Huddersfield

Huddersfield

1980-1999

After all that had happened in the previous decade, it was surprisingly easy to slot back into life in hometown Huddersfield. Certainly, I had matured from that naïve youth who had ventured off to military pastures new in 1966, returning home a more confident and worldly-wise grownup. But I was still a Yorkshireman at heart, comfortable in familiar surroundings, only now additionally responsible for two rapidly growing schoolchildren.

In retrospect, care of Suzanne and Paul was the least of my worries. They were adored, and thoroughly spoiled, by their cherished ‘Granny’. I never had to be concerned about asking my mum to take care of them. Indeed, she encouraged me to go out and lead my own life, saying to the kids “You’ll be all right with me, won’t you?”, receiving their immediate agreement. I think now that this was when mum was at her happiest, caring fulltime for the grandchildren she had previously only seen occasionally. Even to this day, Suzanne raves about ‘Granny’s homemade steak pie’.

Suzanne & Paul with beloved Granny plus Norman Brook and his sister Emily at 74 Ainley Road in 1980. I too was happy. I didn’t have any immediate money problems, as I still had a couple of thousand pounds in the bank from my stint in Saudi Arabia.

Here’s another photograph which, although its date is unclear, I didn’t want to leave out. It shows mum and a young Carole with a baby, possibly Suzanne, inside 74 Ainley Road. It’s how I remember the small room from my childhood, particularly the table at the back with its plastic tablecloth and bottle of sterilised milk. My mother, without the services of a refrigerator, would not buy any other kind of milk. She is pictured doing what she loved best; taking over the care of her grandchild.

Another photograph – found only in 2024 – showing me at 74 Ainley Road on my return from Saudi Arabia. I had grown a beard in my latter days there, simply because I could. One surprising result for me: the number of people in Jubail who spoke to me in Arabic, judging from my bearded appearance that I was a local.

A few points about the photo.

First, a few days later I shaved off the beard. No one noticed.

Second, I have again sported a beard since the turn of the century, only now it’s white rather than black.

And third, what about the fashion then? Broad collar shirt; a St Neots Rugby Club pullover; nylon jacket; flared trousers. Who knows, they might all come back into mode…

T om & Sandra Downey

Although not mentioned before, in addition to Graham Illingworth, I had a close long-term friend in Tom Downey. I first met him, plus his two brothers, when playing for St Joseph’s rugby club as a teenager. I passed a lot of my spare time with all the brothers whilst an apprentice at Holset. It wasn’t unusual for me to end up at their house on Saturday night, where his typically hospitable Irish mother would always find a bed for me. She would also ensure that we all woke up on Sunday morning to the smell of bacon cooking in the kitchen, treating us to a grand breakfast fry-up like only the Irish can. Happy memories.

I kept in touch with Tom whilst in the RAF, always making sure that I spent time with him when on leave. He married local girl Sandra when I was first in Berlin. They moved to Longwood, which thus became my overnight stay option after nights out with them when on leave. Indeed, I did a lot of my courting of Kath in their company. At that time our pub of choice was the Dusty Miller, a few minutes’ walk up the road from their Longwood Gate home. We even had our scaled down after-wedding reception there.

Like many of the people whom I have found myself drawn to in life, Tom was a larger-than-life character. In the sixties, when long hair was popular for men, he was the double of Ray Davies, the singer with the successful group The Kinks. He would insist that he could not see the likeness, but he played on it constantly. He had a crazy sense of humour; for example, once turning up at the pub with half a moustache. When no one commented (they all knew of his silliness), he went back home and shaved the other half off. He came back, at which point everyone he met commented “What’s happened to your moustache?”

Opinionated and obstinate at times, he was also capable of acts of great kindness. That my kids took to him immediately was all the confirmation I needed. In some ways, he never really grew up, hence his empathy with children. He and Sandra were later to play their parts in my meeting with Barbara, destined to become my wife of forty years.

Regrettably Tom and Sandra were to divorce sometime in the 1980s, when Tom married again. I only met his new wife once, sadly at his funeral. Somewhat typically, Tom went on a keep fit regime in his mid-forties. Never one to do things by half, he started going out for long runs in the evening. He had a heart attack as he was running in the dark at a remote area on Longwood Edge. When he was discovered, it was too late to save him. I was so sorry that circumstances had not allowed me to see him more often before this time.

Meeting Barbara

By the time that I returned permanently to Huddersfield, Tom and Sandra had switched their pub allegiance to the Slip Inn, some 100 yards down the road from their house. The Slip Inn had been previously out of favour for us aspiring Yorkshire male drinkers, as it did not sell made-in-Leeds Tetleys beer. The Dusty Miller did.

By now to us the choice of beer was less important in selecting a ‘local’. The Slip Inn on Longwood Gate had character – and characters – in abundance. It was a local’s local. Although not geographically isolated, Longwood had all the attributes of a village. Everything that could be wanted – a local store, a fish’n’chip shop and two pubs – was there on the doorstep. What is more, Longwood had an overflowing community spirit, centred on the Slip Inn. The Dusty Miller, situated further up the hill, just couldn’t compete for atmosphere. John Taylor, the middle-aged landlord of this drinks-only establishment (catering for diners was still decades away), was an engagingly friendly Huddersfield-born host capable of discovering everything about visitors from only a few minutes’ conversation. He would then remember these details should the visitor return, or if anyone asked. In this way, the pub’s locals knew that I was an ex-RAF single parent almost from day one.

At first, I would only go into the Slip Inn with Tom and Sandra. Very quickly I started to arrange to meet them there – or indeed to visit without them – as I had already been accepted as a regular of the pub. I just enjoyed being acknowledged and welcomed by all. I never was a big drinker, but this didn’t matter.

Amongst the large group I got to know at the pub were a few unattached ladies. A couple were single mothers. It was not a coincidence that they preferred to go out here; the pub was safe for them and any unwanted attentions would swiftly be repulsed with their friends all around. I must have been considered an acceptable suitor, as I spent time with a couple of them. (Please use your imagination here. I will only say that in all cases both sides were free to do whatever they wished).

