Chapter 3

 

(1950 - 1951)

 

Married Life at Lyneham

 

Lyneham was twenty-two miles from Trowbridge and Kath.  In the months before we were married and for a short while after I would cycle each week-end to see her. I dreaded the return trip late on Sunday evening, dark, usually raining and with the wild woods full of hooty, fluttery things.

Kath's family had moved to Trowbridge during the war when the Supermarine factory was bombed. Kath's dad, Charlie Roberts had worked on the original Supermarine S.6, the Schneider Trophy winning plane and was later a key sheet metal worker on the Spitfire. Production had to be continued so mini factories were opened in sheds and garages around the West Country with whatever machine tools that could be salvaged from Southampton. The various Spitfire parts were then collected and assembled at Swindon. That is, until a new production line could be established at Castle Bromwich in the Midlands. Even then, due to a strike in the Midlands, the first Spitfire publicised as coming from the Castle Bromwich site was secretly brought up from Wiltshire where the work never stopped.

Accommodation had to be found for the specialised workers and the family Roberts was gratefully presented with the cottage at the end of nowhere. No gas, no electricity and the water came from a well in the garden; and even that went sour after I met Kath and the farmer would deliver milk churns of water every Thursday. The neighbours fifty yards up the lane were gypsies. It was 1956 before they were able to move into a decent place in town. Kath always said she married me because I was the only one to see her all the way home. Once was enough for the others. They would leave her where civilisation ended and let her walk the last muddy half mile alone. There were often cows in the field between lane and house and the occasional bull.

 

Kath and I married in September 1950.  In those days £50,000 weddings were not compulsory.  Kath's dress, lovely though it was, was recycled.  I wore my RAF 'best blue' but did blanco, white, my normally blue webbing belt. Unknown to me at the time, my promotion to corporal had arrived, at camp, the day before, so I was not able to sport my brand new pair of stripes.  The flowers were self help, the photographer was a friend. We did use hire cars, although I arrived at Trowbridge Parish church in the sidecar of my brother-in-law's motor bike. We did, though, have a Guide and Brownie guard of honour which rated a photo in the paper. Kath's sister, Marion, was maid of honour and our niece, Marjorie was bridesmaid.  The reception was self help at the farm house.  Luckily it was a dry few days and no cows in the field.  It was a lovely wedding and I would not have changed it for one at the Ritz. 

The honeymoon was ........ an adventure. A local garage man owned a caravan at Goodrington Sands, Devon, and drove us down in the hire car. As we travelled south-west the storm broke; the car rocked in the wind, I was not a good passenger at the time and did not feel so good, the sea front was just a wet blackness with breaking festoon lights and the path to the caravan was a sea of red mud. The 'van roof had had a slight leak the week before and a temporary repair was done with a tarpaulin tied on with ropes. The driver left us dripping in the 'van to find his own accommodation rather than return home in the stormy dark.

We stood there as the wind lifted the tarp., every minute or so and slammed it down hard. There were nearly tears until I broke the tension with, " 'Twas a Dark and Stormy Night........" which set us off into giggles and Kath said, "Cup of tea". We searched for the tea while the kettle boiled. No tea. How did we forget the tea? The very drink that had kept us all going through the war. We made do with hot milk and ate our packed sandwiches.

I may as well admit it ..... we were both virgins. Not unusual in those days but not a great help on a honeymoon.  At least one of us should have known what to do!  Sex education was very hit and miss then.  A while later Kath said, "We are not alone in this bed." One of the things we discovered that night is that Kath is more susceptible to insect bites than I, sweeter blood, no doubt; another is that you really get to know a person when you treat the bites, fleas get everywhere!  We did not use the main gas lights but made do with a candle on the window ledge for the debugging operation and set fire to the curtains.

The following morning I found a cafe but the proprietress would not sell me tea leaves (rationed) so I had to go back for the flask and get two cups of tea to take back - but she did make it extra strong with no milk or sugar; enough for about six cups! A telegram and the post brought us a package of tea the following day. We had a decent postal service then. Needless to say, the sun came out and a very nice period of discovery commenced that only ended in October, 2007.

In those days most of us worked Saturday mornings so for a few weeks I would cycle to Trowbridge most Saturdays after lunch if I was not on duty. We also had a monthly 48 hour pass, i.e., from 00.01 hours Saturday morning but in practice Friday evening. Both these periods ended at 23.59 hours Sunday, there being no such datable time as midnight; think about it.  Accommodation, generally, was still in very short supply following bombing, slum clearance and a more demanding population and we were beginners. Where were we going to live?

