One Door Shuts: My Autobiography

Contents

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

TAKE FIVE

TAKE FIVE

Dedicated to Doris & Arthur

My Mum and Dad

Who started it all

To my large and loving family

Who supported me through thick and thin

And to Barbara my wife

Who came along with me

On the journey

Mum, Dad and my three brothers

That’s me centre stage

PREFACE

I have spent a great deal of my life writing fictitious storylines for fictitious characters.

And deciding on their fortunes – or misfortunes. Giving them highs and giving them lows.

And making decisions as to how the highs or the lows will affect them and the people who share their lives with them.

As my personal life has unfolded, I sometimes have almost believed that there must be a storyline team somewhere out there, in some great big storyline conference room, who in fact do write our personal storylines.

Giving us our highs and our lows. Giving us problems and situations that we have to deal with.

And giving us the way to deal with them as each story greatly affects our path through this life.

I certainly have had my share of highs and lows. Of decisions I’ve had to make and situations that I’ve had to deal with.

This book tells the story of my personal path through life.

A path that has introduced me to a kaleidoscope of the most interesting people. The most influential people.

A path full of unusual and often challenging situations and a path that has taught me that for every low, there is a high.

And certainly a path that has taught me that;

When one door shuts – Another door opens.

One of the greatest gifts we can give to another generation

Is our experience, our wisdom.

Desmond Tutu

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would sincerely like to thank Nigel Giles for his inspiring work when he interviewed me for the NFSA archives. His research and probing questions really opened my mind and enabled me to tell this story.

And my sincere thanks to Darren Gray, my agent and personal family friend.

Darren’s encyclopaedic memory and dedication to detail as we have written the story together has been inspirational.

And my thanks to the many people who have helped and guided me on my path through life.

The people who in fact have been responsible for determining my destination in life.

My family, my friends and my colleagues who have been with me as one door shut and another door opened.

My heartfelt thanks to them for their inspiration and belief in me are recorded in the following pages

CHAPTER ONE

My first important door opens

My first door opened into this world on December 28th 1936.

I suppose I was a sort of late Christmas present to Arthur and Doris. A second son for them arriving into this world at number 36 Chipperfield Road, Castle Bromwich, a suburb of Birmingham in England.

My father was part of a very large family. A very close family. And a family which would prove to be a tower of strength to us in later years.

My mother’s family was unknown to us unfortunately. Mum was adopted at birth and led a very unfortunate childhood with her adoptive parents. However, a childhood which taught her many life skills. Life skills which she drew on as our family grew and enabled her to keep going when all would appear to be lost.

I owe much to them both.

I’m not sure what exactly my arrival meant to them. But for me it was the most important day of my life. It was the beginning. The beginning of what was to be, for me, a very full and exciting life.

I don’t remember very much of that day. In fact I don’t really remember very much of my early days.

My first real recollection of those early years is a very vivid one and one which still lives very much in my mind. I was now about four, my older brother John was going on six and by then, our family had grown and we now had a new brother, Robin.

I well remember the gas masks that John and I had to wear, Mickey Mouse gas masks.

Robin however, during air raids had to be tucked up in a device similar to an incubator. It fell to us older boys to keep him alive by constantly pumping a set of bellows in order to provide our baby brother with air.

I think it was me who discovered that, if I stopped pumping the bellows his little arms and legs would thrash around wildly and that he turned a funny colour.

Fortunately I don’t think we starved him of too much oxygen, as Robin grew up to become a very successful Senior Accountant, so the damage we caused was minimal….. Thank Goodness.

The evening had started fairly normally. Mum and Dad had gone out to do their usual evening ARP – Air Raid Patrol duties, walking the streets, making sure that everything was secure in the event of an air raid and that no lights were showing.

I remember we heard the siren that we very often used to hear at that time of the evening. Mum and Dad arrived back in the house and bustled us all down in our pyjamas to our Anderson air raid shelter in the back garden.

We took with us the usual games to play. We had become used to this adventure and quickly became bored and longed for some sort of excitement.

Little did we know that we were in for more than excitement that evening.

I can still hear the familiar sounds of the aircraft as they passed overhead on their way to drop their bombs on industrial Birmingham. I can recall the all too familiar thumps as they dropped their bombs.

