Bob Williamson P7

Chapter 13. Roy's Tale.

I really should apologise for including Roy's Story with my own, but as he is no longer with us it might serve as a record of a friend and workmate. Eight years, seven days a week working together at the sharp end, on the coal face. We got to know each other pretty well, the first team, Perce and Beardy Bob.

Roy could tell a really good tale and he kept us amused for hours on end. When the work was done for the day and he got out his snuff tin we knew that we were in for a story.

Roy was fond of the tale of the mice. It was the first day back after the pit shut down fortnight and as an electrician, he had to restore the power to one of the tail gates (the return air way to the coalface). As he walked along he became aware of a scrabbling sound behind him, he stopped and so did the sound. He started off once more and the sound began again. He whirled around and saw the little pin prick eyes of the mice following him. The mice would live on discarded scraps of food left by the miners. No miners, no food, they were hungry. With visions of the killer mice of A10s face, he was absolutely petrified and flew down the gate restored the power on the run and made a record breaking trip through the coalface.

Roy could tell such a good tale that we were held, spell bound, sitting there in the darkness.

He had started at the pit and then left to go into the army. Not just any outfit, for our Roy, oh no! It was for the Grenadier Guards that he was headed. Well he was 6 feet 4 inches tall. The basic training apparently was a punishing schedule of abuse, physical and mental. Fitness and square bashing. Bulling up boots, blancoing white webbing and keeping the barracks all spick and span. He would tell us of new recruits crying in the night and sitting on the stairs after lights out working on their equipment. If their kit wasn't just so, at the twice daily inspection it would get thrown out of the window and they were on the first floor. For this they were on a charge, more abuse in the guardroom. After taking every shred of self worth away, they would bring them back to obey without question, to be arrogant and proud. Just the way a guardsman should be for ceremonial duties in London, the cream of the crop, the best.

On operational duty they went to Libya where he was a forward radio operator. He travelled the world with the guards but his best stories were of ceremonial duties.

He was in the Queens bodyguard at the Coronation. Changing the guard at Buckingham Palace was an every day happening in his jacket of red, wearing the tall bearskin.

He told us of things we would never experience, like night sentry duty at Windsor Castle with a drummer boy and a lantern on a pole.

At the Tower of London, on duty at the Tower Green, where so many with Royal Blood were beheaded. At night and alone he swears that he had seen apparitions lots of times. As we sat in the dark, deep underground, often in the wee small hours, it didn't seem so far fetched and I for one believed him.

After the Army he had the wanderlust and joined the Merchant Navy as a radio operator. Some of his service was spent on the New Zealand run on the ships Rangitiki and Rakier. This was in the days when just £10 would buy you a four-week sea journey to a new life down under.

He would talk of the friendliness of the Maori girls and his eyes grew misty, far away with the fond memory.

One of the ports of call was at Pitcaim Island where he would meet his friends Ben and Ken Christian. They were the descendants of Fletcher Christian, of the Mutiny on the Bounty fame.

Then there was the time when he was on duty and the ship docked at San Christobel on the Panama Canal. The crew went ashore for a night on the town but when the ship was ready to sail no one had come back. So Roy had to tour the bars, brothels and back alleys to round up the crew. They were all so drunk that they were unconscious and he got a luggage trolley loaded them aboard, one on top of the other.

The way he told it, I could see him pushing the trolley loaded with seaman along the dockside to the ship waiting to cross the Pacific Ocean.

Just so many stories like the time that their ship was sailing from St Johns in Newfoundland across the Atlantic. It had only one engine and the main shaft sheared. As they were nearest to New York that's where they should have requested the tug's from. Instead they hoisted the hatch covers and sailed the ship all the way to Bantry Bay in Ireland.

By this time he had seen and done more than most people do in two lifetimes. Love caught him in its web and he married his Rita. They soon had two daughters and his carefree days were done, so it was back to the pit where it all began.

When I first came across Roy he was just another one of the lads at Hucknall. He had one fault; he couldn't get up in the morning. I would drive by in the early mornings and if his light was on I would drive on by; if not I would knock him up.

Our time working together came to an end as Roy was moved onto the surface, to install a new washery plant. He only had three years to go before he got paid off on his 50th birthday.

Roy absolutely adored Wales and with the sale of his bungalow along with his severance pay he bought a hill farm. Tyn-y- Wern was miles from anywhere and the top of Cader Idris could by seen from his lounge window. I went to see him several times happy that he had finally made it back to his spiritual home.

