The Way We Lived Then: The Swinging Sixties in the North Book Ii

By Adrienne Fox

The author returns to her northern home to take up a lectureship in music and drama in a college. The repressive atmosphere generated by her father’s intensely religious beliefs and her mother’s controlling instincts soon make her wish to escape the severe parental restrictions. But how to flee, and where? She calculates that there are two possible alternatives: a sugar daddy or marriage. She finds both but then is faced with the choice of where to cast her lot. The selection is difficult, and for a few months, she juggles between the two men. Both men are musicians, and mutual links are easily forged; however doubt coupled with her lack of self-esteem haunt the scenario. Her parents are ready to disapprove of anyone on any grounds—class, religion, education, looks, height, or weight. Finding a suitable bloke in their eyes would be impossible.

This novel tells of the trials and tribulations of her choice where wry black humor depicts her plight. What is a musical sexually liberated sixties girl supposed to do when she is suddenly deposited in a tightly knit, censorious community within the confines of the Northeast?

Sadly she doesn’t behave well.

Read on and please don’t judge too harshly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728381725

Adrienne Fox

Adrienne Fox is a retired musician who began her literary career reviewing concerts. This is her fifth novel. The other novels are the following: The Retirement, Starstruck, Tit for Tat, and IQ.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

‘Now you’re home, we better sort out some financial arrangements.’ My Mother had produced a bottle of South African Sherry and a packet of cigarettes which was a good sign. It meant that she was having a ‘meeting’ with me as opposed to a dig at the aspects of my lifestyle of which she and my Father disapproved. These were only the ones they had sniffed out; there were plenty of others that I knew would incur wrath and condemnation. It was all too easy for these less savoury elements to generate the bad atmosphere which was the situation I dreaded.

I loved my parents. Despite my Father’s severe moral stances, particularly when it came to sex and my Mother’s freaky control. (I was a ‘Truby-King baby’ trained to instant obedience), they had done their best for me. Without the financial support of Auntie Dora and my own ability to, ‘coin in the odd bob’ working in a concert party up to the age of 16 (the age at which one reached a point when ‘prodigy’ was no longer an acceptable description of a desperate teenager) they had supported me as well as they could after having deducted their own expenses beginning with my Father. A minimum of 200 cigarettes a week, 4 oz of Mintos, Herbal Tablets, and Sphagnum Soap for his dermatitis. My Mother bought 60 cigarettes and the occasional bottle of South African Sherry, or sometimes some Tonic wine.

We sipped our Sherry. ‘Is £10 a week OK?’ I thought I had better start first and set us off in the aura of my largesse. ‘Yes. That will just about cover your bed and board. We had to pull our horns in when I gave up my piano pupils for you to work for your ‘A’ Levels and entrance exam.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that with no hot water, an outside loo and the bed that was bought for me when I was five which was probably worth about £2, a Tenner was generosity personified! I could have gone on to mention that the piano pupils could have been re-started in my three year absence but the saying, ‘discretion is the better part of valour’ rose up from my wary subconscious and saved me from creating the dreaded bad atmosphere. I had already roughly formulated my plans for the all important financial aspects of my tenancy which I thought would demonstrate filial gratitude, but alas! My plans turned out to be even more bountiful on my part than I had calculated because I had simply divided the salary I was to receive by 52 and apportioned a weekly amount. This proved to be more than just a slight error. I knew nothing about income tax or national insurance and when my first pay cheque arrived, emergency tax had been deducted and the ‘stamp’ that I was contributing was at the maximum rate. Instead of the anticipated £61 per month I found I was receiving £45. Over the sherry I had pledged £10 a week for bed and board. Ouch! Not much left over for the high living and low thinking that I had been anticipating. I would have to take a part time job to bridge the gap of my error. Playing pub piano, which I had enjoyed when I was a student away from home, was impossible, even if there was a pub with a piano in the area. Town pubs in the industrial north were very different from London pubs. Most catered for thirsty men who came off a shift at the ironworks or coal- mine and regularly consumed eight pints of draught beer. Quite a few chaps had, ‘One over the eight’ and beer drinking of that kind was an activity that required concentration. Piano music would be regarded as an unwelcome intrusion. My Father viewed any woman who frequented these drinking dens as tarts on the game. The country pubs were different, but without transport I had no hope of accessing any of these posh hostelries. At this point in our history, there was no law about drinking and driving and it was regarded as a nice night out to take the car to a village where a landlord specialised in whiskies that were barrelled in the year of the customer’s birth. It wasn’t a cheap night out and the well-heeled clientele would have been ideal for some live, light, background music. But I knew that playing piano in any pub, even if it called itself a Five-Star Hotel was out of the question on account of my Father’s beliefs. The only other ‘skill’ I could offer was serving in a delicatessen but in this working class area they were non-existent and I would have had to travel by bus to find something in one of the bigger towns. Newcastle or Durham would be the only likely places for Delis. Oh for a car! But my financial circumstances only just covered the daily bus fare to work with the added luxury of a taxi if there was anything important going on in the College. I was, as my Mother would have expressed my situation, ‘In a pickle’! However, against all the odds, I had got My First Job and I was determined to make a go of it.

