While the war was over we still had austerity for it was deemed expedient to rebuild Germany for the coming war against Russia, politics! So, we still had slave labour as the control and engagement act tied you to your present job or any authority chose to send you. And conscription to the services at eighteen. I was an apprentice electrician with nothing against Russia and finished playing at soldiers when a child and had the option of going in the merchant navy or down the mines which was my choice.
Initially I was drafted to the NCB training centre at Askern near Doncaster and nearby colliery, it was well run and the course lasted a couple of weeks, most of the course came from southern Ireland attracted by the initial £50 grant, one crafty paddy who had a “gammy leg” had passed the medical by sending his brother to take it, all I got was a pair of boots!
Then I was sent to Sutton Manor colliery near St. Helens about eighteen miles cycle ride from home and the wind seemed to be against me both ways. Later on, I got a motorbike (a chapter in itself). My first impressions of the colliery were not encouraging, the concrete and corrugated iron structures were covered by the all-pervading black dust and not a trace of greenery, even the weeds had given up. The shafts were wound by two steam engines by Yates and Thom made in 1914 and the sub level shaft by electricity where I was sent, it meant ages waiting to get down and return making in effect a 12-hour day and 5 1/2-day week. Going down you squatted in the cage the gates clanged down and you kept tight hold of your lamp as you dropped down feeling light, otherwise it would fly up and out. My first job was at pit bottom pulling empties from the cage and admitting full ones, marshalling the empties into journeys of fourteen and sending them “inby” you got occasional stiff ones with bent axles or tight ones due to the crude bearings being open and lubricated by passing over a grease box full of black “goo” running mainly on dust.
Then I was sent to bottom tunnel this was being driven to exploit a new face lower than the one being worked and forked off from the main haulage, it had no lighting like the main haulage so I had only the familiar oil flame safety lamp with its feeble 1 CP rays. I was surprised to learn that in the past the miners were charged for the oil used in the lamps and extra if overtime worked. The lamp was needed to detect gas, the heavy than air would extinguish the flame if lowered into a pocket lying at floor level and the presence of the lighter methane in pockets on the roof, when raised aloft the yellow flame would be topped with a lambent bluish cap highly explosive. In the olden days when detected a person called a fireman wrapped in wet sacking would lie on the floor and raise a naked flame on a stick to burn off the gas, the shot firer was still known by this term.
Upon nationalisation we were issued with electric lamps ,the first type were the size and weight of a couple of house bricks (the proper ones not these “Lego” metric ones) these resembled a miniature lighthouse having the glass like a little salmon paste pot at the top and the illumination no better than the oil lamp, then the excellent cap lamp came in which the battery fitted on your belt and light clipped to your helmet clipped to your helmet, made by Oldham Wheat, the reflectors were ak aluminium but the bosses had chrome ones being brighter (good for you could see them coming)
The main haulage rope was about an inch in diameter made of steel and ran continuously as it serviced the various districts so you did not stop it to “lash on” a journey. The rope lay on top of the boxes and you took a length of chain hooked to the boxes, stood in front of them and wrapped it round the rope and put the eight into the jaw of the big hook that was at the end and stepped back smartly as it tightened, otherwise you would become an accident report. In places sloping downhill you put a tail chain on as well.
Bottom tunnel was my next place of work, it branched from the main well-lit level at a “y” junction and was being driven to access a new coal face. The long span of the roof was supported by old tramway metals bought second-hand as trams became obsolescent, you only see the top of the tram tracks and like the iceberg most of the girder is hidden underground, the weight of the strata used to crush the ends in time and when replacing one was done manually there being no lifting apparatus available, it was lifted in stages lodged onto old railway sleepers a bit at a time by our shoulders the row of men “flintstone fashion” at each side. Talk about putting your shoulders to the wheel
Bottom tunnel had a separate haulage rope driven by an ancient worn out ships winch no doubt bought second-hand from the scrapyards (the coal owners did not like spending money) the rope lay on the crankshaft and eventually sawed the 6-inch diameter shaft in half as there was no oil can or provision for lubrication. It only saw oil when you pinched a drop from the batch sent to the loader at the face. It was bedded on girders at head height and controlled by a wheel valve. Situated so that your head lay directly in line with the cylinder end so should this blow off decapitation would be the result. To signal the winder a “knocker” was provided, a line of fencing wire ran down the tunnel hung from the roof connected to a crude iron hammer dropping on an iron plate one knock for stop” two “go” three “reverse” complicated by you had to gather up the slack wire before signalling.
When you marshalled the journey of full ones you had wound out they had to be sent off on the main level and due to there being a “dead spot” relied on their speed to run them round the curve reaching the main rope, this was facilitated by the practice of pissing on the turn rails to reduce friction.
At snap time, I used to switch off my lamp (forbidden practice and fineable) and have a short nap, when awakened the blackness and absolute silence caused me to feel completely disoriented, where are am I? An eerie experience. One time as I dozed I felt just a faint tickling round my mouth, it was a little mouse after the crumbs from my sandwich, mice occasionally dropped down the shaft and being so light were not harmed but had no means of returning to surface, a mystery was what they ate.