One person who I could not influence, however, was a divorcee called Barbara Stephenson. She lived further down the road with her schoolboy son. She even told Sandra that I had no chance with her, as she thought that I was a “stuck-up, posh-talking bore”. In the strange world of opposites attracting, I found myself drawn to the way that she said what she thought without hesitation, even though I never agreed that I lost my Yorkshire accent. It might be lightly amended due to time spent away but, in my opinion, it was still obvious.

Then the Yorkshire Ripper intervened.

There was a period in the late 70s/early 80s when our region was plagued by a serial killer – later identified as Peter Sutcliffe, a lorry driver from Bradford – who was known as “The Yorkshire Ripper”. It is no exaggeration to say that it was dangerous for young ladies to be out on their own at night at that time. Two of his attacks took place in Huddersfield. Against this background, I made the genuine offer to escort Barbara home after the 11pm closing time one Friday night. When we arrived at her door, the idea of a cup of coffee was suggested – by whom I genuinely cannot recall – which extended to an overnight stay and the rest, as they say, is history…

A couple of photos taken at the Slip Inn at the beginning of our courtship. The first shows the only image I have of Sandra Downey (nearest camera) with Barbara and her lifelong friend Jean. The surprised expression on my face is because I had just realised that Barbara was wearing stockings!

Within a couple of months of our courtship, Barbara had met my family, who all liked her. Although she was five years older (leaving me open to be known as her “toy boy”), we decided to try to make a go of it. This involved squeezing all five of us into Barbara’s two-bed cheese-shaped house at 29 Longwood Gate. She was justifiably proud of the fact that, as a divorced single mother, she had nevertheless been able to put together the mortgage deposit for this unique house on the corner of Longwood Gate and Prospect Road. Even to the time of writing, although much of the surrounding area has been redeveloped, the distinctive shape of this building has been retained. When she first moved in, the toilet was in the garden outside. Her first task had been to install a toilet with shower in the upstairs wedge. To add to the overcrowding, we got a dog and cat (‘Crinkle’ and ‘Rupert’) to complete our household.

Obviously, this situation could not be maintained with a family of growing children. We put in an application for a council house, where the fact that we had three children in total (Adam, Barbara’s son, aged 12; Suzanne aged 8; Paul aged 6) was to our advantage. I recall that we received an acceptable offer within a matter of a few months, surprisingly quickly. We then made arrangements to move our belongings from Longwood to the three-bed house on Smiths Avenue in Marsh, a couple of miles away, nearer to the district hospital and my former Birchencliffe home.

It was a great wrench for Barbara to sell the house she had worked so hard to obtain, to move into rented accommodation. She had been so happy there. The kids and I, too, had soon got into an enjoyable routine. This was especially true on Sundays. We would first prepare lunch mid-morning, then go for a walk over the rocks of Longwood Edge. On the way back, we would call in for ‘a couple of pints’ in the Slip Inn. The pub was very family friendly, where Adam could play pool with his friends, whilst Paul would sit directly in front of the jukebox accepting coins to select the music, either to order or according to his own choice. Suzanne was content to sit with the grownups. After this we would all return home, have our roast lunch, and relax thereafter. It wasn’t unusual for all of us to be found taking naps after all our exertions. It was the best of times.

In retrospect, it must have been a difficult decision for Barbara to leave her Longwood home behind and start afresh with a now enlarged family. There was always the risk that our relationship would break down and then she would be left without the gains she had made alone. I decided at the beginning that I would not expect Adam to call me “father”. In this I had personal experience from my childhood dealings with Norman. Similarly, we would not expect Suzanne or Paul to call Barbara “mother”. We would simply wait and let the connections develop. In the event, Suzanne would freely talk about her ‘mum’ – meaning Barbara – until the very end of her life. This was never insisted upon but quietly appreciated by Barbara, that I know. The boys would just find their ways of addressing us without mention of the secondary paternal or maternal ties. That was perfectly OK. I never liked the ‘stepfather’ or ‘stepmother’ labels; I don’t remember them ever being used by any of the children.

Towards the end of our time at Longwood, we let it be known that Barbara and I were going to get married once my divorce came through, occasioning a comment that “It won’t last!”. Forty years later we celebrated our Ruby Wedding. Is that long enough for us to have the last laugh?

43 Smiths Avenue, Marsh

The council house we were allocated had one major advantage: it contained three good-size bedrooms. Barbara and I had the main bedroom, the boys shared the next largest, leaving Suzanne with her own single room. This was an enjoyable improvement for everyone. As well as providing a location gain for the children’s schools, the house also had sizable gardens front and back. Therefore, I now had to devote time to gardening, a task I had never seriously undertaken previously. Barbara’s father Joe always took great pride in the appearance of the green areas around his house; she inherited his drive. Joe was quite willing to offer his advice and assistance which meant, like it or not, I was encouraged to take up gardening. I enjoy the results obtained in growing flowers and vegetables, it’s the preparatory hard graft I’m not too keen on. Nevertheless, thanks to Joe’s influence, by the second summer I had a display of dahlias in the front garden (from tubers donated by him) which brought constant praise from passers-by. We also grew vegetables in a newly developed patch in the back garden. It was with great pride that we were able to serve fresh potatoes, onions, peas, and sprouts – all cultivated in our veggie patch – for our Christmas dinner that year.

By the time we moved into our council house, I was in fulltime employment once more. I think it may have been my first serious attempt at finding work, following up on a vacancy published in the local Job Centre. The employer was seeking a German speaker with engineering knowledge to work in sales. Just what I wanted!

Before spotting this opportunity, I had received a boost from the Tax Office, of all people. I had read that, in order to be fully free of tax commitments on overseas earnings, a person must be at least 12 months away from UK. I realised that I had only spent 11 months abroad from start to finish of my expatriate work in Saudi Arabia. This worried me, so much so that I calculated that I owed back tax payments of around £900. I had put this amount aside for settlement before I started work. I remember going down to the Huddersfield Tax Office and telling the receptionist that I wanted to pay my tax obligations there and then in cash. My approach must have disturbed her, because within minutes I was in the office of the local Deputy Tax Inspector. He was amused by my open approach, commenting that in his experience he had seldom, if ever, come across someone so willing to pay tax. He spent around half an hour going over the paperwork and bank statements I brought with me and told me to come back a few days later. His final words to me were “Please don’t concern yourself. We seldom take immediate payments. We just adjust your tax allowance number to organise repayment out of your wages over the period of a year, or even longer”. I had at last encountered a civil servant I liked!

