appeared around 1950, every day, this bird of swan proportions could be seen ‘swanning around’ on the water near to the ice factory end of the bridge, this unusual, nay, rare bird, was identified by one of the gang as a Canada goose.  It was (to my mind) a handsome bird, yet solitary and lonely, where it had come from was a mystery, (please don’t say Canada) there were no signs of any of its brethren at all, even today I cannot recall seeing another. This bird must have been an advance goose-scout on reconnaissance for a resettlement programme, because as we all know, this area of the river is to-day, 50 years on, teeming with them, so much so, culling looks a possibility.  Another memory of crossing the Ferry Bridge during this period was when the river was in full flood, each year without fail, the whole area was under water, often several feet deep, to be on the bridge surrounded by acres of deep water was thrilling for a boy on his way to school, I well remember on one occasion when the water was so deep you could touch the surface from the bridge itself. 

 On school days I used to cycle to my Grans for lunch, she lived nearby so it was handy to nip round on my bike. This meant going past the woodworks (Midland Joinery) and across the railway crossing at Bond End.  I remember winters mostly, was it my imagination or were winters really so, so, cold?  Fog seemed more frequent in those days too, I can recall many a journey on my bike in clinging freezing fog with visibility measured in feet, clad only in a light-weight school ‘mac’, on arrival at my Grans, the ice on the old, huge beer barrel water butt, would be several inches thick.  I hated winters, I was always cold, there were no padded, rainproof winter coats with deep lined pockets or fur lined hoods to retreat into, no instant gas fires or central heating, the only concession to warmth was a few spluttering coals in a dusty grate, always provided there was coal to be had of course.

 If my Gran’s house was still standing it would now qualify as a museum, in fact the whole street would, as it consisted wholly of terraced houses, built for the workers and was a monument to the Victorian way of life.   On my bike, I would approach down the back way to the house, which was a long narrow alleyway with huge brick walls either side, these prison-like walls were at least ten feet high and stretched the whole length of the alley.  Over the wall, was the site of the Burton Corporation waste disposal plant, which everyone referred to as the ‘Destructor, on this side, ancient gas lamps stood sentry at regular intervals down to alley’s abrupt end, which came in the form of large padlocked gates.   On the right hand side, the walls of the backyards were punctuated with solid doorways set in the wall and as you entered, you brushed past the wall of the outside toilet.  On the left, another high brick wall, which divided you from your neighbour.  Equally high on the opposite wall was a substantial wooden lean to shed, which was dark and musty inside and contained a heap of dusty coal and old wheelbarrow, which was used for carrying produce from the allotment.  Underneath the kitchen window stood the water butt. To complete the picture, under the left wall a token rockery where scraggy ferns struggled for survival.  The backyard faced north and was forever in poor light, the only sign of hope being the beleaguered ferns, struggling for life in the permanent gloom.

 The kitchen was built as an extension from the main building and protruded into the backyard, as did all the houses in the street for they were clones of each other.  Inside the kitchen there was no direct light so it was as gloomy as ever, even on a sunny summers day, all the old technology of the day was present, in the corner there was a brick built copper hearth, this was integral to the kitchen, it was a brick structure for boiling water on wash or bath days, it had a huge vat shape and sat in the brick framework like a cradle, underneath was a fire grate to heat the water.  Strategically placed would be odd looking contraptions to help my Gran to do her washing.  Things like a large brass plunger on the end of broom handle, I remember such a tool quite well but hadn’t a clue what it was used for or it’s name, even to this day I had no idea, so to the internet I went, (wonderful thing the internet) apparently it was called a posser and was used to agitate the clothes in the water, all by hand of course, a sort of prototype automatic washer, another similar object called a ‘dolly’ was also used, it looked like a three legged milking stool attached to a long handle, the three legs facing downwards, the whole thing would be twisted left and right alternately by hand to agitate the clothes in the water, it must have been exhausting work.  A mangle was a most important machine on washday, it was a heavy wrought iron contraption for wringing the clothes dry; the waterlogged washing was placed between the two sponge-like rollers which were located on the top of the frame, the rollers were powered by turning a huge iron wheel fitted with a wooden handle. When all the water had been squeezed out, the washing was then ready to hang up to dry.  Where on earth did my Gran dry it?  The only place was in a four by two backyard with little sun or wind, if it was raining or the wind was blowing in the wrong direction and blowing soot on to the nice clean washing, then the whole lot would have to be hauled down and hung inside the house from lines suspended from the ceiling.  The combination of problems must have seemed endless. Then of course there was the ironing, the iron was, as it’s name implies, a solid moulded chunk of iron with a handle attached, this was placed on the black leaded grate, which was heated by a coal fire, when the iron was sufficiently hot, then it was then ready to do its job.      

 Over the years Burton’s town area has changed drastically, I decided to take a look for myself at where I used to go to school.  Bond Street is still there (just) but BGS has gone, as has most of the street, it gives the impression of visionless planning and neglect, not to mention the rubbish. (I said not to mention the rubbish)  Maybe I’m too harsh and they’re working at it.  I tried to locate where the sports ground used to be, thank goodness for Peel Croft, (still there, playing the game,) otherwise I would have had problems getting my bearings.  I set off on a short walk, taking my life in my hands trying to cross the rivers of traffic, I soon found myself near the entrance to what was Safeways Supermarket (Now Asda) there, amidst the roar of traffic I decided this is where the site of the old pavilion used to be, (I think) I have lived side by side with these changes so they are sort of natural to me but I could not help wondering what those BGS exiles would make of it all, I feel sure it would saddening.

What did it all add up to? As I check and reread this script, I find it is impossible for me to convey the conditions and ambiance of those times long gone, to those readers of say under 50 years of age, the world as I have tried to describe must be almost impossible to grasp.  Everything I was taught and brought up to believe, became part of me, indeed became me.  In the course of my lifetime I have seen and continue to see a systematic dismantling and jettisoning of everything that I am and the values I hold.  I think the generation to which I belong, must surely qualify for entry into the Guinness Book of Records, for seeing and experiencing the most dramatic changes (of all kinds) in the span of single lifetime. In the summer of 1952 I left BGS, my parents decided to move home and start a new life, taking me with them.  Ian Giles, Rolleston, 12^th Dec 2005.