On The Basis
Of Hearsay
© F J Fishburn 2004
Author's note: "Opa" and
"Oma" are my grandfather and grandmother respectively. Max, Herman,
Dora and Yetty were my mother's siblings.
Part II (of 6): Stranger in a Strange Land
[Ed note: To see accompanying photos click
here]
"Why are those children not wearing shoes in this
cold?" I asked my mother. It was only a week or two after we had
arrived and I was with my mother in town. We had just come out of
one of the town's two emporia, Binns, the other being Dicksons and
Bensons nearby. "Because they're very poor," she replied. The memory
of the poverty, those children barefoot in the cold northern winter,
the dirt and drabness of that part of the town, has never left me.
The area around the port and along and behind Newport Road was
insalubrious. It was said that in certain areas policemen could only
go in pairs. At night the atmosphere was eerie; a combination of the
street lights, some blue, others yellow, especially when it was
foggy, which was usually, and the acrid chemical smells from the
works at Billingham ICI - the Synthonia, known locally as "the
Synthetic" - and the smoke and fumes from the iron and steel works,
the coke ovens of Dorman Long and the blast furnaces down by the
port, produced a sulphurous and smelly Stygian gloom. This was
particularly bad during the long winter nights. In the daytime, when
the wind was in the wrong direction, which was more often than not,
washing could not be hung out to dry for risk of damage from the
chemical deposits it carried. Only roses flourished, the sulphur in
the atmosphere preventing mildew. The legacy in terms of ill health
remains to this day. The only touch of colour in the town came,
strangely, from the livery of its buses. The local buses were colour
coded. Middlesbrough Corporation's buses had a royal blue livery. I
loved that rich warm colour. The country buses operated by the
United Bus company were red, and those of the Stockton Corporation
which shared two routes, green.
The grown-ups may have missed the shopping
facilities, the ready availability of Kosher food, the circle of
friends, the Jewish clubs, all the things they had taken for granted
in Leipzig, but I wasn't interested in the social life, operas and
concerts or such things; to me Middlesbrough was heaven. I was now
living in a large house with a big garden instead of a small
restricted flat. I loved the freedom. There were no trams thundering
past the front door every few minutes and little traffic.
Most people had bicycles, which the flat terrain
of the town suited. I could play freely in the streets in the
pleasant, well gardened suburb of Linthorpe. When I heard the
"Walls" ice cream man ringing his bell, slowly pedalling his
strange, ungainly looking tricycle with the motto "Stop me and buy
one", and his funny straw hat with a pink ribbon, I had time to run
indoors and get a penny for a cornet. It was surprising how much you
could get for a penny. That was the cost of a return ticket into the
centre of town. I could go out and about without fear. No one
bothered whether I needed to cross a main road. No one worried where
I went or where I was. There were no roving Brownshirts looking for
trouble, no offensive "Heil Hitlers". Only once did I come across
any antisemitism and I was too naive to realise it at the time. One
of the kids, not from my school, I used to run around with in
Kirkgate Road, one of the safe roads opposite our house, was called
in by his father and forbidden to play "with that Jew-boy."
Apparently his mother did not share his father's prejudices as went
on playing with me.
Clearly I had to go to school. My first school
proper was in England. My parents had some trouble in finding a
school for me. As I spoke no English the local authority schools
would not accept me. I would not have had that problem to-day;
English is virtually a second language in some schools. A young
women from the Synagogue, who could speak German, suggested to my
parents that they should try the junior school where she taught,
Loretto House, at 12 The Avenue, only ten minutes walk from home.
Owned and run by the excellent Mrs. Relph the school occupied the
ground floor of her house. Mrs. Relph lived upstairs. I went to see
her with my parents. I liked her at once. She was a small compact,
roundish lady with her grey-white hair tied back in a bun. She
agreed to take me on the basis that the young teacher undertook to
teach me English. My child's instinct was correct. She was kind
though, in the nature of schoolmistresses of her time, a strict
disciplinarian, but she tempered this with mercy. I have the fondest
memories of that small school. Though I claim no particular capacity
for languages, at least not when it comes to speaking them, I soon
learned English. The teaching methods were traditional. The three Rs
were taught on basic principles; tables were learned by rote. We
learned to write by copying out in copperplate handwriting wise old
apophthegms of which my favourite - not that I understood what it
meant - was" All that glisters is not gold." I never managed the
copperplate.