The tunnel was semi-circular in section the roof supported by steel girders of RSJ section in two halves joined by a fishplate at centre, at about 3 feet spacing a spare fishplate served as your sole toolkit to hammer in loose rail spikes etc talk about “make do and mend” another job for me was to turn on the water for the face drillers. These drills were like the ones you see on road repairs with the actual drill having a hollow centre to make the water kill the dust, the machine itself being air driven like the engines. As water supplied from the surface had much too high pressure a reservoir (actually an old boiler) was set on girders by the engine, it had an inlet valve from surface, an air valve to pressure the water, and a vent valve at the top to allow for filling, it was vital for the inlet to be shut off when filled to stop the high pressure of gravity. When filling you just waited till water spouted from the vent at top then closed the inlet and vent and opened the air pressure of 90 psi -simple.
The face was worked by drilling a fixed pattern of holes that were charged with polar ammonal explosive and these had detonators inserted as they were charged and then sealed with stiff clay rammed down to prevent blow back. The detonators had each a time delay to blow the centre first and then the others ensuring the rock blew into suitable bits for loading which were shovelled onto the Conway shovel, a massive air driven machine which scooped the rock by two revolving steel arms and the belt dropped it into the boxes. It reminded me of one of Heath Robinson’s devices but it worked.
The procedure of firing was to couple all the detonators in series to the cable remote from the face and the shot firer would connect the igniter box, switch to test, showing continuity, shout fire three times, then turn the key, counting the shots as they separately went off, a miss shot would be very dangerous but very rare. Firing was usually done at “snap time” to let the dust settle, and all would be crowded the nearest refuge hole, there was a fatal accident at another pit when the clay seal baked like a brick blew out and hit the shot firer who was outside the refuge.
I remember one time when we were going back to the face after snap as we approached there was a rumble then a crash as a slab of rock the size and shape of a grand piano fell from the roof, down pit you are never far from death.
I was taken from bottom tunnel and sent to top one that branched from the top face haulage and had a small second-hand winch no doubt ships ex-scrapyard, the junction where the tunnel branched off was lit by an air lamp which resembled a goldfish bowl with a casting on top carrying an air driven dynamo lighting the bulb in the glass, very clever. Cap lamp only in the tunnel.
Occasionally the air supply contained a small quantity of water, where it came from was a mystery but it soon worked out without causing stoppage. On one occasion my engine ran in jerks very slowly and water spouted like two fountains from the upward facing bushing exhaust ports of the two cylinders and it kept on gushing which stopped me winding, I went out to the junction and saw the air lamp just a faint glow the bowl full of water, only lacking the goldfish. Walking down to the face I saw the gang had taken off the big air hose to the loading machine and two were holding it like a fire hose and water everywhere like a fireman’s picnic! While they were trying to get rid of the water nobody was thinking of the cause, I went down to bottom tunnel where the engine was jerking round spouting the same jets from the ports, Albert was just winding the wheel valve which acted as a regulator stood with his head directly in line with the cylinder end, oblivious to the danger of the end blowing off and decapitating him, I went over to the vessel that supplied the water for the drills (old boiler) to find water spouting from the vent cock on top and when I checked the wheel valve that shut off the surface water supply it was fully open allowing the high pressure of gravity to flood the 90 psi air system and start to fill the air mains. Nobody else had the initiative to sort it out.
One of the jobs that fell to me was the moving of the telephone at the coal face. This was a heavy cast iron unit, intrinsically safe type and needed two men to lift it. You had a code of rings to select your hearer, winding the handle to operate, of course when it rang all stations picked up the phone, and when Bithell the colliery manager had come down inspecting everyone listened to voices butting in telling him his character much to his annoyance (he was a despicable character) the system was powered by LeClanche cells and it was necessary to scrape the zinc electrodes at intervals to clean them, the lines were the universal fencing wire strung from the sides of the tunnel in crude wooden supports. Quaint.
As the face advanced the haulage tunnel followed it and sloped steeply with short level sections for the belt loader, where the journey of four boxes were filled, these had to be lashed on with chains at front and back to restrain them and as they stood were held stationary by “scotches” an iron bar inserted through the wheels, additionally a “manker” was a further safety precaution being a length of rail hung from the roof in the path of the journey, it had to be lifted by a wire hanging in pulleys with a slab of wood as a handle when the boxes passed. Bill Thomas and I were carrying the phone unit upward at snap when the rope was stopped when there was a rumble and the rope shook, “quick into the manhole, runaways” shouted bill (he had more experience than me) we never saw the four full boxes pass just a blur and then there was an almighty crash followed by a cloud of black dust, we went down to find that at a short level stretch the boxes had taken off and hit the roof, a scene of chaos. Bill checked the roof to see it safe and as we stood we became aware of a light coming up which turned out to be an official who had the sinecure of counting the pit props etc a job made for him as he had a relative high up in the NCB, he was more shaken than us at his narrow escape. Why did the boxes run away with two safety devices? Because the scouser was too lazy to bother about them and had hung the manker up permanently and not even put a scotch in assuming that as the rope was not moving it was safe, then someone in another district had to shunt a journey and rang the rope “on” and as it laid on top of the four it dragged them onto the slope.