He bought a dozen sheep and would go around the remote farms doing odd jobs. At the local livestock market he would talk to the other farmers and refer to them and himself as us farmers. Him with a dozen sheep them with 12,000, it must have made them smile.

He had eight good years on his farm. Throat cancer got him in the end and he died at the age of fifty-eight.

Rest in peace Mate and wherever you are, carry on telling the tale.

Chapter 14. Charlie's Tale

Everyone called him Charlie because he looked like Charlie Magri the boxer. His name was Steve but he will always be Charlie to me. Only 5feet 2 inches tall with a body like whipcord, pound for pound the strongest guy that I ever came across.

I got him interested in walking, camping, caving and climbing. When we were together he would talk about what he wanted to do in the wilds of the Pennies. Known by all as the Pennines, not Charlie, he was that kind of a guy.

I must give you some background on Charlie, he was in his mid twenties and he had been to the North Sea Camp in Boston. It was a Young Offenders Centre; it was the sharp shock that he needed. Most of his days were spent working in Boston Hospital and he would talk of the kindness of the nurses. He vowed never to go that route again and to my knowledge he never did.

I suppose that we looked an oddly assorted pair, young Charlie and old Bob. Whether it was as a father figure I don't exactly know but he listened to me, when he overstepped the line. We went on camping trips together on a number of occasions and I always enjoyed his company immensely. The lads at Hucknall could never understand it.

Charlie was irrepressible, full of life and fun. He put a smile on the face of all who met him. That is unless you got on the wrong side of him, then it could be painful association.

Like the time that he was driving and a group of youths ran in front of his car forcing him to brake sharply. One of them, unwisely, stood in front of his car and told him what he thought of his driving. Charlie locked his car, in the middle of the road, walked over to the lad who was back with his mates and went for him. They had to pull him off before he either put him in intensive care or the mortuary.

Sometimes it went wrong for him. There was the time when he was in a pub in Nottingham after a football match. Visiting fans broke some windows by throwing stones, so the regulars went outside to see what it was all about. Charlie was in front ready to face the mob, the drinkers had other ideas and bolted back into the pub and locked the door. Fine, except Charlie was still outside and couldn't laugh this one off. He did the only sensible thing and ran like bloody hell.

He was a tailgate ripper on 18s and we were both on the same shift. When the rippers had caught up with the face it was time for watermelon, a daily occurrence. We took it in turns to bring one to work and they were so big that they had to come up the gate on transport. The roadway was warm and humid, lit by fluorescent lights for all its length. This was ideal germinating conditions and all the way down the gate little melon trees were growing. They didn't survive very long.

One occurrence befell Charlie and landed him in the hospital. They had to put on a 'stopping', to block off a disused roadway and lime and cement was used. It was low and very hot, just like an oven. The lads had to carry these bags about 200 metres, stripped down because of the heat. No shirts on and slicked with sweat they carried the bags on their shoulders. One of Charlie's bags was split and as water reacted to the chemical so his sweat reacted. He was in a right state, shaking and he turned yellow. We got him out and straight into the waiting ambulance. At the hospital they started looking at some tropical illness, they were baffled as to the cause. Then Coal Board came clean and told them the cause.

Charlie, the great survivor, got better and we found out that special suits had to be worn, with gauntlets, aprons, visors and special boots the powder was that toxic All Charlie had on was a pair of Y -Fronts.

How much compo he got he wouldn't say, my guess is that it would have been a considerable amount for him to keep quiet about his brush with death. He normally told me everything but not this.

Charlie was out one weekend with his mate Wayne, up on the High Peak moors. Wayne had a fall and sprained an ankle; Charlie carried Wayne over two miles to the nearest road. Wayne was a hefty lad of 18 stones.

On a weekend away in Wales on the way back from the pub we chanced upon a thirty foot high stone built wall. We all tried several moves, and then jumped off Charlie didn't know that it was just a game; we had no intention to climb the wall. Up he went like a mountain goat and got to the top in great style, much to the chagrin of Nellie our ace rock expert.

He couldn't stand to be outclassed by a rank amateur and was forced into climbing the same wall. Nellie came down muttering that Charlie was a nutcase and the grading of the climb was extreme, the highest grade.

A big 60 foot high lamp standard next caught our eye, two moves and then jump off. Charlie moved into position and shinned up it just like a native up a palm tree. He sat at the top and jeered at us. 'Bugger him this time', said Nellie, ‘The guy is a lunatic’. We had better train him on unacceptable risks.