When I went back at the specified time, there was no one to meet. Instead, I was given a sealed envelope. I hesitated, opening it first when outside the building. The envelope contained a brief letter and a cheque for around £300! It transpired that I had indeed spent the requisite period outside the UK, holidays included. The repayment I received was from overpayments made when employed with British Aerospace the year before. Later in life I benefitted from several decisions made in my favour by officials in similar situations. Approach these people politely and openly, not deliberately hiding any facts, and it’s surprising how often the pendulum swings in your favour.

Samuel Birkett Ltd

When first commencing my employment search, I had been advised by the Job Centre to emphasise the fact that I had recently served in the military at job interviews. In the case of my meeting with the Sales Director at Samuel Birkett Ltd in Heckmondwike, this detail just didn’t seem to cut any ice. I later realised that he was constantly neutral in all things, seldom displaying enthusiasm or even disappointment. Why he had chosen to go into a public facing job like sales management, I never quite figured out. But his example was an instant rebuttal to my preconceived notion that salespeople are all natural extroverts. Nevertheless, the fact that the RAF had taught me German to ‘A’ level standard struck a chord with him and I got the job.

I worked at the company for over two years until 1982, receiving a good grounding in industrial sales in the period. This family company was founded in 1864 and, at the time of my joining, retiree Sam Birkett – the last in the clan line – would pop in infrequently. Like ‘Old Man’ Crosier from my apprenticeship time at Holset, Sam was also most interested in my language skills, donating me a couple of old company catalogues printed completely in German. I don’t think that I ever used them as a reference, but the gesture was appreciated.

The sales office at the factory was dominated by a huge rectangular desk equipped with individual telephone positions for the six or so male sales engineers in the team. The office manager sat at the head of the table, his deputy opposite him. Our team dealt with general enquiries received by letter, fax, or telephone. In the days before call centres, members of the team took incoming calls in rotation. Our job was to advise clients on the makeup, cost, and delivery time for the range of industrial pressure relief valves manufactured by the company at their two local factories. This involved some mathematical calculations, as well as a knowledge of the properties of metals in reaction to their working environments. Although I did not specialise with any customer or industry – the colleague who sat next to me became an unwitting expert on dealing with Petroleos Mexicanos (“PEMEX”), driven by the unfulfilled dream of being sent to Mexico to complete a deal – I somehow became proficient in advising clients on selecting the correct overpressure relief valves to operate in corrosive seawater surroundings. As we were all together in the same room, we were able to constantly add to our product knowledge, and quotation building skills, through simply overhearing the interactions of colleagues with customers. I valued this situation.

As concerns my language abilities, I was only required once to speak German to a client in my time there. However, the looks on the faces of my office colleagues when I got into the full flow of the telephone conversation was well worth the wait. My esteem in their estimation increased from that moment. Prior to this they had judged me solely on my limited engineering knowledge.

Our assembled group of sales engineers – all males in their twenties and thirties – were similar in many ways to the RAF teams I had been part of previously, i.e., individually different in character but united in delivering quality output.

I already knew the office boss, Robert Norrie, as he had grown up just a short distance from me in Birchencliffe. He had also worked in Saudi Arabia for Aramco (Arabian American Oil) in the same area as me but in the mid-1970s. The last I heard he had moved to California, later returning to tour Yorkshire with a junior football team he was then coaching in his spare time. Similarly, his deputy Malcom – with the broadest of Yorkshire accents and a lover of hot curries – later settled in the USA. In his case, his main customer for the specialist valves in which he specialised – a USA civil engineering giant – “had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse”. The last I heard, before the millennium, he had married a local girl and had a young family there. I wonder what sort of accent his offspring acquired?

Then we had Sat Pal Sharma in our band. I think that Sat Pal was an Indian national who had come to UK for education and stayed on work. We never found out a lot about his background. I don’t think he was trained as an engineer, but this wasn’t important. He fitted in well, especially on a Monday when he would bring in samosas and other Indian snacks which he had prepared over the weekend. He would wrap these in newspapers, but if that’s good enough for fish’n’chips, who were we to complain? Now and again, he would be too busy to make them, thereby dampening our start-of-week mood. It was also fascinating to hear him speaking his own language on the telephone. (I am certain only a few, if any, of these conversations were work related, but no one seemed to care). During these calls we all picked up on Sat Pal’s continual use of the word “Accha!” (OK) and smile when we noted that any numbers he included would be in English. To suddenly hear “three hundred and fifty pounds!”, or similar, dictated in his otherwise Hindi conversation was engaging for us. I believe that he went on to form his own successful business; probably these telephone conversations were a precursor to this action. Nevertheless, he too was a good contributor to our team.

Samuel Birkett Ltd had been taken over by the UK conglomerate engineering group Imperial Metal Industries (IMI) in 1978. IMI already included the Bailey Valves manufacturing company of Worsley, Manchester, in their setup, so it was probably inevitable that the two valve production firms amalgamated in 1982, forming the IMI Bailey Birkett company. It was decided that the joint company’s activities would henceforth be centred on the Manchester location. We in the sales team were given the option of transferring there or taking offered redundancy.

I was also presented with the chance to join the export sales office at the time but, quite frankly, I didn’t take to my potential boss and the stated terms of employment. (For example, I did not drive but it was expected that I would take a driving test as soon as possible, with the intention of using hire cars when on extended trips overseas). I turned down this offer, but another option arrived unexpectedly.

A newly married starter in the sales team was upset to be chosen as a candidate for redundancy. Almost in reflex reaction I immediately offered to take his place. I was asked to go away and think about this (I believe the managers wanted me to stay) and let them know my considered decision the following day. I already had the germ of the idea to study at university. It was now June and the next higher education courses commenced in autumn. So, the timing was convenient. I went home and discussed this with Barbara who, to my lasting gratitude, agreed to back fully whatever conclusion I made. I returned the next day to confirm my redundancy consideration request. This was accepted. An unexpectedly generous redundancy package was prepared for me and I left the company a couple of weeks later with the best wishes of all ringing in my ears.