He was not a bit put out at the mess caused saying that he had scotched up and they had fallen out. He subsequently distinguished himself by taking home his lamp for a fancy-dress party going as a miner, this caused a major search of the mine as your lamp was proof of return to surface.
A rare occurrence was when a defect on the electric winding engine on the shaft caused a “walk out” via the safety tunnel which corkscrewed upwards, there was very little roof support so you could see the various types of strata, in one place the tunnelers had come across a tree the trunk stood vertical exposing vertical bark layers. One job I did not fancy was to go down to a pump set in a low winding tunnel that was bare rock with scant roof support, it was safe enough but you felt that should it ever cave in there was no chance of survival.
The two years and three months at the pit were the hardest work I have ever done and the miners the best people to work with, (the scousers excepted) but I was not sorry to get back as an electrician at Joe Ranks rat infested flour mills. One incident that sticks in my mind is that when riding home on my Francis Barnett motor cycle I passed an elderly gent pushing an autocycle (moped now called) and stopped to ask the trouble as any rider would, he said it had gone slower and had to pull the choke full on till it eventually expired, I was a complete learner knowing little about the mechanics of the engines but suspected dirt in the petrol system and did a brief clean then said “pedal it over” to my surprise the cylinder was loose and wobbling about on the piston , I tightened the four holding down nuts and it ran perfectly to his delight and he insisted in rewarding me with seven and sixpence (30 p) though I did not want to take anything.
While servicemen got a demob suit after they had left we miners did not even get a thank you letter.
November 8th, 2026
I first saw Tom when I saw the Foden stuck in the unsurfaced road three days with the rear axle broken in half. This was one he bought from a scrapyard in Birkenhead, worn out and brakeless as evinced by the breaking down of a neighbour’s fence as he drove it home first trip and the regulator stuck. If my memory is correct the reg was M 2632 – pre first war.
He lived in Moreton, near Birkenhead, otherwise known as Bucket Town due to the sanitary arrangements or else debtors retreat, and the village consisted of caravans, shanties, or for the more affluent war surplus army huts, and such was the poverty that at dusk furtive figures could be seen moving the furniture in barrows from places where they could not pay the rent.
The Foden was kept at the end of our road, an unsurfaced lane as was all Moreton in 1928, and Tom brought gasworks ashes which were free and tipped them to make the road passable, my father helping to spread them, and thus being acquainted helped in fixing the Foden, chiselling the razor sharp teeth down to mesh the gearwheels.
Tom learned to drive the wagon by helping a local haulier as second man (unpaid). Billy Bontoft was a fellow Wigan chap like Tom, and was a law to himself. On one occasion they were in a northern mill town when there was an almighty bang from the rear and the wagon stopped dead, blocking both tram tracks. The back axle had snapped in half, no wonder as it was necessary to carry double the legal weight in order to make the job pay.
Quickly Billy shovelled the fire out and filled the boiler up and said to Tom “Hast gotten out owt of thine on’t wagon? Only my coat – get it.”
Tom followed Billy as he walked away from the derelict wagon. “What are we going to do about it?” “Find the nearest railway station, that firm was no bloody good to work for and we’re going home.”
On another occasion they were out in Wales and drew up at a wayside pond to fill up with water. This was always a cause of friction between farmers and drivers, horse owners resented ponds and horse troughs having water taken. Large firms had no trouble as the water boards erected cast iron water boxes and you paid a water licence annually and were issued with a key that opened them when you inserted a tally like a corrugated penny, but both licence and tally cost money, which led to a thriving black market in keys and tallies at the price of a packet of fags.
As Billy rolled out the hose one of the two men who had been working at the far end of the field approached and said “Don’t you put that hose in the pond. If you do I will cut it in half,” brandishing his sickle.
“If you cut the hose you will go in the bloody pond yourself,” and as the man advanced at the hose Billy took him by the scruff of his neck and seat of his pants and threw him in the pond. He crawled out and went to the wagon and took off the sack which was covering the name of the firm on the door and took details. Meanwhile another farmworker came over – “Oh you’ve done it now,” he said, “don’t you know he is the local Justice of the Peace.”
September 15th, 2026
Tom Ainscough was a friend of my parents and taught me to ride my first motorbike, the 1929 Francis Barnett – at midnight when I got home from my shift at the colliery where I was doing my National Service after the war. A somewhat uncomfortable experience for the snow was quite thick and I had already cycled home about 18 miles.
Tom used to ride belt drive Douglases, thirty bob ones in the late twenties, he drove a Foden steam wagon in those days in partnership with his brother Jack eking out a living with various haulage jobs.
One of these was for a builder whose yard was bounded by an old sandstone wall, and the steering on the wagon was “not very precise” and they caught the wall when driving out and a large section toppled down into the dry ditch at the roadside.