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The Landrover drew the caravan as close as possible to the Nissen hut.  We lowered the jacks, disconnected and paid the delivery driver who then drove out of our lives.  It would be a couple of years before we would be eligible for a married quarter.  The week-end rides were becoming a little too much for a young lad still on his honeymoon so our meagre savings became the down payment on a caravan. The Nissen hut contained a lavatory as well as the water and electricity supplies, so we were able to barter the chemical toilet in the 'van for the first year’s insurance.

 

We had seen no-one.  Our neighbours were busy with their own affairs so we stood in the ‘van wondering what to do next when there was a knock on the door.  I opened it to find a boyish looking aircrew sergeant.

 

 “I’m "Timber" Wood.  I expect you could do with a cuppa?”

 

 We accepted his invitation and met his wife, Jean.  We became very good friends and I am god-father to their first-born.  I learned from "Timber" that as a corporal  I was the most junior in rank on the campsite; there being Senior NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers, i.e. sergeants, flight sergeants and warrant officers,  me being a Junior NCO) and Officers in equal numbers; all mostly aircrew.

 

 As we left them, Kath said “Have you got the keys?”

 

 “No, you opened the door.”

 

 “We must have left them on the table!”

 

We had closed the self-locking door.  The toilet cum broom cupboard had a tiny window at the top and it was open.  Only one of us was slim enough to go through so Timber and I selected a leg each and hoisted her up and head first down into the cupboard.  Once inside Kath let me in and sat flushed with exertion and embarrassment, her face the colour of the little red bows on her recently exposed undies.  The Beresfords had arrived.

The following day, being Sunday, we were able to take stock of our surroundings and found that the ‘van was badly positioned.  The hose to the water tank would not reach the tap in the Nissen hut and the door was awkwardly placed for the path.  We asked the Woods if they knew of a local farmer who might be persuaded to do a slight moving job.

“No need, Ted, there are enough of us here to lift it off its jacks.  You call Tom from that one.”  He said, indicating a nearby ‘van.

  Timidly, I knocked on the door to be confronted by Timber’s aircrew skipper, a Squadron Leader.  I was horrified at having to ask such an exalted one to help shift my ‘van and felt a strong desire to run.  Once he heard my request, however, he took control of the rapidly  growing group.  The ‘van was man-handled into the best position and my high ranking labourers went about their business before I could offer adequate thanks.

 It was not long before Kath became involved with the local Guides and had agreed to start a long needed Brownie pack.  Within a few weeks of our settling in, six little females appeared in the ‘van each week until a full group of four ‘sixes’, each with its leader was formed.  I made the mandatory, large toadstool and the new Brownie pack was able to start their meetings in the village hall, a hundred yards away.  It was about then that Kath suggested a  combined Guide and Brownie show for funds to buy equipment for both groups.  This could also include puppets if I finished the one started and made some more.  Kath had greater faith in my abilities than I did!

 

The caravan site was an old war-time WAAF (Women's Auxiliary Air Force) camp in the middle of Lyneham village outside the main RAF camp and the original huts were still intact.  Half of these had caravans attached, two ‘vans per hut, the remainder, across the hedge, was occupied by the mainly Irish itinerant workers employed on airbase construction.  Our hut proved to be a valuable asset.  In addition to providing us with services it offered workshop space and a small room at one end for a wash house.  Here was ample storage space for the two bicycles, packing boxes, wringer and other large items that are an embarrassment to a caravan.  To my mind the most useful part of the building was the empty floor space upon which I might make a puppet theatre and marionettes.

 

I took stock of my tool kit and found it lacking.  However, as my limited income was being frittered away on food and other like luxuries I realised that I must make do with what I had.  And I had: one rusty tenon saw, a pair of pliers, one large and one small screwdriver, a soldering iron, Kath’s small hand axe which she carried in her belt at Guide camps and a large service clasp knife with the horse’s hoof thingy.  If your tool kit is as limited as mine was then, take heart and learn the true meaning of the saying, “The poor workman blames his tools.”  I always thought this was a little pompous for even a craftsman can be excused for not producing first class work with old and rusty tools.  The fallacy of this argument was brought home to me quite soon.

 

 Kath wanted a workbox for her dressmaking odds and ends as well as a little coffee table for the caravan and with much flattery persuaded me to make something for her.  She decided that a top in polished oak would match the woodwork in the ‘van.  I looked despairingly at my shabby tool-kit.  We had to use real wood in those days; there were few easy working manufactured boards.

 

 Lyneham had a wood-yard (See Brownie picture above); now alas, gone.  It was not one of those wood stores such as in "B+Q" where timber is stacked neatly in standard sizes.  Here they had real trees piled in the yard, heaps of blackened off-cuts and a spongy accumulation of years of oily sawdust.  It had certain disadvantages.  Young men in dust coats did not leap forward at the sight of a customer; you wandered around watching the various activities until you caught someone’s eye.  I was lucky.  I found an elderly character in a greasy cloth cap that must have absorbed the sap of every native tree.  I explained my needs and he led me past the lopped trunks to a heap of wood pieces. 

