BUDDY HOLLY
Hey!! A lot of people liked the story of my first bike last week and the frustrations of the 13 year old boy that I used to be when it came to girls; well things didn't get better with girls for years.
I might have said this before but I left school at the age of 15; that was the legal age for leaving. It was not called a high school and the only thing we received when leaving was a 'leaving certificate.'
I remember receiving that as if it was yesterday; we had to line up in the school hall to shake hands with the headmaster who would shake our hands with the one hand and slip us the certificate with the other. I can remember the look on his face; it was a look of concern as I wasn't at all ready for the big wide world of work; I was a child.
His name was WH Griffin and he would sign our end of term reports in red ink – this is disgusting! - or could do better!
I think he was a nice man but the little bit of authority had gone to his head as he sat in his Ivory Tower of an office. He really didn't want me to leave and had many a talk with me about staying on; but what would I do? Look through the window to see what the weather was doing and dream of playtime?
I used to pretend I was in a movie playing a school child and whenever I was excused to go to the lavatory I would walk the corridors of the school pretending to be one of Flash Gordon's guards; it's a wonder they didn't put me away; my parents used to call me John Barrymore.
I left school that day and hardly saw any of my school friends again. I had loads of friends at school, I was never bullied and never bullied anybody. I had my fair share of fist fights, mostly when I first started the secondary school, I was no trouble and I was popular with my mates but that was it. None of them lived near me so I lost touch.
I left school with no job to go to and no idea of what I wanted to do; the first thing I had to do was to register at the Labour Exchange and they sent me for a job in the centre of Birmingham at an Army and Navy Store called Oswald Bailey.
It was my first interview and they offered me the job as a warehouseman – 'starting Monday.'
I was delighted; I would be earning money and I had a job – a job!! I was a working man and when I got home I found that that was my new nickname; The Working Man!
My dad gave me his Raleigh bicycle, or said I could use it to go to work, and off I went on that first day; it was a 'sit up and beg' bicycle with old men's handlebars and brakes but it saved me bus fair.
The job was great for five days or so; I had to receive goods at the 'goods inward' door and put what I received into stock after checking them and signing them in.
I had to climb ladders and when I was up the ladder the supervisor would put his hand up my legs to try and feel my arse and genitals. Well I was at a Secondary Modern Boys School and I was used to such foolery. I did what I did at school and lashed out with my feet. He didn't like it and said he was only joking but it didn't matter how many times I kicked he still did it.
I wouldn't tell my dad as he would have killed him; my dad taught me and my brother to box so we could always look after ourselves at school but at work with the really big fella and me being so little the boxing lesson didn't really work – I have to say it didn't really shock me; but I didn't like it.
I heard some tall tales from other boys of bullying in the work place and initiation ceremonies so what I was getting was quite tame. The big thing I remember from Oswald Bailey's is that Buddy Holly died when I worked there and that was the worst day of my life. Nobody there knew who he was and a fella called Ken Lloyd, who was a jazz fan, said it was a good thing he died as he was a terrible influence on music. Little did he know what influence Buddy had on all people of my age but I didn't take offence as most of them were squares and they liked Johnny Mathis and people like that.
Oh the other thing I remember about the place was a blonde girl called Brenda Smith. She worked in the office and was the only other person of my age who worked there; I have no idea how we kind of became buddies – that's all I can say we were – buddies.
I didn't know her that well but when I was offered a job on the post office she asked me if I would still be able to see her. So I started meeting her after work, on my dad's bike, and I would walk her to her bus stop.
She would get the 45 bus along Pershore Road to where she lived.
We had many a conversation on the way and sometimes I would leave my bike and take the bus with her so far and when we passed the cinema on Bristol Road she would say things like 'when are you going to take me to the pictures?'
I never caught on to that.
She told me she lived at 99 Baldwin Road and so I would take a bike ride up there later in the evenings and then the next day I would tell her and she would say 'let me know next time you come and I'll meet you.'
Again I didn't catch on.
I have often thought about that first job at Oswald Bailey; there were many departments there. They had a shoe and boot department, a tent department, clothes and other things to do with camping or the military.
The salesmen wore suits and were all ages. An older gentleman would take his hat off to women in the street – he was old school – and was nearing retirement I would say.
There was a strange hierarchy; the salesmen thought they were a cut above us poor buggers in the warehouse; they wore suits and we wore brown cow gowns.
The owner of the company was the son of Oswald Bailey and there was a Mister Robbins, who was the managing director, and a Mister Sharrat,who was the manager of the shop; Mister Robbins was the man who gave me the interview and hired me and asked what my plans were if I got the job and I told him I was after promotion – as if???
We worked a five and a half day week having a half day on Wednesdays.
On the first Wednesday we exited the building through a side door and standing there by the door was Mister Sharrat.
Dressed in his light grey suit which showed off his pot belly and slight balloon figure, he stood there puffing on his cigarette as people filed passed him; 'good afternoon Mister Sherrat', they would say, 'good afternoon,' he would say.
Sometimes he didn't puff on the cigarette but would let it burn in his fingers leaving a long piece of ash.
Everybody smoked as they filed passed. I don't know why they felt they had to smoke as they smoked all day in those days without restrictions: news readers smoked, politicians smoked everybody smoked all the time.
And so it went on - 'Good afternoon, Mister Sharrat,' 'Good afternoon' and then I passed him – 'ta ta Mister Sharrat,' and off I went into my first afternoon off and the bike ride home.
The next day when I got into work the warehouse manager came up to me and said – 'ta ta Mister Sharrat!! Ta ta Mister Sharrat!! You say Good afternoon Mister Sharrat! Say it!!'
Yes right – little did they know, 1959, that The Beatles were only around the corner.
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