Tom assured the builder that it would soon be rebuilt and when Jack said “What are we going to do about it? Now!” was Tom’s reply “This job will only last a couple of weeks and let him fix it”.
To their surprise the job went on and to the builder’s enquiries about the rebuild Tom said just waiting for the man to come but he is very busy, realising that something had to be done for they needed the haulage. Tom went to another pal who lived nearby and who was “on the dole” as were most people and said “Do you want to earn a few bob easy”. “What’s the job?” “It’s a sandstone wall that needs fixing, but I am not a brickie and have no idea about walls.” “No” Tom said “I just want you to look as if you are weighing up the job and I will take you up in the morning and bring you back at night, it’s just to keep the owner happy.”
The haulage job lasted far longer than expected and to Tom’s surprise the wall slowly got built and at the finish of it the builder came to Tom and said “Will you give this seven and six to your man, he is very conscientious, I have watched him from my office window and he spent a good ten minutes deciding exactly where to place it.”
“Yes” said Tom “We had to wait a bit for him, he is an expert and had been working on Liverpool Cathedral.”
September 15th, 2026
Tom was serving his time as a dental mechanic in Wigan when the firm he was employed by went into liquidation. The family, Tom, brother Jack and his father Walter moved to Moreton, a place known as bucket town due to its sanitary arrangements, otherwise debtors retreat.
Tom and Jack decided to go into the haulage business, the time was in the early twenties and Foden Steamers were the obvious choice. In the climate of these days no haulier could make a decent living unless his wagon carried twice its rated load and the petroI types had a pathetic performance by comparison.
As steamer driving needed a fair amount of skill Tom went as second man for a local haulier Billy Bantoft – a very rough diamond.
They were driving for a local firm at the time and when in a town in Lancashire, heading home in late evening as the wagon approached the city centre there was a sharp crack from the back end and the wagon stepped dead. To their dismay the back axle had broken in half (not unusual in the double load days)
The wagon was blocking both tram tracks leading to chaos, tramcars queued either side, and all traffic blocked and a crowd gathered round to improve the situation. Bantoft assured the tramway men— it’s all under control, don’t worry it will soon be sorted and raked the fire out and filled the boiler, this being vital as the fusible plug that should protect the boiler against explosion no longer had its lead core – just a big nut and belt, (normal for the time).
“Has’t gotten ow’t of thy own on t’ wagon Tom?”
“Only my coat”
“Get it, come on” and walked away from the crowd.
‘What are we going to do?’ said Tom.
“Find the nearest railway station!” was the reply.
“That firm was no good to work for anyway – let someone else sort out the mess”
On one occasion when deep in Wales they were desperately short of water. It was a source of great annoyance to the farmers to have wagons fill up at roadside ponds reserved for cattle and when Bantoft spotted a pond it was a case of being saved from disaster as the fusible plug had been bolted solid. As he unrolled the suction hose one of the men who had been working at the ether side the field approached saying,
“Don’t you put that bloody hose in the pond, if you do I will cut it off with this sickle”
“You cut that hose and you will go in the pond yourself”
and as the hose was sliced Bantoft (a big man) seized him and flung him into the water. He scrambled out and made his way to the wagon muttering curses in Welsh and noted the owner’s details, as he squelched away the other farm worker who had been at the far side of the field approached saying,
“You’ve done it now, yes, you’ve done it proper – he’s the local Justice of The Peace.”
The wagons required both coal and water and small wood for lighting up at six o’clock in the morning and it was no coincidence to find any loose fence boards and even small gates had gone missing in the early hours of the morning.
Water on your route was of great concern as most of the small haulage drivers had dropped the fusible plug due to being on a steep hill and the replacement by nut and bolt gave no protection from boiler explosions.
There was considerable animosity against the steamers owing to their need to fill up from village ponds, horse troughs and wayside ponds.
The large fleet owners were in a better position being able to afford to use the water boxes provided by the water boards but this cost both a water licence, the special key to open the box, and the corrugated tally that enabled you to turn the water on.
Small wonder there was a thriving black market in keys and tallies by drivers employed by the the big firms, and also if a legitimate driver was filling up, he would be likely to be joined by a queue of other wagons intent on cashing in a cheap fill up for a packet of fags.
On one occasion Tom was almost out of water late at night and banking on getting a fill up from a fairly remote box and was heartened to see a red tail light – a wagon was at the box.
“Don’t go yet” he shouted to the driver, who replied
“Have you get a key?”
“No, haven’t you got one?”
Neither had a key and the other driver shrugged his shoulders and said well we’ve got to get water and took a big chain from his wagon, looped it round the box snatched open his regulator and there was a rending of metal, water gushing everywhere and he said “we’ve plenty” now and promptly filled up
Tom was asked by a pair of a couple of young chap to give them some tips on driving their newly bought Foden, the first trip was to pick up a load of coal from near Wrexham and all went well ‘til Tom said
“now stop and put low gear in, we’re coming to Marfords Hill” a steep downgrade.