Before I began my lectureship at the College, in preparation I had to attend an induction week at the County Residential centre for Higher and Further Education.

I wasn’t sure if I was part of, Higher’ or ‘Further’. I just knew that I had the title of ‘Lecturer’ and that was enough for me.

As a lecturer I deemed myself infinitely superior to anyone with the lowly title of teacher. The word alone had beguiled me and I should have had a name badge with, ‘Silly fool’ inscribed in large letters. The inferences of ‘Lecturer’ as opposed to ‘Teacher’ were in my mind hierarchical.

My concept of upward career ranking was as follows; beginning with the ‘lowest of the low’:

1. Baby minder.

2. Nanny

3. Governess

4. Infant school teacher.

5. Primary School teacher.

6. Secondary School teacher.

7. College Lecturer.

8. University lecturer

9. Professor

10. Warden

11. Deputy Principal

12. Principal

13. God.

But I was soon to discover that I was far from alone in my misguided illusion.

The reality of having no concept of the levels of status either between or within academia hadn’t yet struck and as I was driven in the County minibus to the castle that was used for, ‘further educating the already educated’ I permitted myself a preen!

I was shown to a room which was occupied by three other female novice-lecturers.

That was a shock! I had expected something more luxurious in a Castle. The beds were army regulation style and there wasn’t even a wash basin. We had to trudge down stone corridors to locate the ablutions.

Never mind. My room-mates were older than I was and they mothered me most charmingly. We all had differing academic disciplines and the conversation was lively, particularly after we had visited the bar to imbibe a ‘pre-prandial noggin’ and it became even better after supper and further alcoholic lubrication.

The following morning we diverged to our disciplines and I found to my surprise that I was being lectured to by one of my old science teachers from the Grammar School.

He had been renowned for his rapid writing on the blackboard and note-taking had been a nightmare, until we realised he gave a, ‘chalk and shout’, version of a standard textbook.

One of our group’s better informed chaps in the Form acquired the book and we passed it around, carefully copying the standard text that he bellowed at us each week of our Ordinary Level Years.

So now this ‘paragon of teaching’ introduced himself as the Principal of another College in the area and then he began something that was a cross between a rant and a sermon, with the words, ‘Never dictate notes. Always make the notes and hand them out.’ I thought I had gone mad. I thought, ‘You lying bald, fat, old sod.’ ‘You old hypocritical bugger’ and I was almost prompted me to jump up yelling, ‘You never did that’.

But amazement and incredulity had rendered me speechless, which was fortunate!

Then it dawned on me that in my schooldays duplicators were virtually non-existent. The best effort was a Roneo which required a stencil which was placed on the rolling drum. The results were unpredictable and often depended on the speed one turned the handle. I concluded that he must be referring to a wondrous, new invention. Such a leap in technology must have preserved not only his supply of chalk, but also his larynx.

But true to his old style, now he bawled and exhorted us about very little else than the marvels of reproduction, for which I assumed he meant duplication. He bashed on repeating his mantra for around forty five minutes and then he sat down looking pleased with himself.

‘Any questions?’ The Chairman asked.

I sat on my hands and the room remained silent and undisturbed.

At coffee Mr Fraser was standing alone looking somewhat forlorn and I felt a bit sorry for him. My memory had filtered back to the gossip that flew around when he was elevated to his ‘Principality’.

He had a hard time at home and was, ‘hen-pecked’ or ‘under the thumb’.

There had been two other candidates that I knew from my schooldays. Both were better teachers and certainly more personable.

Surely there must have been other candidates from outside the region to dilute the ‘in-house’ selection.

The big question that was working its way around my sinus cavities in the task of looking for a semblance of brain was, ’Why had Mr Fraser been chosen?’

I went up to him and said,

‘Hello Mr Fraser, do you remember me?’

He cut me short.

‘Of course I do. You are Adrienne our Star Musician. What are you doing here?’

After being bestowed the title, ‘Star Musician’ my initial comment,

‘How did you dare get up and say … … ’ was diverted by my vanity. Instead of berating him I answered his question.

About twenty seconds into my explanation I detected a waning of interest in his countenance and I glanced behind me. The Director of Education who had grilled me at my interview was approaching.

‘I’ll see you in the bar later.’ I said as I moved to a discrete distance where I could listen to their conversation. But the Director was a very shrewd gentleman. He took Mr Fraser by the arm and said,

‘I’ll show you the grounds.’

It may have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that the Director winked at me.

I put in my statutory attendance at the course and left wondering why I had been there, in the knowledge that, ‘The Age of Enlightenment’ had not shown itself to me in any form other than chatting with other equally confused servants of the system.