Marriage 3 April 1981

My divorce from Kath, with the proviso that I retained sole custody of Suzanne and Paul, was confirmed early 1981 when she did not turn up at the final hearing in Huddersfield. We had a lawyer with us who had been fully briefed about the background to my case. He was looking forward to arguing it on my behalf. In the event, Kath’s non-appearance brought proceedings to a disappointing anti-climax for him. In granting a Decree Nisi, the judge in his chambers simply stated “Divorce appeal upheld, with custody of the children granted to the applicant. Access visits to be controlled”. All that was left now was to wait a few weeks for the Decree Absolute to be issued. This arrived in March, when Barbara and I agreed to plan an early wedding.

Like Kath before, Barbara sympathised with my dislike for church weddings, therefore we opted for a ceremony at the local registry office. (Barbara’s first marriage had a church wedding, so she at least she had experienced this once in her life). Correspondingly, I went down to Huddersfield Registry Office and booked the first available date: 1 April 1981. When I informed Barbara later that evening she responded, “There’s no way that I’m getting married on April’s Fool Day!”. I hadn’t noticed. Chastened, I went back to the registry office the following day to change the date to Friday 3 April. This was then acceptable to all.

Although working with a limited budget, we nevertheless decided to make the day as traditional as possible. Barbara’s cousin Pat and her husband David agreed to act as our witnesses. Suzanne and Barbara’s niece Julie were turned out in matching bridesmaid-like dresses, whilst everyone had floral buttonholes. Barbara, assisted by her sister Sheila, worked wonders in preparing the after-wedding gathering at our Smiths Avenue home. It all went so well.

The following are a selection of pictures from the day:

After wedding in Greenhead Park Prior to wedding at Registry Office. Julie, Barbara & Suzanne

In our front garden at Smiths Avenue.

Joe & Molly Percy (Barbara’s parents), Julie, Barbara & me, Mum, Suzanne & Norman

Norman, Barbara & me, Mum

We had a most enjoyable, memorable day, even though it had been organised at the last minute. Perhaps this was the secret of success. One thing did upset Barbara, however. No one volunteered to look after the kids for at least one night to allow us a mini honeymoon. We were able to make up for this in subsequent years with cruises and holidays away, but a childminding offer at that time would nevertheless not have gone amiss.

Mature Student Choices

Now that my bluff had been called, I had to face the realities of entering higher education. I had read that special arrangements, particularly concerning the required entry qualifications, could be made for mature students wishing to study degrees at universities and polytechnics. Also, in line with recent political decisions, higher education institutions were rewarded for each mature student they accepted in that era. I was 34 years old, had a recent record of successful study, supported by demonstrable service and business experience. In many ways, I was ideal mature student material, as I was soon to find out.

I knew that one of my former RAF colleagues had recently achieved a ‘Double First’ in Russian and German. My first intention was to repeat this achievement. With this in mind, I rang up Leeds University to enquire if there might be a possibility for me to take a Russian with German degree in their Modern Languages Department. My situation must have been interesting because, after talking to a couple of department representatives, I was invited over to take a test the following week.

I took a morning train to Leeds and met the head of the Russian language department at Leeds University. Interestingly, I wasn’t tested on my German, just the Russian. We had a lengthy conversation in Russian, after which he asked me to write a short essay in the language about someone I had met. I recall that I found it relatively easy to fill in a couple of pages about meeting up once more with childhood friend Robert Norrie at Samuel Birkett Ltd. I still don’t know why I picked this event, but it was the first thing that came into my head. Repeating in my mind how I had been told that North Luffenham training was as good as, if not better, than the first year’s language tuition at most universities, I remember that I had no fear of making mistakes, either verbal or written. Surely anything I offered would be better than the lecturer expected?

I was left to grab a coffee and wait whilst he looked through my presentation. When he came back, he asked me if I enjoyed reading and, if so, what was the last book I read? I replied that I had just finished “The Borstal Boy” by Brendan Behan. He seemed surprised, and then went on to ask me to describe my reaction to its contents. My answers seemed to satisfy him, but by this time warning bells were ringing in my mind. I didn’t fancy becoming a professional book reader. I had come across the book in a second-hand shop and it had been in my possession for quite some time before I opened the first page, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I was never an avid reader of traditional literature.

He then told me calmly that they would be delighted to offer me a place to read languages at Leeds University, starting in October. To say I was surprised is an understatement. I hadn’t expected this to be so easy. I then asked him how they would organise this; hadn’t they already offered provisional places to school pupils who were presently taking ‘A’ levels? His answer was along the lines of “Such offers are provisional. If necessary, we will drop the weakest candidate. Your offer is secure”. He then said that I would receive the formal offer by post in the upcoming weeks. All details would be given then.

I still recall vividly how, on the train journey back to Huddersfield, I struggled coming to terms with the manner in which my offer had been presented. I really did not want to be the reason for some young person being denied the education that he or she had worked so hard for. I was certain that the rewards given to higher education establishments for taking on mature students – particularly one with obvious potential – had played a great part in the instant positive decision in my favour. At the same time, I had realised that a university academic path in languages was not for me. I wanted to be involved with something more business based, obtaining knowledge that could be applied in my now obvious desire to be qualified for a job in sales, where my linguistic abilities would then be a useful adjunct. It had taken my recent brush with academia for me to fully realise this. Within the thirty minutes that the train takes to get from Leeds to Huddersfield, I had reached this lifechanging conclusion.

I came out of the station at Huddersfield and, instead of going for a bus home, I decided on a whim to go down to the town’s polytechnic to see if they had anything on offer. Once there, I was directed to the newly opened Business School on the campus. I went into reception and told them that I was looking to see if I could apply for a business degree course, preferably marketing. I was told to wait whilst they tried to find someone to talk to me. Then Mr Sanderson – a giant of a man, known to students as “Sammy” – lumbered into view. Once met, never forgotten. He listened with interest to details of my background and heard out my wishes to take a business-based degree. I’ll never forget his reaction. He put his arm around my shoulder, said “Come with me!”, and escorted me to his office.