“Oh we’ll be 0k, the brakes will hold”
a foolishly optimistic statement. It is not possible to change gear when in motion on these wagons and the wagon sped down the hill, brakes doing nothing to slow the speed and a hairpin bend approaching, the engine which had no cover on sped into a blur, “run into the bank” shouted Tom, whereupon the steersman wound the wheel frantically sending the wagon careering to the driver’s side, the driver seeing the stonewall coming up grabbed the wheel and both wrestled to send it to the other’s side.
Luckily, they stopped dead as the engine locked up solid the big ends and eccentric straps red hot, three out of the four bent like a letter ‘S’.
They scotched the wagon and Tom took off the straps and told the lads to take them down to the bottom of the hill where there was a blacksmiths shop and get them straightened while he tidied up the big ends with a file.
Time went on and Tom went down see what the holdup was, and found them sat down on a box swigging tea. “Where’s the straps?” they pointed to the fire and upon taking one out of the fire found it burnt in half. As one had survived the smith managed to weld metal in and copy the good one. Upon assembly the engine ran in lumps” but got them home.
A good job for a change was when a brewery wagon broke down 40 miles away the driver being unable to fix it. The trouble was simple but it took a week to get it home as it was necessary to call at the brewery each morning for spares and a crate of ale and travel the wagon back in easy stages.
Unfortunately, I do not know the outcome of this incident but Bantoft no doubt would not be perturbed by a spell inside or a fine he would never pay.
A soon as he was proficient Tom and Jack bought a Foden from a Birkenhead scrapyard, a well-worn ancient one registration M2632 about 1912? it had solid tyres and wheels running on brass bushes which occasionally came part way off and were replaced by running against the kerb. When Tom steamed it home he noticed the complete absence of brakes and as the regulator failed to shut, demolished a neighbour’s fence who came out like Mr Grouser from Toytown shouting, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself” to which Tom could only reply, “I am”.
In order to put the wagon into working condition the first was to chisel about ¼” off the tops of’ the gearwheels that had worn to razor sharp peaks and re-meshing these allowed the bearings to be filed up a bit to take up the play. This wagon did yeoman service and Tom said it had more guts for its size than the later ones.
When they had got established a later Foden was bought and they were doing quite well chiefly hauling bricks for all the brickworks in the area. Their main customer was the Prenton Brick, Tile and Terracotta Company and the boss of this concern summoned them to a meeting showing them a brand new Foden Wagon. “We’re doing our own haulage – you can come and drive for us”, the wage offered was double the usual drivers’ wages and Jack immediately accepted which left Tom with no alternative to accept. Of course, what was never disclosed was there was no limit on the working day and no overtime pay.
The brickworks were established by a real character Frank Sharples, known as the old man and Tom used to travel to work on his 2 3/4hp 1920 Douglas motorbike but when he had been working there a short time the men tipped him off – any motorcyclist who comes here will get the sack as the firm has a petrol pump and they are afraid of you pinching the firm’s petrol.
It didn’t matter to Tom as the bus stop was at the end the road and if he left at a minute to five he could just catch it. As he was going out leaving one day, the old man came out of the office and said,
“what time is it Tom?”
“Five o clock Mr. Sharples”
He pulled his watch out looked at it and said
“My watch says a minute to five – it must be wrong”
Tom never left early again.
On one occasion a salesman called at the works attempting to sell a clocking-in time recorder.
“Pay a man by the time he is here – I might as well pay him by the length of his nose”, said Sharples “take it away”
At the brickworks the original founder of the firm Frank Sharples was in process of handing the reins to his son George and the two did not get on with each other, the old man not being receptive to new ideas and there was a running battle between them.
On one occasion the old man approached a group of men stacking bricks
“My son doesn’t know how to run this place, and he doesn’t treat me right he’s got the place like a hell hole and this works should be buried under seventy thousand fathoms of shit”
and as he walked away paused and looked back at the group reading their thoughts
“and me with it”, he said.
On another occasion Tom was not driving the wagon but helping the fitter and it was midsummer a windless day baking hot, too hot to do anything so the fitter and Tom sought a place to have a sit down concealed from authority as the penalty was the sack immediately and jobs were impossible to get. The main engine building was separated from the clay pan room by an alleyway running transversely across, the main drive shaft going through both walls and running in bearings at the apex of the roof. access was by a vertical ladder, to a plank hung from the roof beams and they climbed up there and relax in the gloom
They were; alerted by feet steps below and to their consternation saw the old man enter and as the passage was storage for the engine oil drums were surprised to see him examining them carefully, weighing them. “What’s he up to” was their thoughts, holding their breath. Seizing a part full one he carefully placed it in the centre of the passage and took a running kick at it, and lying down on the floor by it, shouting
“I’m injured” at the top of his voice, his son rushed in
“What is it Father?”
“You’ve got this place like a shithouse” he said and was carried away.
As the crowd below dispersed, they gave pent up sighs of relief – nobody had even glanced upward.