 

 “Here’s what you want.” he muttered, handing me what appeared to be a rough slab of slate.

 

I took the stuff from him, half expecting to be brought to my knees by the weight but it really was wood; black with age and bearing the deep scars from the huge band saw.  It was 18” (45cms) square and three quarters of an inch (20mm) thick but quite unlike the pale amber, delicately figured material I associated with oak.

 

 “Do you have a planing machine?” I asked, “I’m afraid I don’t have a plane.” 

 

 He shook his head but regarded me carefully for many seconds with eyes set deep in the shadow of his cap.  At the time I was mystified by this look.  Now, I know that I was an initiate whose very soul was being searched.  I passed the test.  Great knowledge was about to be imparted.  He looked around, pulled half a pane of glass from an old frame and tapped it carefully against a log.  From the dozen or so pieces he selected a scimitar shaped portion.  Gripping this firmly, he drew the convex edge across the rough surface of the timber.  It was as if the glass had focused sunlight onto the wood for, as it passed, a pale light seemed to spring from the scraped area as the more familiar colouring emerged from the blackened surface.  Wood and enlightenment cost a mere, “Couple o’ bob (10p), and a request to see the result.  I pressed half-a-crown (12.5p) into his knotty hand and received a humble touch of the cap.  That such a wise one should show respect for me was beyond understanding; perhaps it was the ritual sign to one who had been accepted into the fraternity.

 

 The lesson was a simple one.  A craftsman will use the best tool available and work within its capabilities.  My tenon saw was quite incapable of cutting a decent straight edge and good saws then being expensive, I settled for a cheap one that could cut a good curve, hence the design of the table.  A coping or toymaker’s saw is cheap and is an excellent buy.  They can manage one inch (25mm) oak and are a really useful, no, essential part of the puppeteer’s tool kit.  The oak top was leveled and smoothed with glass, scraped with used razor blades and finished with furniture polish applied with a boot brush.  The hinged top remains perfect, the lower part is in recycled seven-ply and painted.   It is as good as ever and still in use.

 

The principle also applies to puppetry.  At first I thought that carved heads were out of the question but was not keen on making another plaster head as I had done for Carmen; it was too heavy and brittle.  The woodcarving books showed an array of expensive gouges and although I now have a full range of about sixty carving tools, it was many years before I could afford such luxuries.  However, both the hand axe and the clasp-knife were blessed with good steel and could be honed to a keen edge on the finest Washita stones that the government could provide in the Instrument section on camp.  I could have spent time in the woodwork shop on camp but that meant leaving Kath alone in the evenings or weekends. 

 

Anyway, I had my own workshop in the hut; unfortunately, borrowing and using RAF tools at home was a hanging offence!  Lumps of wood from off-cuts found on camp dumps would be held firm on the rustic sawing horse by means of a rope loop, me sitting astride with one foot in the loop stirrup.  The axe could be used as a chopper or by holding the head of the axe in the palm of the hand, stone-age adze fashion or as a large chisel using a home made rustic mallet.  The knife blade could be used for whittling and the point for chip carving.

 

Another solution was to buy blocks of balsa and work this with the knife and a craft tool.  A yard (almost a metre) of 3”X3” (80X80mm) was a bit pricey but I only used it for heads.  It really is too light and ‘woolly’ but it was used successfully on a number of early puppets.  Carving balsa wood does teach one thing.  It can only be worked with razor sharp tools; so my working edges were, and still are, honed, stropped on leather, polished and tested on arm hairs!

 

 Having made a couple of puppets by working from detailed diagrams in books then progressing to making bad copies of other peoples’ work (did we all start that way?), one feels the need to produce something original.  One of the problems, as mentioned before, was the apparent limitation of puppet types.  Rod and shadow puppets were unknown to me. 

The rash of new puppet books had not yet started and old ones were rarities in libraries.  I had just picked up C.S.Forester's  “Marionettes at Home" in a second hand bookshop (15” figures again!).  Television was a toy of the wealthy and Muffin the Mule was about the only marionette offering, anyway.  Wood, of course, was the only material to use and all joints had to be tongue and groove; fully locking at knee and elbow.  The few books I had seen although detailed and excellent in their way, allowed little departure from the established methods; “This is the way it is done!”.  There was no encouragement to experimentation.  If there were difficulties with the marionettes, they were as nothing compared with the theatre.  This had to be a complete miniature of the Victorian proscenium stage with floats, wings, tabs., battens, the lot but ignorance is bliss and I pressed on unknowing.