Once comfortable, he told me that there were two suitable BA (Hons) Marketing courses on offer at the establishment, both of which he felt that I could deal with comfortably. The first, the BA (Hons) Marketing Engineering (BAME) course would suit my engineering experience, whilst the second option BA (Hons) Textile Marketing (BATM) had a language content. The engineering variant had a Business Law subject instead of languages. The language options on the BATM were French or German. I immediately liked this choice, as I realised that I could take the German option to allow me to concentrate on the course subjects in which I had no experience, such as Economics, and be secure in the knowledge that the language side would be no problem.

By the time I left Mr Sanderson’s office, I was already a mature student enrolled on the next BATM course commencing in September. (The polytechnics’ academic years then used to start earlier than those of universities). I rushed home to inform Barbara and the kids.

BATM Course, Huddersfield Polytechnic, 1982-1985

I made a point of immediately contacting Leeds University and letting them know that, after all, I would not be taking up their study offer. In 1992, as part of a government policy to even up higher education possibilities for all, Huddersfield Polytechnic – along with all other “polys” – was renamed Huddersfield University. In some ways, this action was an unintended confirmation that polytechnic degrees were deemed inferior to their university variants. By turning down the Leeds offer, I was running the risk of opting for a degree qualification which would be thought to be second class by potential employers.

However, I never regretted my decision to opt for hometown education. From day one of the course, it was obvious that our studies were aimed at preparing us for some form of engagement in business. Not for us a purely academic university path, which probably then would need be supplemented by additional training in order that we would be equipped for ‘real work’. Even though my modern-day equivalents at Huddersfield are honoured to be studying at a university, I am equally proud to state that I was a polytechnic student there.

The BA (Hons) Textile Marketing course was a four-year undertaking for most. Year three was designated as a work application break from campus, to be undertaken at one of the established partnership companies in the textile industry or with one found by the individual student. In the event, in recognition of my prior experience in industry, I did not have to undertake this year away. As early as my first interview with Mr Sanderson, I had been informed that the length of the course of study for me would only be three years. I went straight from the end of year two to the beginning of year four on the course.

I had to decide in advance which language I would choose to study. I immediately opted for German, reasoning that my advanced knowledge of the subject would require less effort in study time, gains which I could beneficially employ elsewhere. Then I met my German instructor. I knew him.

Harry Kistenmacher was first encountered by me at Huddersfield New College, where he was a parttime teacher. I recall at the time that he was an actor, having appeared as a murderer in “No Hiding Place”, a leading detective TV series of the early sixties. It was quite the talking point at school for a few days. I then came across Harry when he was my teacher on the Institute of Linguists Interpreter course which I had taken as an evening class just a year previously. I didn’t realise that his fulltime job was as the German Language Lecturer at Huddersfield Polytechnic.

Reportedly, when Harry was told that I was to be one of his BATM students, he said that, if I wanted, I need not come to his lectures. He would supply me with all the coursework notes necessary and I could turn up and simply take the examination at the end of the course. He was sure I would pass. I was flattered by this suggestion. So much so that, for a short time, I even considered seriously taking the French language option, with the crazy idea of taking two separate final language examinations. I soon dropped this notion, but it is interesting to note that, at the end of the course, I was informed that I had the best attendance record over each of the full three years at the German classes. The best attender in classes I was told I didn’t need to turn up for! I like to think that says something about my work ethic. The fact that I liked Harry’s lessons also helped.

The experience of returning to fulltime education – this time putting in more effort than ‘just getting by’ – was not as exacting as I had imagined. From the very start I treated this as a job with a set study routine. I was a married mature student, living locally, meaning that I could return home in spare time. Thus, I was uninvolved in the hard drinking student social life of my younger course mates. I did not miss this in the least; I had gone through my equivalent sowing of wild oats in the first few years of my RAF service. I was able to concentrate on the job in hand. That is, first surviving, and then mastering, the study requirements.

In retrospect, I do not recall being overchallenged by the tasks allotted to us. I recall thinking very early on the course “Is this it?”. I was surprised that my course colleagues – all of whom had at least two good ‘A’ Level GCE passes – appeared at times out of their depth. I remember that one of our teachers at Huddersfield New College used to say “Don’t make difficulties that don’t exist!”. I found myself repeating his mantra to myself at times concerning my fellow students’ reactions to given study situations. Please understand, it was hard work, but it soon became obvious to me that, provided you repeated verbatim the information crammed from lectures and textbooks, you would be fine. Only later in the course – with the completion of a required dissertation – was any personal interpretation of evidence really encouraged. Otherwise, you just copied the prejudices of the given lecturers to receive the optimum coursework mark.

Although I spent three years in Higher Education, there were few highlights. Even now, I wonder if I would have fared better by remaining in employment and not going on the course. Certainly, I have never been asked to show a potential employer my degree; they always took my word for it. In my opinion, the marketing function we were taught is basically applied common sense. I am sure that I would have adopted its principles naturally without the formal tutoring.

To put this into context: My future boss in my work in Uzbekistan in the late nineties was a graduate from the top London School of Economics seat of learning. He achieved a 3^rd Class degree (no Honours). This is known colloquially as “The thank you for turning up award”. I got an Upper 2^nd Class Honours pass mark. But he had been to Public School, hence his direct employment path to the City of London. At that period, it was a case of who you know, not what you know. Nevertheless, I believe that cream does have a habit of rising to the top, but it may take time. Hopefully, this ‘Old Boy Network’ approach to employment is slowly and beneficially being overturned.

My otherwise humdrum time at Huddersfield Polytechnic had a few memorable features:

Financial advantages

At a time when, in England at least, expensive higher education grants must be settled through post-graduation payments, it is probably difficult to appreciate that I led a debt free life throughout my studies. Indeed, relatively, I prospered. Fulltime polytechnic courses in the 1980s were free of charge and, as a married man with three children living in a council property, I seemed to be eligible for all available reductions in rental and Council Tax payments. All I had to do was apply and the discounts were issued. At another point, I was granted Unemployment Benefit payments during the Christmas break. To this day I just don’t know how I qualified for this. Students were not eligible for the benefit during the academic year. All I had done was ask at the local Job Centre if there were any seasonal jobs on offer. This was the result. I didn’t question their judgement. (Please see my earlier comment about the gains of approaching persons in authority politely and openly).