Mrs. Relph was a devout Catholic. The whole
school, including me, would on special occasions, such as Ash
Wednesday, attend services at the Roman Catholic Church, which was
almost opposite the school - (right opposite the school, by the bus
stop, fortuitously was a sweet shop!). My parents could not
understand why I came home with dirt on my forehead. But as truly
religious people do, Mrs. Relph not only had great respect for my
religion, but encouraged its strict observance. I stayed at her
school for over two years. I must have made great progress because I
began to bring home good Reports.
I developed my own social life with my new school
friends and their parents going for tea or picnics, or trips to the
seaside or just driving in the country. They were all very kind to
me. Any language barrier soon disappeared. The sort of warm welcome
I received and the relationship which I established then and during
the following years would have been almost unheard of in Germany.
English came to me almost by a process of osmosis.
I was never conscious of the fact that I had become bilingual. For
my eighth birthday my uncle Herman gave me a book which he had
brought with him from London saying "Your father asked me to get you
a book on Oliver Cromwell for your birthday. I couldn't find any
book called 'Oliver Cromwell.' The man in the shop said the only
Oliver they had was 'Oliver Twist' so I got you that. I hope it'll
do. I expect that one Oliver is very much like another." Dad was
cross at first; he'd never heard of Oliver Twist. Why Oliver
Cromwell? Dad had heard that Oliver Cromwell was something of a hero
to the Jews of England for allowing their return to this country,
some 350 years after their expulsion in 1290. Why from London? It
may be that Dad thought such a book would be available only in a
Jewish book shop and could not be obtained in Middlesbrough. Perhaps
he felt his English, in which Herman was fluent, was not good
enough. Herman's English may have been fluent but his history was
not. I had heard of neither Oliver, but I liked the smell and the
feel of the book. It had a maroon-coloured leather binding, gold
tooling and hard slip cover. I opened the pages and started to read.
I could not put it down. I was lost in its characters. Here was
another new world into which I had stumbled. I devoured it, and
called for more. I became a Dickens addict. My range widened: the
"Just William" books, "The Scarlet Pimpernel," the novels of
Alexander Dumas, John Buchan whose chauvinism and anti-semitism I
did not then understand - "Biggles", whatever I could get my hands
on. "Oliver Twist," published by Collins in their Library of
Classics, price one shilling and sixpence, still in a place of
honour on my shelves, was my first English book.
The Guisborough Shirt & Underwear Company Limited
was formed in 1937 and the Guisborough Urban District Council
granted it a five year lease at a rent of £1 per week of the old
sewage farm at West End, the Middlesbrough end of Guisborough, as it
were. Despite its title it never manufactured underwear; pyjamas,
but not underwear. The first directors were Opa, my father, Max, and
one outside director, Alfred Edwards, the Labour MP for
Middlesbrough East, who had been helpful in bringing it to
Guisborough. Companies' letterheads had then to show the names of
all directors and their nationalities, a carry over from the
national xenophobia of the first World War. The only one with a
recognised nationality was Mr. Edwards "English". Opa was described
as "Stateless (formerly Russian)" a statement of doubtful accuracy,
the others were simply "Stateless". Mr Edwards was a handsome man,
with wavy silver hair, suave, well spoken, smartly dressed; very
much my family's image of an English gentleman, not your typical
socialist, least of all the sort of person whom you would expect to
represent Middlesbrough East, a strongly working class and solidly
Labour constituency. He was a wealthy man, with a large car and a
chauffeur, whom he would not allow to drive at more than 40 m.p.h.
He himself could not drive. He was the Company's spokesman, when
need arose, and always gave a very polished performance. Opa
distrusted him. Opa had an instinct about people. He was not
influenced by show and appearances, wealth or position. He trusted
few, even within his own family. Opa hated cant and hypocrisy, and
did not suffer fools gladly. He liked people to speak their minds,
not hide their thoughts. Mr. Edwards was altogether too smooth and
slick for Opa who professed not to understand what Mr.
Edwards was saying, and kept asking in Yiddish
"What's he saying?" but I am sure that he understood every word
without translation.
The Factory, was my family's raison d'etre. It
saved our lives. My mother, Opa, Max and Dora cannot really be
discussed or understood outside the context of the Factory. It
became their life. It provided the wherewithal for the needs of the
family, which were great, but it became an idol, like a Temple, an
object worshipped for itself and like all false gods it exacted
great sacrifices. As far as mother was concerned so long as her
state of health allowed she devoted and sacrificed herself to it.
Therein lies her tragedy and that of the family.
The Factory had little meaning for me at first. It
was where most of the family spent the day, where I would take them
their lunches and play in the car park or the surrounding fields.