The purposes of the old man were quite unfathomable and when he told Tom to take the wagon and go down to the railway station yard and load five tons of slack (this was powdered coal), and take it to his big house Tom said “but you use coke for the greenhouses Mr Sharples — slacks no use”. The old man just repeated the instruction so Tom drove down to the station yard. This was usually quite a peaceful place just a few coalmen loading their horse drawn carts but this day was a scene of frantic activity bags being emptied instead of filled. Weights being hidden, scales being worked on and bricks emptied out of bags of coal.
“What’s going on?” he asked the porter
“They’ve had a tip off t the weights and measures inspector is on his way”
When Tom arrived at the big house the Old Man directed him to the rear of the house instead of the greenhouses and into the paved courtyard and indicated to him to tip his load there.
“But Mr Sharples” Tom exclaimed “all the windows are open and the wind is blowing that way”
“Tip it” the old man commanded and a vast cloud of coal dust swamped the back of the house. The old man stood grinning what score was being settled nobody ever found out.
The man who fired the brick kiln was from Wigan and it was quite a skilled job though there was plenty time to have a sit down on nights as one firing would last a while. The conception of an employee having time to sit was foreign to the management and he was told to fire continuously in small amounts and a pyrometer was installed to record this. When Tom went to the top of the kiln he observed the burner sat on a box with a small bucket burning by his side containing the sensor of the pyrometer “Ar” said the burner “I’m not paid for burning kiln just burning t’pyrometer”.
Being a Wigan man, He used to go home at weekend, and this was in about 1936 when Sinn Fein had a campaign blowing up targets in England including post boxes. On the train home he met an old schoolfellow who had become very posh and was boasting how he was a bank manager. He was a right p—k when at school. Asking the burner how he was earning a living the reply “very well I’m working for t’shin finnegans blowing up pillar boxes thirty bob a box”. At 3.00amthere was a thunderous knock on his door “Open in the name of the law” and he was greeted by an inspector and a sergeant, entering they enquired have you any bombs in these premises “O’arr, t’place is full on ‘em” and taking a polished hand grenade (souvenir of his service in the 1914 war) from the mantlepiece, showed it to them,
“Is it live?” asked the inspector
“course its live but its 0k, it won’t go off unless you let go of it having pulled the pin out”, demonstrating by pulling the pin out,
“You just count a few seconds before you throw it”
By this time the police were out of the front door. He explained that it had been made safe years ago and was solemnly warned that it was a very serious thing to make fun of the police.
An interesting sidelight on old man Sharples was when the mechanic for the local garage returned his car after servicing he was filling barrels of apples in his orchard. As the mechanic and his apprentice walked past he turned to them asking “do you like apples”, “oh yes they replied” whereupon he took a small one from the barrel and sliced it in half giving them half each.
Tom was a really tough type he used to hang his socks out on the bare mains leads running out to the coal shed. At this time, I was using a 1934 Morris 12 to tow my trailer for carrying the racing Douglas and Velo and as with most of us impecunious racers a new battery was out of range of our pockets for if started on the handle in the morning it was 0k for the rest of the day. As I lived on a hill I was even better placed and instead of cranking used to push start the car hopping in and putting in second gear and we were off.
Unfortunately, one day I failed to set the driver’s side door lock and as the Morris gathered way, heading for a row of parked cars further down the hill I had to run round the back of the car an get in by the passenger door and arrest its progress.
After this fright I kept the car at Toms place where there was a battery charge charger and starting easier. This had its own hazards as Toms home-made charger only rectified one side of the mains and plugged in the light socket and if you omitted to plug the bayonet adapter with the white dots registering the car would give you a 240-volt shock as you grabbed the door handle (might be a good idea in these lawless days),
The Morris picked up a stone from the road which jammed between the fan and radiator needing a big soldering job. It was too dirty to do a good job without thorough cleaning and I had the idea that concentrated nitric acid would do the job. I tried my contacts in the main lab (I was working at Shell at the time) for a small bottle but was refused as it was too dangerous to transport on a motorbike but a mate on nights obliged, warning me to use gloves, goggles and an apron as it would burn holes in me if spilt.
When I tried it, it ate away the radiator and the concrete path a noxious green fog being produced. I fitted a spare radiator and decided to dispose of the bottle. I intended to trickle it down the sink with a flow of water but Tom stopped me – “Give it here it will come in handy”. I did warn Tom but he overruled me and put it in the back-kitchen cupboard When I called next day it was on his mantlepiece. I tried to pour it away but again Tom just replaced it in the back. The next day it was back on the kitchen table,
“What on earth are you doing with it?” I asked Tom, “You need gloves and goggles to even handle the bottle”.
“It’s not so dangerous, as a matter of fact I’ve got a corn on my foot and it’s just the job for removing it”
September 15th, 2026
TOM AT CADBURYS
When the piano business went unprofitable Tom took a job at the local Cadbury factory, at first being a “brusher up”.