It is paradoxical that, whilst officially studying German as part of my BATM course, I was also teaching Beginner’s German in nearby Slaithwaite. Around the start of my time at the Polytechnic, I heard that there was a shortage of language teachers in the local Adult Education Authority. I applied and was asked if I had a relevant teaching qualification. I told them that I had been trained in Ground Instructional Techniques by the RAF. This was good enough for them. I wouldn’t need to complete the training they offered. I was never asked to prove my RAF qualifications. It really is surprising what is acceptable if it is confidently presented. I completed two years of teaching this course, bringing the majority of students over from the first year to the second.

A few years ago, I met one of my former students in a local supermarket. He had started to learn the language when he commenced employment with a German manufacturing company based nearby. At our meeting, he informed me that he was now fully fluent in the language, having been promoted to a leading managerial role by his employer. I was touched to hear this news, particularly when he thanked me for giving him such an enjoyable start in the subject. I used humour wherever possible in my lessons. The ‘matchstick men’ drawings I included on my overhead projection slides seemed to amuse everyone, including Barbara who thoroughly enjoyed critiquing my efforts. But, then again, I wasn’t lecturing on Art. I was teaching German, apparently successfully.

Some of the students from the first year of my Beginner’s German course. The briefcase at my feet contained the infamous overhead projection slides

During my student years, boosted by my evening class earnings and Barbara’s income (she was working as a skilled worsted fabric mender at a Huddersfield mill), we were able to take holidays and even start driving. The holiday may only have been a week in a caravan at Ingoldmells near Skegness, but it was a great family break with constant sunshine. (We definitely chose the right week!) Realising that I would probably need to drive in any future job, both Barbara and I took driving lessons with a jovial Irishman Patrick and his daughter. I passed the driving test at the second attempt, whilst Barbara failed once (on her birthday!) and never tried again. I like to think that Patrick taught me to drive, not simply how to pass the test. I admit here that I have never been a keen driver, although I have at no time had an accident or been stopped for speeding, etc. Barbara always commented that I was a good driver but nowadays I only use my car locally when necessary. Otherwise, I walk and take the bus or train. There are just too many idiot drivers on the road.

A face from the past

During the first “Freshers Week” at the Polytechnic, I was walking across the campus and recognised the person coming towards me. It was Brendan ‘Buddy’ Wynne, a colleague from the RAF. Like me, he was starting his mature student education, only it was a B Ed teaching course for him. He told me that he was now living in Doncaster, commuting daily by motorcycle. I was so surprised to see him here as, of all my past military friends, I was convinced that he would be the one to see out his time to a full 22 years, possibly beyond. If I recall correctly, his father was a long serving RAF officer and Buddy always seemed destined to follow his lead. The last time I had seen him in the RAF in 1978 he was a Sergeant Air Signaller on 51 Squadron Nimrods at Wyton. Even though we were to meet up regularly for the next two years, when we would reminisce and generally put the world to rights, he never discussed his departure from the military and I didn’t ask.

I later found out that he had followed in my shoes as an instructor on the Applied Language Flight at North Luffenham, which is probably where he developed his desire to become a teacher. After the end of our joint second years at the Polytechnic, I lost touch with him. It may well be that he spent his third student year in a teaching placement whilst I continued onto the fourth year of the BATM course. Since our last meeting in 1984, I have lost all track of him. Even my present friends in the RAF Linguists Association know nothing of his fate, which is a great pity. I get the feeling that perhaps, like me, he left the RAF ‘under a cloud’ and wished to distance himself from its representatives. I eventually came back into the fold some thirty years later with membership of the RAF Association and the RAF Linguists Association. Perhaps Buddy might do the same. It would be great to catch up with him for a second time.

2024 NOTE: Early in the year, I heard from Mel Rowley, an old colleague from my early RAF days in Berlin. He had come across this website and used the 'Contact' button to get in touch. One of his later comments was that he had lived opposite Buddy in rural Norfolk, where he was then working as a teacher at a local school. Although Mel has not supplied any further details (despite my request), I was very pleased to hear that Buddy had apparently achieved his dream and was settled post-RAF. The internet really is a great font of unexpected knowledge.

A shocking comment

In the first year, we joined all the new students for lectures in the large theatre of the Business School. The subject being taught was Economics, a topic common to each business orientated course. The theatre was just about full. It was a ‘lecture’, in that the given teacher simply read out word for word his or her prepared text. Students were expected to take notes. There was no interaction. This was to come later at the smaller group tutorials.

Near to the end of the series of lectures, I was starting to heat up with some of the statements being made. They certainly didn’t match up to my experience of the way that industry works. On one occasion, to my mind, a ludicrous example was presented. Without realising it, I found myself exclaiming “Bullshit!”. The lecture theatre fell silent. I must have said this louder than I intended. After a pause, the lecturer found his place in his notes and carried on. Panic over.

At the following tutorial the lecturer (not the one who had been the recipient of my remark) asked if we had any comments from the last lecture. He looked straight at me. The teaching staff – some of whom were younger than me – had obviously been informed of my interjection. I rose to the challenge, explaining why I thought that the example quoted had been totally incorrect in the context of the lecture. He listened carefully to my clarification, not contesting my argument, simply commenting “Yes”, and moved on to the next topic. I then realised something. The lecturers were wary of me. I never played on this, but I did notice that anything I said in tutorials was listened to more carefully than some of the contributions of my course mates. Through my shocking comment I had earned their respect. An unexpected outcome.

Generational differences

Apart from one mature student whom I joined on the last year of the BATM course (unlike me, he did not have the occupational experience which would allow him to miss the year in industry), all my classmates were at least fifteen years younger than me. Although there was an obvious age difference in attitudes, I empathised with their situations and, generally, got on well with them all. There was, however, a noticeable variation in our approaches to learning. They were all in the next stage of a lifetime of formal education; I was an inexperienced interloper in this programme. I wasn’t, for example, used to taking notes at lectures. I soon learned from their lead. There were also obvious times when their up-to-date learning techniques left me behind. However, they were all willing to help me through difficulties encountered. All I had to do was ask. On the other hand, I had obvious skills to assist them, particularly as concerned the maths element introduced mid-course. And, naturally, I was the outstanding student throughout in the German language studies.