There was no canteen, and they found that working all day in the
factory without a warm midday meal, which they had always been used
to in Germany, was too tiring. I was accordingly pressed into
service. The lunches would be packed into two or three white enamel
pots held together by a handle which fitted into louvres on their
sides. One of the maids would take me across the road and put me on
the "P" bus in charge of the conductor. Our town buses had letters
not numbers. The terminal was opposite the house. At the end of its
route at "the Exchange", the conductor would see me safely across
the road helping me with the heavy pots, to the stop for the red
United bus to Guisborough which stopped directly outside the factory
gates. The United conductor would help me on and off again when we
got there. As the timing was regular someone was waiting for me at
the factory. All I did really was to accompany the food, an early
instance of "wheels on meals." I became familiar to and with all
those regularly travelling on those routes. The fact that I was
able, at the age of seven, to travel alone a distance of some ten
miles, taking two buses, to bring the family their cooked lunch
demonstrates just what a very safe and friendly place we had come
to. That could not have happened in Germany and one cannot imagine
it happening in many places to-day.
I do not know why they decided to manufacture
shirts. They had no experience in this field. In Leipzig they had
made table and bed linens, and linings for coats but not shirts. Now
here they were in a remote part of a strange country, where people
spoke a language they didn't know in an accent which even those of
the family who professed some experience of the tongue couldn't
understand, embarking on the production of garments about which they
knew nothing. The one thing they didn't lack was chutzpah. My mother
was the key to the operation. She brought her dress-making skills to
the job. What her eyes could see her hands could make, and her
youngest sister, Yetti, was similarly talented though less
experienced. They bought some shirts, took them apart, saw how they
were put together and copied them, including the linings for the
collars and cuffs.. This involved making the matrices, the patterns
from which the cloth could be cut. Mother made the first samples by
hand cutting round the paper outlines with a pair of scissors, and
sewing the pieces together on a treadle-operated Singer 95 sewing
machine. The early prototypes would have been hard to give away at a
flea market, but by trial and error she worked out what had to be
done and before long produced a serviceable garment.
Before the factory could produce a single garment
all the girls had to be trained. The potential work force was
totally unskilled. From the comments my mother and aunts made, and
the snatches of conversation I overheard, I gathered that the raw
material did not look promising. It seemed that the local girls did
not have the ingrained discipline and work ethic of the German girls
my mother was used to or their adaptability, nor did they have the
sophistication of city girls. It was a long way from Leipzig to
Guisborough. Apart from the language barrier there were many
cultural difficulties to overcome, or at least to understand. My
family, used to the medical and social care programmes taken for
granted in Germany, found incomprehensible, indeed disgusting, the
practice, common even among young girls, of having all their teeth
removed at the first sign of dental trouble and replaced by
dentures. Pretty, fresh, youngsters, hardly more than children, with
their faces fallen in became old women overnight.
Mother started training a few girls. As they
became proficient they in turn trained others. Foremost among these
was Emily Thomson who became my mother's deputy, eventually became
factory manageress and gave the business many years loyal service.
Soon a nucleus was created but training enough girls to form a
proper labour force took several months. The samples of shirts which
the factory hoped to sell were, at first, all made by my mother. The
manufactured products rarely matched the samples, and all Max's
sales skills were needed to find customers. The early days were hard
and exhausting. The family came home tired, and then spent the
evenings arguing about the business. Consequently I saw little of my
parents. Indeed, I cannot remember any time when the demands of the
factory were not overwhelming and it was several years before my
parents could take a proper holiday.
My mother took full charge of the shop floor and
brooked no interference from anyone, least of all the management in
whom she had little faith. She was closely helped by Dora - known to
all and sundry as "Miss Dora", which she remained even when married
- and Y etti, until she followed her own heart. Dad was responsible
for administration and the finance; Max for sales. Policy generally
was the subject of constant heated discussion, but effectually
decided by Opa whose word was final on all things. The factory was
Mother's personal fief. Even Opa did not challenge her absolute
authority, indeed, he encouraged it. When approached to allow Union
representation, she flatly refused, strongly supported by Opa.
"What" she asked the Union officials "can you offer my girls that
they don't already have? Better wages? They have the best wages and
conditions in the area, as they will tell you. The right to strike?
Why should they want to? I look after them better than you could,
and I don't charge them Union dues. You won't find any of my girls
who want to join your Union! If you can do half as well for them as
I do I'll be the first to join." She fought bitterly for her girls.