His first place was at the top floor of the sugar warehouse working a dinner hour spell cleaning up the floor where the sacks of sugar were emptied down a chute. The sacks were stowed up to almost ceiling level and the stackers were considerate to leave a space in the middle for Tom to crawl up to and have a snooze when he had finished.
Once, to his consternation, he heard footsteps on the empty stairs and the head security man (ex policeman) appeared and carefully inspected the floor, even looking down the two sets of stairs. Tom held his breath. Having done a thorough search, the man went over to the sugar chute, furtively produced a bag from his jacket and filled it with sugar, hid it under his coat and left.
Tom was working the weekend in the basement cleaning up round the new sugar grinder that had come from Bourneville and was to be “ceremonially unveiled” on the Monday.
In due course a gathering of the supervisors clustered round it and the most senior switched on and pushed the start button. Beyond a click, the machine stood motionless.
The electrician fitter was sent for and duly tested things and pronounced it “not electrical”. Then the fitter and his boss were summoned. They said it must be electrical. By this time the audience had drifted away. Finally the boss fitter said to the fitter, “Take the main drive case off and we will have a look.”
When it was removed it disclosed that there was no chain between the motor and the machine.
“You didn’t fit the bloody chain on,” he said.
“I did,” said the fitter. “You couldn’t. I did.”
A new chain was fitted and the thing worked.
Tom said nothing. A new chain was snugly running in the Sunbeam sidecar outfit’s rear chain case.
Tom had a 1934 600cc Model 9A Sunbeam outfit with a box sidecar, and bought various scrap items from work. One was a steel table with tubular legs, about six foot square, but it was really too big to fit in the sidecar. Eventually he got it on, but it shut off all left vision and the legs stuck out over the bike.
Coming up to the roundabout Tom saw the local cop standing there gazing at the outfit and his heart sank and he prepared to stop.
The cop waved him on and as he passed said, “Oh, it’s you. I thought it was a combine harvester.”
August 24th, 2026
The Salamander
When I was working on contractors’ plant repair in an open-fronted ex-WD corrugated iron building (you can still see them in abandoned RAF stations), the sole form of heating that we had was a salamander stove. This had a circular saucer-shaped base with a top carrying the chimney that was provided with a vertical pipe that re-circulated hot gas down to the vessel to vaporise the liquid fuel held inside. This should have been heating oil (like diesel), but being “skint” we used old sump oil from the repair jobs.
To start it off, you got a petrol-soaked rag, poked it into the filler hole and put a match to it, smartly stepping back, for often it would blow back before you could shut the hatch of the filler orifice. The downside to the economy fuel was that, at the end of the day, we had black faces and resembled artists from a “****** minstrel show”.
One problem with using sump oil was that inevitably it contained a residue of water under the oil. This got heated to boiling point as the day went on, and you could hear it bubbling up like a chip shop till eventually it would spew a black foaming tide from the filler hole, flaming as it emerged. I had a long rod hooked at one end and a handle at the other to drag the heater outside and let it burn out. It was quite spectacular and even attracted the attention of a policewoman who asked if we needed the fire brigade. It was hot enough to burn the hair on the back of my hand even with a six-foot-long rod.
I remember one night John and I were working late repairing a dumper truck that the customer needed next day, and it was after midnight. It was bitterly cold with frost on the ground. We heard the boiling-up noise and ignored it till the flaming tide shot out. I tried to get some sand or earth to dam the flood, but it was difficult due to the frost. Luckily John had bought a cheap fire extinguisher from the supermarket, so I grabbed it but had no idea how to operate it, so handed it to John with the remark, “You bought it, so must know how to work it.” He turned it upside down and pressed the button, whereupon the gas inside shot out uselessly. So, being a very strong type, he tore it in half and sprinkled the powder on the flames and put it out.
At weekends I would go home for my Sunday dinner, but John would have fish and chips from the nearby shop together with a lad who came in as a help. We brewed up with an aluminium kettle and teapot that we used when going sidecar racing, John being my passenger. The kettle warmed up by residing on the salamander, then received its final boil by using the oxy-acetylene burner. This had two controls: the flame that heated the metal to melting point, and a trigger just under your thumb that, when pressed, blew the metal away. Ronnie, the lad, in boiling the kettle inadvertently pressed the trigger and blew a hole in the kettle, and John “played hell with him”. Calming things down, I said to John, “He is only a dozy lad and it was easily done, so use my teapot,” and departed. I duly arrived back after dinner and John said, “Do you think I was over the top in telling off Ronnie?” “Well, it is easily done and he has not used the burner before. It’s not the end of the world.” “Good,” he replied, “for I have blown a hole in your teapot.”
When a fire extinguisher salesman came into the yard, we bought one. He said things were not so bad up here compared to his previous territory down in Cornwall. Trying to sell to farmers was well near impossible. He visited one farm where the ancient man viewed him with great suspicion. When asked if he would like a demonstration, he said, “I will ask my father,” who duly tottered out from the building. After giving the “spiel”, I gathered some old straw up from the ground and, sprinkling some petrol on it, set a match to it. It was a bit more than I had bargained for, and the farmer said, “You’d better do summat about that.”