I was surprised to see that Mathematics was added to our later timetable, presumably as a precursor to the upcoming Statistics tuition. This subject had few fears for me, as I knew already that my maths knowledge was strong. In the event, thanks to A R Bielby’s tutorage at Huddersfield New College, I was streets ahead of my colleagues. For reasons I still find difficult to understand – the topic had little or no significance for our upcoming studies – we were asked to deal with calculus in these lessons. I had studied integration and differentiation, albeit twenty years previously, when our GCE ‘O’ Level Mathematics syllabus had included calculus. By the time I came across it again on the BATM course, apparently calculus was now an ‘A’ Level GCE component. To my recollection none of my class colleagues had ever encountered this before. The tutor quickly realised that I had command of the subject, even suggesting that I assist others in the methodology of solving presented questions.

Then it came to the first progress test. In a result that can only happen in an exact science like basic maths, I answered everything correctly. “I give you 99%, as I never award a 100% mark” was the tutor’s comment. He even asked that I consider going over to an Accountancy degree, as he was convinced that I would excel in this. I politely declined his offer.

By the time that the final year came around, a few of my classmates intimated to me that I must be a candidate for a 1st Class Honours pass. The final marks were made up of 50% coursework and 50% final examination and dissertation. Reportedly, the top graduation mark had seldom been awarded to BATM students. I knew that my coursework results – boosted by a record German mark – were in the required performance sector. Additionally, for the written examination, I utilised my newly obtained skills: I did a statistical analysis of the previous four years’ papers. In this way, I correctly identified all the major topics in the presented examination sheets. But my dissertation – on the marketing of tapestry kits – was a relative disaster.

When I handed it in, I was aware that I had not used all the marketing tools (which the examiners expect to see) in this work. Additionally, only I knew that half of the survey evidence I included came straight out of my imagination. Safe in the knowledge that I already had a job awaiting me at Sellers Engineers, I didn’t finish the dissertation undertaking with the same vigour with which I had approached it. So, I was pleased to receive the runner-up award. It could have been worse. In the event, one of young females on my course – an exceptional French linguist – was granted a 1st Class (Hons) pass mark, the first for a few years. She richly deserved it.

Handy skills

Although used to writing out pages of text from my RAF days, I had a secret wish to utilise my typewriting capabilities for coursework. I asked one of the lecturers if he would accept typewritten assignments. His positive reaction was good enough for me. I would obtain a typewriter by hook or by crook.

When I brought up the possibility with Barbara of using some of our limited income to purchase a typewriter, she wasn’t as immediately against the idea as I had expected. At this time her father, Joe Percy, was writing out his memoirs for eventual publication. With a typewriter, I could assist Barbara’s sister Sheila in the task of producing typed copies for the publisher. (Joe had devoted his life to the administration of athletics. He was Life Vice-President of the English Cross Country Association, as well as being a track judge at meetings until well into his eighties). An opportunity with spare cash occurred and I bought an Olivetti electric typewriter. I kept my end of the bargain and typed out many pages of Joe’s manuscript.

I still recall the reaction from the tutor when I first handed in typed coursework. He did a double take, smiled, and went on collecting the handwritten work of others. After a few weeks of doing this, I noted something; my marks improved. There used to be a saying in the military: “Bullshine baffles Brass”. That is, if something is shiny, senior officers (“Brass”) cannot help but be impressed and not scrutinise its contents. By presenting my work in a neat and legible format, I was similarly instilling a favourably responsive mood in the reader. Nowadays, of course, student coursework is universally composed on a computer. However, in those days, lecturers had all ranges of writing readability to deal with, hence their positive reactions to my typewritten efforts.

Although coursework was normally handwritten, there was one piece which was always typed – the dissertation. I had used this fact with Barbara as one of the reasons for obtaining my personal typewriter: I could prepare the paper myself and not have to pay for the services of a copy typist, as would my colleagues. On the day before the due handover of the dissertation, when going over the completed copy, I realised that a highly significant section was better moved to near the beginning of the paper. I knew that it was not allowed to leave gaps in pages (we had been supplied with strict completion rules), so I had no option but start again and type out the 11,000-word piece afresh. I recall that I finished this at around 2am in the morning. It was a chore, but what would I have done had I relied on the services of a third party to do this for me? Another point: Having handed in this piece, my student days were over, so it was worth the last-minute panic.

Oh, for the services of a Word Processing package in 1985! I would then simply have ‘cut and paste’ the misplaced text and retired for a well-earned beer or two.

The ubiquitous Professor Kotler

As far as I am concerned, every student could have been instructed to buy a copy of the Marketing Management: Analysis, Planning and Control textbook by Philip Kotler at the start and then be left alone to memorise it from cover to cover. In essence, that’s the sequence guided by our lecturers. Along the way I picked up several marketing books cheaply at second hand shops for use when completing assignments. However, I always came back to this bible equivalent for reference on the subject. It’s no understatement to claim that Professor Kotler of Northwestern University in the USA plucked marketing out its earlier economics teaching bubble and elevated it into a specialist subject in worldwide business studies.

A good twenty years later I found myself in an unlikely discussion with a business associate in Russia on the topic of marketing. To hear her say in Russian “Well, Kotler says you must do it this way” really brought home to me the ubiquitous influence of this learned man’s work. As well as being the yardstick for our studies at Huddersfield Polytechnic, it turned out that this publication was also the backbone of later marketing instruction at the Business School of St Petersburg University, one of Russia’s leading seats of learning. On checking, I found out that his textbook, in its 15th edition in 2016, was listed as the most widely accepted textbook in graduate business schools. I can vouch for this through personal experience.

A ‘Marketing’ Summer Job

In the summer break between my second and third years, I got a temporary job which – on the face of it – encompassed my newly-found marketing and textiles knowledge. A student from our course was already spending his year in industry at a manufacturer of tapestry kits based in Bolton. I was drafted in to assist him in setting up point-of-sale aids to be placed conspicuously in major stores around the country. These took the form of large shelving units, specially constructed to display a wide sample range of the boxed tapestry kits manufactured by the company.