I could also hear the sound of the Home Guard Ack Ack guns as they tried to down the enemy bombers.

I can recall, very vividly a sound that I had never heard before. A German bomber overhead as it made its way back to home territory.

But this aeroplane sounded different. Its engines were sort of coughing and spluttering. And it sounded as if it were very low as it approached us. And then I heard a sound I had heard often from a distance.

But this time it was not distant, but very, very close.

The whistle of a bomb as the enemy bomber released its deadly load. It was very close. And very loud.

And then it happened.

Suddenly our Anderson shelter, our safety net, was gone. It took off. It actually landed three doors away in a neighbour’s garden. And left us out in the open.

I can still vividly remember sitting there as the dirt that was held by the walls of the Anderson shelter crumbled all around us.

And I also vividly remember watching our house, which held everything we owned and loved, lighting up the night sky and slowly collapsing in a heap of rubble.

Mum and Dad were very quickly on the scene, obviously very glad that none of us were hurt. I remember being bundled down to a neighbour’s shelter three doors away and having a fitful night’s sleep.

But worse memories were about to be embedded into my mind.

Although people never made a big thing about this, we weren’t sure what ‘war’ was.

But we did realise that the enemy were trying to destroy us and everything that we had and stood for. And I had just witnessed a very good example of this.

But I was now about to realise that the German army was not our only enemy.

On waking up we were dressed in clothes borrowed from our neighbours - our friends. John and I were obviously very keen to see what remained of our house in the cold light of day.

Not very much I’m afraid. What we did see, going through the rubble and what remained of our life, were some of our other neighbours - our other friends.

At first I thought that they were doing us a favour by helping sort out the mess. What confused me was that sure, they were sorting out bits and pieces that were salvageable, but they were actually taking them back to their own homes.

I watched as of one my best friend’s mother rolled up what was left of Mum and Dad’s precious red stair carpet that they had saved long and hard for. And she took it away.

And I saw another man and lady walking away through the dust and rubble carrying our zinc tin bath in which we had our nightly ablutions. But this time the bath was full of Mums beloved record collection.

We learned from the neighbours who were looking after us that these people weren’t trying to help us. In fact they were looting the place before the war damage people that Mum and Dad had gone to see arrived.

A valuable lesson indeed. In times of need, when you need friends and neighbour’s most, can in fact be a time when your friends can become your enemies.

A door I can very vividly remember closing.

CHAPTER TWO

A new life begins

What followed this upheaval was a period of confusion and uncertainty. Mum and Dad had no insurance on the property, so unfortunately as a family we now had nothing.

At first we went to live with Dad’s sister, Aunty Lucy. But she lived much nearer to Birmingham which was a prime target for the bombing of course so Mum and Dad tried desperately to get us further away. I have many broken memories of us squatting in pre-fabs and being moved on. Of being served cold porridge for breakfast in the local swimming pool change sheds. And sharing charity bowls of soup with the homeless and tramps. And of spending many nights in very cold church halls.

We really cherished the few precious times we spent in a real house when Dad’s brothers would have us stay for a few days. And of course we went to many different schools during this time and felt very different from all the other kids. We were ‘squatters’ – we didn’t really belong - and we weren’t ever made very welcome.

But of course this couldn’t go on forever.

Especially as by now, Richard – the fourth brother in the family had been born.

Not the best start in life for that little guy. But again it would appear no harm came of it, as Richard eventually ended up with a successful career as a school teacher.

Ultimately he retired as the deputy headmaster of a very large Comprehensive School back in Birmingham.

The authorities eventually labelled us as evacuees and as a family we were evacuated to a farm at Mousley End, a tiny village in the heart of the Warwickshire countryside.

Mr and Mrs Pickering had opened their doors to us.

They were in fact a lovely couple. They had a son, John, who was a few years older than us and he more than welcomed his four new little brothers. I was to learn a lot about life from John. I have many happy memories of the time we spend with the Pickering’s.

For some reason Mrs Pickering decided that I was destined to be a priest. I think maybe she detected the actor in me. I mean after all, priests and lawyers are the best actors in the world. They can all tell a good story in a convincing way and make people believe them!

Priesthood was obviously not for me. But storytelling and acting certainly was. And Mrs Pickering and Mum both saw this and encouraged me to make up stories and act them out.