One thing that came to mind when I thought about filling in my application form and that of Mr Fraser’s elevation; was the clause in bold letters, ‘Canvassing is strictly forbidden.’

Mr Fraser or his all-powerful missus must have known some pretty influential councillors and aldermen to land that post. Auntie Dora had told me all about canvassing in the county. She had been looking for a promotion and had applied for a deputy headship. She went to look around the school and was ‘confidentially’ told by a member of the staff to go and see Councillor Mrs X who, for some unmentioned reason, ‘wielded a lot of sway’. My Aunt went to see Mrs X who asked her if she was, ‘a loyal member of the ‘Party’ and what her ‘Co-op store number’ was. Aunty Dora was more than feisty when roused and replied that she wasn’t a ‘political sheep!’ and that she didn’t shop at the Co-op. She withdrew her application knowing that even if in the very unlikely circumstance she was offered the post, she couldn’t have worked in a school that was so obviously on the edge of corruption. She never applied for another post and eventually became deputy head of the school by default where she had begun her teaching career.

But the corruption arrived at her school doorstep in the shape of a gentleman called Mr Lucas. He was related by marriage to one of the ‘Pitmen’s Lords’ - working-class Labour peers who were the most valuable asset to any individual striving for the grandeur of a headship or a leg-up in any of the professions that came within the authority of the County Council.

Each morning Mr Lucas took assembly, very badly, according to Dora and then retreated to his office and was never seen for the rest of the day unless he had to attend, ‘a very important meeting’ out of school. He had acquired a niece as his secretary and she sat in the outer office protecting him from the school environment with its trials and triumphs. She jotted requests and complaints in an appointments book, then allocating a slot in the often distant future for consultation. Invariably the slot was cancelled at the last minute and the school stared into infinity of inaction. The staff nicknamed him, ‘The Presence’, that was until Dora decided she would run the school and ‘To Hell with the lot of them!’ - ‘The lot of them’ being the County Council, the Education Committee and anyone above her in authority who was part of the, ‘Socialist Set-up.’

Strangely no one from the County Education Department noticed the situation. There were no inspections or visits from Aldermen.

I was in a difficult situation.

My two greatest benefactors were Dora and Durham County. I had been interviewed for my County Major Award to go to RAM by an adviser who had also married into a part of the web of family influences. Cosa Nostra paled into insignificance compared to the way things worked in this political climate.

This adviser had granted me the award unconditionally, meaning that I didn’t have to fulfil the statutory ‘A’ level requirements. My Mother had said, ‘You’ve got to get those ‘A’ levels. What has been granted can be un-granted in one simple strike of a pen.’

I saw the logic of her statement and managed to get the ‘A’ Levels to qualify. The County was more than generous. Not only did I have a good grant with a weighted London allowance but also travelling expenses.

I owed my student days and present ambition to the County.

I was treated as; ‘one of our own’ and I harboured a huge debt of gratitude for everything that had facilitated my education.

I had benefitted from the equivalent of the Cosa Nostra environment which had sprung from industrial repression and exploitation where the poor had previously been destined to subtle slavery in mining and heavy industry, primarily because they were denied education.

My Father was born in 1899 and he left school aged ten, because he could fulfil the requirements which entailed being able to, ‘read, write and add up.’

Without the Co-operative and Socialist ideals of a working-class whose intelligence and spirit had been constantly underrated, undervalued and underpaid, I would have followed in his footsteps, namely unskilled and pretty well useless in the expanding 1960’s society.

CHAPTER TWO

The first week of my employment was occupied by enrolling new students and having Union Meetings.

The first Union Meeting was interestingly acrimonious. The authority had decided to tighten up the timetable and ‘informal’ coffee breaks were no longer acceptable. There seemed to have been some considerable abuse of the gentlemanly arrangement and lecturers had been extending their breaks, nominally scheduled for twenty minutes to thirty minutes or in one case, three hours.

Some of the staff were affronted by the implications of the scheduling and cries of,

‘If we was still in industry we’d gan on strike.’ from the lecturers in mining and engineering contrasted with,

‘Come along now gentlemen. Let’s be professional about this.’ Issuing from lecturers in the GVS (General Vocational Studies) which was akin to a Sixth Form College for mature students. Every day for a week we had Union Meetings where progress seemed not to matter and blasting off about injustices, real and imagined was the feeble empowerment of the meetings.

I was very confused. I was told that I had to attend, but I wasn’t in a Union and I didn’t even know the name of the Union that was taking up the valuable time in which I had planned to learn the geography of the establishment and gauge the resources available for teaching.

The evening student enrolment sessions were equally mystifying.

I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I sat at a table and anxious parents, accompanied by a young adult, - often a truculent offspring turned up. The parents arrived presumably after having been fired by the need for education in the family.

Often this was their own manifestation of desire to re-live their lives through their children.

It was usually patently discernible through their bewilderment and anxiety.

A one year course was being launched for mature students who had left school without