Operating the extinguisher, I put it out very quickly. “There you are,” I said. “Will you buy one?” “No,” he replied. “T’aint natural.
August 24th, 2026
This is a useful diagram, came in handy when working out the connections needed for wiring a Lucas SS47 which is similar to the later SS49 with a Lucas MDB or MDB1 magdyno.
And here’s the 1929 Lucas MDB running instructions, uploaded earlier but worth repeating.
January 21st, 2026
Here is a little story from the nonagenarian legend that is Archie Beggs that gives a little insight into life on the Wirral between the wars.
Tales of Old Tom Ainscough
Tom was born in Wigan and originally intended to become a dentist, but a
change in legislation requiring extra qualifications made this too
expensive. Due to the depression of the early 1920s, the family moved
across the Mersey to Moreton, where land was cheap. They bought a wooden
bungalow. Moreton was underdeveloped, with no surfaced roads,
electricity, or sewerage — hence the name “Bucket Town” (or Debtors’
Retreat).
Most people lived in caravans, some in DIY wooden shanties, and the more
affluent in ex–World War Army huts. It was not unusual to see furtive
handcarts being pushed by those unable to pay rent deciding to “do a
flitting.”
Tom managed to learn how to drive a steam wagon by helping a neighbour,
Billy Bontoft, who had a Foden. He had started off with a Mann’s wagon
and then a Yorkshire wagon with a transverse boiler, which he said “you
had to run down a ginnel to fire.”
Starting the Haulage Business
Tom and his brother Jack decided to go into the haulage business and set
up the firm Walter Ainscough & Sons (Old Walter was a sleeping partner —
literally). Their first wagon was a Foden from around 1913, registration
M2632, bought from a scrapyard in Birkenhead. It was completely worn
out. Tom steamed it home even though nothing worked, and it demolished a
neighbour’s fence. The neighbour shouted, “You should be ashamed of
yourself!”
The gearwheels were worn to razor-sharp teeth, and Tom’s father helped
by chiselling the tops off and remeshing them.
The Sandstone Wall Job
Tom and Jack had some loads to deliver to a large builder’s yard at
Heswall. Exiting the gateway, they accidentally swiped an ancient
sandstone wall, which collapsed into the dry ditch. Tom assured the
builder that the damage would be repaired, and as they drove away said
to Jack, “Let him fix it himself — there are only a few more loads to
do.”
To their surprise, the job went on and on. The builder kept asking about
the wall repair.
“We are just waiting for the man,” Tom said. Then he had a bright idea
and approached one of the neighbours who was out of work.
“Do you want to earn a bit of cash?” “What’s the job?” “Building up a
sandstone wall.” “But I’m not a brickie, and I’ve no idea about it.”
“No,” said Tom. “You only have to look like you’re doing it while we are
getting work in. I’ll take you up in the morning and bring you back at
night.”
Much to Tom’s surprise, the loads kept coming, and the stonemason
gradually rebuilt the wall, finally finishing it. When it was done, the
builder came to Tom and said:
“Will you give your man this seven and six out of my own pocket? He is
so painstaking and careful. I’ve watched him from my office and seen him
pick up a stone, study it for ten minutes before deciding where to place
it.”
“Yes,” replied Tom. “He is a real expert. We had to wait a bit to get
his services — he was working on the Liverpool Cathedral.”
November 19th, 2025
I came across the 1929 edition of a Renold Chain catalogue that lists the chain specifications for a wide variety of motorcycles, motor cars and commercial vehicles. I’ve scanned the page for Sunbeam motorcycles and hope that it is of some use.
January 3rd, 2022
Thanks to Chris Fisher for suggesting suitable quality bearings for the 1929 onwards 3-speed gearbox I’m putting together at the moment. The gearbox will be a CT close ratio type and is for a 1928 Model 6 that has been modified in the deep and distant past to house a hybrid OHV motor. The motor employs 1930/1931 crankcases with 1927 single port head breathed on by Chris Odling to take a new Amal 289. So, the whole bike is a “bitsa” but now goes very well with a 7.5:1 forged Model 90 piston from the sunbeamland shop.
I might point the “Model 69″ up a couple of hill climbs once the gearbox rebuild stops it dropping out of 2nd gear and we fit a 19” rear rim – it will then take a pair of the excellent Avon race compound Speedmaster and GP tyres.
1929/1930 Bearings:
- 1 off RHP LJ1-2RSJ
- 1 off RHP MJ7/8-2RSJ
- 2 off RHP KLNJ3/4J
The earlier 1928 wide case box has a smaller mainshaft diameter and consequently an RMS 6 bearing in the case rather than the RMS 7 of the later type. In this case the RHP MJ3/4-2RSJ looks like it could be a good fit.
1928 Bearings:
- 1 off RHP LJ1-2RSJ
- 1 off RHP MJ3/4-2RSJ
- 2 off RHP KLNJ3/4J
With the outer bearings being sealed it might be a good idea to consider implementing a small breather hole in the gearbox filler cap.
August 24th, 2020