If she disagreed strongly with its decisions, she would ban the
Management from entering the workshop; if she was balked by the
Management, she would call the girls out on strike herself, usually
by way of a sit-in, which was more comfortable. She knew that she
was in charge of the engine room and she made the most of it, not in
her own personal interest, but in what she considered to be the best
interests of the business. She understood that without the work
force there was no business at all. She realised that even though
unemployment in the area was high her girls, once trained, could not
be easily replaced. Some had become highly specialised and extremely
skilful. Much time and effort had gone into their training, and she
was not going to allow some management whim to endanger this. But
quite apart from this she felt that the company had a responsibility
to its work force. The factory provided employment for whole
families. The Covells were a case in point. Edgar Covell was the
chief mechanic and worked closely with Opa, his wife Marjorie "did"
for my family, his father was night watchman and his daughter Olive
and her three siblings all worked in the factory in one capacity or
another. In a very short time the factory became an important and
integral part of the life of the town.
My mother was as strict with "her girls", as she
was with the Management. Though she often appeared arbitrary, she
was very fair. She would listen to any genuine complaint or request,
but she would not tolerate insubordination (even from me). I
happened one day to be in the outer office to the factory, having
delivered lunch. A very angry woman arrived looking ready for a
fight demanding to speak to my mother. Knowing my mother's own fiery
temperament, I was prepared for fireworks and tempted to run, but I
decided to stay and see what happened. My mother came out from the
factory wearing, as she always did at work, her white overall. She
was immediately verbally assailed by the good lady, who wanted to
know by what right had my mother peremptorily dismissed her
daughter. Mother, to my surprise, because in my experience it was
not in her nature to turn the other cheek, listened in silence to
all that the girl's mother had to say. When the tirade was ended and
the offended lady had run out of steam, my mother said, very
quietly: "How old is your daughter?" The question was rhetorical, my
mother knew perfectly well.
"Sixteen. "
"Mrs. Smith, how many children have you?"
"Six, " was the surprised reply.
"Do you take cheek from them."
"Nay, I do not" - every word strongly emphasised.
"Do you let your sixteen year old daughter do as
she likes?"
"Certainly not!" "I've got three hundred in there," said my mother
pointing over her shoulder to the factory, "Should I let them do as
they like?"
A moment's silence, then tearfully: "Ee, no, Mrs. Fishburn, tha's
right. I'm sorry for t' way I spoke. But we need t'money she brings
home, you see, I don't know how I can manage without. She won't get
other work easily. Please, you're a mother y'self, you understand
how it is, you know how kids can say things which they don't mean;
please do me a favour and take her back."
"I never take back anyone I've dismissed, on principle" replied my
mother "and she was very cheeky, but if you personally promise me
that you'll take her in hand and deal with her yourself, and that
she'll behave herself in future, I'll make an exception just this
once, but this is her last chance. "
"Ee, don't you worry, I'll lay into her good and proper when I get
home."
"No, I don't think you need to do that; just give her a good talking
to and tell her what I've said.
Let's go and have some tea. "
And off they went to the canteen. I was astonished, and moved, by my
mother's unexpectedly quiet response and her compassion. I
understood why "her girls" so respected - nay, worshipped her.
Apart from the bicycle rides, my main interest at
the factory lay in the machines, and I would go around with Opa, or
get in his indulgent way in his workshop, as he tried to diagnose
their failings and find a cure. When there was a breakdown we would
scramble around on the floor trying to identify the fault. We both
got into trouble for the state of our clothes. There was a large
array of machines, each designed for a specific function. The basic
sewing machine was the Singer 95, some were still treadle-driven
until adapted for electric motors; those brought over from Germany
were not compatible with the electricity supply at the factory and
needed to be adapted or sometimes entirely new motors had to be
fitted. There were collar machines, overlock machines, buttonsewing,
button-holing, you name it, machines, specialist machines for every
purpose. A conveyor was installed; this was a moving canvas belt
with red and blue lines marked on it at intervals. I found it
fascinating to see the accuracy with which each girl threw her work
on the exact timed point of the moving belt for the next girl to
pick up, do her bit and throw it back on the belt. This way the
timing of the manufacturing process was set to ensure maximum
productivity. The din was terrific, but somehow over it all came the
sound of music from the loudspeakers. During the war the BBC
broadcast daily "Music While You Work" which was mandatory
listening. There was something warm and comforting in the way the
girls all joined in singing the romantic songs of the time made
popular by Gracie Fields - "Sally", "Wish me luck as you wave me
good-bye," Vera Lynn - "The White Cliffs of Dover" - and others, and
the songs of the first world war revived and brushed up for this
one. Most of the girls had someone in the War, brothers, husbands,
fiances, fathers, even sons, and the sob in Vera Lynn's voice found
many echoes.