 

 One of our items was to be a short play; a fairy story with four characters: a pixie, a rabbit, a princess and a magician.  The magician had captured the princess and put her under a spell but Pixie and Bun, after much timid bravery, had saved her.  The first draft was a little weak but luckily we both had experience of audiences, Kath having been involved with amateur dramatics.  This gave us an insight into what is acceptable in play-writing and we have never inflicted dull speeches upon our audiences.  The play was shortened and pepped up by re-writing it in atrociously rhyming couplets, as in the note left by our intrepid pair:

 

         “Dear Mr. Magician, You will have a shock.

           We’ve taken your key and opened your lock.

          Got your magic book and invisible paint.

          If you think it’s there, go and look ‘cos it ain’t.

          We’re terribly sorry if we’ve spoiled your fun,

                             Yours very sincerely,

                                    Clancy and Bun.”

 

 Our closest neighbours were Squadron Leader Clancy and his wife.  They had six children and Mrs. C. always called the youngest, a toddler of a year or so, Clancy.  He and our pixie were remarkably alike so Pixie became Clancy, the Irish leprechaun, much to the delight of the senior Clancy's.  As all four characters had to be on stage at one time, it was necessary for each puppet to be controlled by one hand only.  We therefore began to deviate from the ‘revealed wisdom’, surely its not written in stone?  It was a few years before I found out about the one handed European controls.  Forester used the clumsy flat American ‘Aeroplane’ control and although the Lanchesters used the upright control, it was still ‘two hands per puppet’.  As we had yet to meet another puppeteer apart from the brief encounter with Martin Grainger we started to go our own way.  The Princess and Magician were legless and dressed in long gowns.  They walked simply by gliding along with a slight undulation and this is quite a realistic movement with practice.  Clancy and Bun both had ‘L’ shaped short legs with no knee joint but large feet which is ideal for a one-handed rocking bar leg control.

 

 Puppetry is a time consuming occupation.  How we ever found time to produce a complete show is something of a mystery.  Kath was becoming very involved with the local Guides and spent a lot of time dress-making.  I tend to follow any new interest that happens along. 

 

 There was the mushroom bed under the caravan.  In spite of vast quantities of horse manure it never produced a mushroom.  In the end I had to remove the heap before it removed us.

 

There was the refrigerator.  Knowing the principle, having the required technical skills and having acquired a quantity of copper tubing, it was simply a matter of combining knowledge, materials and skill; no problem.  When the prototype blew up and sprayed me with hot ammonia Kath had to rescue me from the fume filled wash-house in the hut.  She also threatened me with dire consequences if I ever tried anything so stupid again.  Some of the tubing did get frosted, though, before it went critical so I could claim partial success!  It was four years before we could  afford a real one.

 

There were the “Bullets’, a competition in the now defunct “John Bull” magazine.  One had to complete a sentence from a given phrase using up to four words.  The most famous of these must surely be, “Heard at the wedding - Aisle, Altar, Hymn”.  I would spend hours dreaming up would-be winners.  That first Christmas we were very grateful for the £8 second prize (more than my week’s pay) and a well loaded food hamper (turkey, Christmas pudding, wine, nuts, the lot) won with, “On the Mantelpiece - Illustrating Khyber Ambush, Grandpa.”   

 

Then there was our social life.  We saved a little money each week to go to the Theatre Royal at Bath once a month followed by a meal at ‘The Hole in the Wall’, or, perhaps, the vegetarian restaurant; is it still called ’The Gay Heart’, I wonder?  The rest of the month it was to the camp cinema.  On our early visits to the camp I was a little concerned about letting my innocent new wife meet some of the more outrageous camp characters.

 

  Aircraftsman ‘Mucker’ Burns for example.  He was a small, simple-minded but eloquent Scot.  Anyone failing to return his greeting with due respect would be treated to a torrent of unrepeated and unrepeatable obscenity.  When the Air Officer Commanding Transport Command made his annual inspection, the Station Warrant Officer gave Mucker a bag of food, beer and cigarettes and drove him to a distant woods with threats to stay there; just in case.  He made Myrtle’s life a misery.  Myrtle was also not too bright.  His mother would collect him at weekends, leading him by the hand away from the "brutal and licentious soldiery".  Such were some of the men who kept the ‘few’ in the air.

 

Not that the ‘few’ were without their eccentricities.  One of our neighbours, a Polish Flight Lieutenant, called out a work party.  We collected around his ancient car and with his encouragement, tipped it on its side, on the grass.  Once the underside had been scrubbed with brush and paraffin we were recalled to push it back up again.  His wife would sunbathe nude in the long grass beside the path.

 

There was also the work.  I did spend some weeks on a sixteen hour shift from 4pm until 8am.  As I was only required for checking and over signing the work of others and for emergencies this gave me a fair amount of free time as long as I did not leave the camp area.  Annoying though it was to be dug out of a warm bed on a cold night or have my name flashed up on the cinema screen, I had all day for the puppets and other projects.