William Briggs & Co Ltd had been producing needlecraft items since 1874. Based in a typical Lancashire cotton mill, by the time I encountered the firm its main products were tapestry kits for the homecraft market. The kits consisted of a canvas layer, overprinted with a wide variety of full colour designs, together with a selection of the bulk yarns in all the colourways required to complete the tapestry. I was surprised at the high cost of these kits, even the smallest package, but needlecrafters seemed willing to pay the requested prices.

The student colleague who completed this assignment with me lived in Sheffield, commuting daily in his high mileage Volkswagen Beetle. He went out of his way to pick me up and drop me back in Huddersfield, with an agreed contribution to costs. Our daily route passed very close to the IMI Bailey Birkett factory in Worsley, Manchester. If I had any doubts about my earlier decision not to take up the work offer there, these were soon banished by the experience of this commute. The M62 was then the busiest motorway in the UK (before the M25) and at times it seemed that the whole world was using it to congregate on Manchester.

When we started our main task, to distribute and erect the stands at locations around the country, we were loaned a van. This proved to be a vastly improved travel experience. We ventured back and forth around the country, sometimes staying overnight, and generally everything went smoothly. The only problem we had was ensuring that we arrived at the delivery point at stores like John Lewis at the allotted, inflexible time. This meant that, in many cases, we had to drive round and round in city centres, as parking was either difficult to find, or very expensive. We were unsure if we would be allowed to claim parking costs on our expenses, so we didn’t want to run the risk. On one occasion, we made an overnight stop in a remote location where our only option was to use the only local restaurant. We were hauled over the coals for the cost of the receipt which we presented on return to Bolton. The young Sales Director (whom I didn’t get on with) stated something along the lines of “Even directors don’t pay that much for meals”, before reluctantly countersigning the receipt for payment. He genuinely believed that we should subsist on Big Macs.

Thank goodness, I got on very well with the Managing Director, who was the instigator of the promotion we were delivering. I made a point of bypassing the Sales Director and going straight to him with any ideas and questions I had. He didn’t mind. Besides, what could the Sales Director do to me? Fire me? I was ready to walk out the door immediately if he tried to reprimand me. He knew this. I was already experienced in how to deal with the personal politics of business, knowing when to push myself forward but, crucially, also realising when it was best to keep a low profile.

Nearer to the end of my time at William Briggs & Co, I had an idea. What if I wrote my dissertation about the marketing of tapestry kits? I put this idea to the Managing Director, who was all for it. In this way, I solved one problem which had perturbed me: how would I be able to fulfil the desired product attitude survey for my dissertation? I was promised – and supplied with – several sample kits to hand out as a reward to those taking part in my survey. Huddersfield Polytechnic provided the accommodation for the group discussion. Just one problem with these arrangements: I could only assemble a small group – all dedicated needleworkers – for the session. This presented a distinct bias in the results I obtained. The numbers were too small to give workable data and the fact that all these were already experienced tapestry workers would prejudice any attitude conclusions I came to. That’s when I used my imagination. The majority of the consumer responses recorded in the final version of my dissertation were pure speculation. However, the Managing Director of William Briggs & Co reported that he was pleased with my findings. I felt sorry that I had reverted to deceiving him. Obviously, I didn’t fool the markers of my dissertation, so I didn’t fully get away with it. Never mind, by then I already had a job offer in my pocket.

One final point. In 2012 manufacture of Briggs’ products was relocated to Hungary by the holding company Coats Viyella. William Briggs & Co still has a presence in Bolton, however. It is in the form of an embroidery shop in its name on an industrial estate close to the original factory location.

An ideal opportunity.

In March, or thereabouts, of my final year on the BATM course, I read an advertisement in the Huddersfield Examiner seeking a sales engineer to work at a local manufacturer of textile finishing machines. Most interestingly, this vacancy called for a knowledge of Russian, and ‘preferably with a background in mechanical engineering’. At that time my objective was to find a position in export sales at an engineering company, so this opportunity seemed ideal. Particularly one where a technical knowledge of textiles from my recent studies would be an advantage. Even though I still had a few months to complete my degree, I applied. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

It's a moot point whether I would have been willing to prematurely finish higher education, if the job turned out to be as good as indicated, but with an early start a condition of acceptance. The thought did go through my mind. In the event, this was not required. From the very first interview, it was made clear to me that they were willing to wait for the right candidate.

I don’t recall if I had two or three interviews, only that the Managing Director said to me at the last one “If I put you in a room with Russians, can you tell me what they are saying?” Well, I wasn’t going to say no! I was offered the job, to start as soon as convenient after my finals.

I let it be known at the poly that I now had a firm employment offer to take up at the end of the course. All lecturers and fellow students were pleased for me, as they appreciated the risk that I had taken in switching to higher education later in life. Just one thing went through my thoughts: I had apparently secured this job due to my language skills and engineering experience, attributes I already possessed prior to studying for a degree. Would I have achieved the position without the BA (Hons) qualification? Who knows?

Graduation

When I was first informed the date for picking up my degree, along with dozens of students at the ceremony in Huddersfield Town Hall, it looked likely that I would receive it from the hands of the former Prime Minister and hometown boy Harold Wilson. The previous year’s graduates had received this honour. In the event, the degree was presented to me by the Polytechnic’s then Vice Chancellor. Nevertheless, the greatest consequence for me was that both my wife and mother were in the audience to witness my 10 seconds’ walk across the stage. This meant so much to me.

I had already been employed for several months when the degree ceremony came around. Part of my work involved organising the photography of new machinery at the factory for inclusion in promotional material. For this reason, I soon built up a close relationship with the professional photography company used. When its owner Fraser found out about my upcoming ceremony, he immediately invited Barbara and me to his studio for a commemorative sitting prior to the event.

The results are shown here and at the beginning of this life story section. Barbara hated this photograph but, then again, she never liked having her picture taken, particularly one posed. She agreed to it because I asked. I believe the fact that Fraser refused to charge for his services also helped to soften her opposition a little.

Nevertheless, I’m pleased that this joint record of the day has survived.

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