The cutting machines terrified me. These were in a
separate part of the factory, imaginatively called the Cutting Room,
in which the cloth was cut into the shapes which when sewn together
made a shirt. The huge bales of cloth which were delivered in
hessian covering, had to be unpacked and rolled out on a trolley
which went back and forth on rails on the cutting table. The cutter
(often my mother) would then manoeuvre the cloth through a band saw,
a continuous blade, which could easily cut through a man's hand.
Smaller layers of cloth were cut by a hand operated cutter rather
like a small ham slicer on wheels; the cloth being held down with
one hand while the machine was operated with the other. To me the
whole operation was fraught with danger and I could not bear to look
when my mother was doing the cutting. I was far too squeamish. The
slightest error would cause the most serious damage, to say nothing
of the cloth which would be spoiled by the blood, but despite my
fears this never seemed to happen.
Making a shirt is, like a car, essentially a
matter of assembly. The cloth has to be cut into the appropriate
shapes from patterns. My mother used to work out by juggling these
around on the spread out cloth the most effective layout. Today this
is all done by computer, but in her day this was a very specialised
skill. It is rather like making a jigsaw, and she had a spatial
sense which enabled her to do this. She often had arguments with the
cutters who were jealous of their own reputations, because she was
better at it than they were. A good cutter was well paid and worth
every penny. She had another very special skill which she put to
good use not only for the business but for her own pleasure; she had
a cinematographic, not just photographic, memory. She could watch a
person carry out some skilled operation and replicate it. It was not
long before no garment manufacturer would allow her into their
premises. Max or Dad were welcome; they looked and admired and
understood nothing, but my mother was barred; she looked and learned
and copied.
Travelling to Guisborough by bus every day soon
became too tiring and time consuming. Max needed a car for his sales
travels. About a year after we arrived it was decided, that is Opa
decided, that Dad and Max could each have a car. They learned to
drive, and by some miracle passed their driving tests. Max was the
world's worst driver, and he never improved. Dad was little better
at first but he did reach a level of competence. Dad bought a silver
grey Vauxhall 14; four doors and comfortable and large enough to
take the family to the factory. It was the largest car they could
afford, and it started my father on his love affair with Vauxhalls.
Max got a small blue two-door Ford 10. Its speedometer went up to 90
mph; that of the Vauxhall only went up to 80. I was furious that the
smaller, more basic, cheaper and undistinguished Ford should go
faster than the Vauxhall. I had my revenge: the Ford did not last
long. Shortly after they passed their test, Max and Dad decided to
go to Leeds. Max, driving for the first time since his test, was
unable to negotiate the turn at the bottom of a steep hill and
finished up in a field with the car on its side. They had to clamber
up out of the door window, a somewhat undignified exit by all
accounts. The car was written off. An arm was broken, and some
bruises sustained but no serious damage was suffered. Max lacked the
necessary co-ordination and concentration to drive well. His mind
was always on other things, usually the factory, never on the road
in front of him. It is also difficult to drive when you need both
hands to talk.
It was all Aunty Jeanne's fault, really. She asked
me to do some shopping for her. I often ran down to the local shops
for her. There was a small shopping centre in Oxford Road and Roman
Road, with a local grocery multiple, Amos Hinton & Co., a newsagent
and Victor Levy the chemist, among others, including my friend Peter
Unwin's father's woodworking store.
"Buy yourself something out of the change" she
told me. This was my regular pourboire. Usually I bought a penny
(old) bar of chocolate. On this occasion, a large packet of 1000
stamps from all over the world caught my eye in the newsagents.. It
cost 6d. There was also a small stamp album and stamp hinges at the
same price. I was something of a goody-goody, and rarely, if ever,
took liberties. I was too well brought up for that, but now
something went wrong. I yielded to temptation. I bought the packet.
As there was no point in having the stamps without an album to put
them in, I bought that as well: total outlay one shilling, a lot of
money then. Technically I had not transgressed but I knew, in my
heart, that I had overstepped the mark. My parents were appalled,
and insisted I take the lot back to the shop at once. Aunty Jeanne
would not hear of it.
"Leave him alone" she said "I didn't put a limit
on the amount he could spend." She was always generous, to a fault,
indeed, and sometimes without discretion. She thought it was very
funny and forgave me with one of her big bear like hugs and a kiss.
And thus, aged 8, I became a philatelist.