I can actually remember one of the first plays that I did write and perform in.

It was about a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman who knocked on the door of this house and when it was opened by the housewife he forced his way in with his vacuum cleaner, doing the big sell all the time whilst not allowing her to get a word in edge wise.

Despite her constant attempts to stop him, he proceeded to trample soot, salt and flour into her carpet and eventually asked her where the nearest power point was.

To his horror she then managed to get a word in and explained what she had been trying to say all along and that was that they weren’t on electrical power!!

I remember acting it out with Mum playing the part of the housewife and eventually doing it at the school end of year concert.

Actually the idea for this story came from us spending so many of our previous months living without luxuries such as electricity.

One day a door to door vacuum cleaner salesman did descend on the Pickering household. Despite many protests from Mrs Pickering, the salesman was determined to make a sale. However Mrs Pickering proved to have a stronger personality and the salesman left, taking his vacuum cleaner with him.

And the idea of a salesman trying to sell an electric vacuum cleaner to a household without electricity appealed to my young mind and the play was born.

Many a storyline that I have written since started life as a real life incident.

Apart from the salesman’s visit, I have many fond memories of our time on the farm.

As I say I learned much from the Pickering’s.

One day John asked me to help him hold a wriggling sack whilst he held it underwater in a tub. I nervously asked him what it was and I was horrified to learn that it contained six newborn kittens that he was drowning.

I suppose the lesson I learnt that day was that there are things in life that just have to be done despite one’s personal feelings.

To me it was a criminal act, drowning five newborn innocent kittens. But to John they were five new mouths that would have to be fed - and in those days of rationing and food shortages that was not possible. A fact of life.

Another more fond memory was of the first Easter that we spent at Mousley End Farm. Even though food was rationed, the Pickering’s managed to get together enough coupons to buy us boys an Easter bunny, or a chicken Easter egg. As far as I can recall this was the very first Easter egg that I had ever received.

But I think the most vivid memory I have of our time spent on the farm was during the late afternoon of what had been a very pleasant day.

I remember Tom Pickering standing in the yard. Everything had gone very quiet.

None of the usual farmyard sounds that we had become used to. There were no birds to be heard, no sound from the horses in the stables.

And Tom was wondering why the cattle were herded together under trees down in the meadow instead of making their way up to the milking shed. Dad had joined us at this time and he and Tom were saying that something was about to happen.

And then it did happen.

I suddenly heard a familiar sound that we had become used to whilst living in Castle Bromwich - a sound which I hadn’t heard since that night we lost our home.

It was the droning sound of aeroplane engines as they made their way to their target.

Tom turned to Dad and said ‘Arthur, I think Coventry is going to cop it tonight.’ Coventry was about twelve to fourteen miles away on the horizon, and was a big manufacturing city for engines and aircraft parts.

Sure enough, the droning got louder and we watched them. Wave after wave of German bombers as they made their way over the Warwickshire countryside heading for Coventry.

And then the other sound I hadn’t heard since early childhood. The sound of the bombs as they hit their target. And we watched late into the night as Coventry exploded into devastation.

We all went to Coventry the next morning and very little was left standing. I was only maybe 8 or 9 at the time, but I remember being totally astounded to see that the one structure that did remain standing was Coventry Cathedral. Sure, it had lost most of its roof and two of the walls were damaged.

But in the midst of total destruction, the Cathedral was standing proud and defiant.

For some reason this made an enormous impact on me and that very building was to much later in my life help further my career in the television industry.

One of the most important aspects about our time spent at Mousley End was that we now had a permanent school that we belonged to. And I have many fond memories of my time spent at Rowington School. Being a very small school and away from the war in many ways it felt like a very safe haven. I made many good friends at Rowington School.

I also learned many lessons.

The school was about two and a half miles walk from the farm. On one very cold winter’s day we were on our way home when I decided to go skating on one of the many ponds that lined the fields that we walked through.

Unfortunately the ice was not thick enough to bear my weight and I suddenly found myself standing hip deep in freezing water. My brother John and a couple of other guys managed to pull me out and that’s when we realised that a slice of the ice had gone through my calf muscle and that my wellington boot was fast filling up with my blood. And we still had a mile and a half to walk home.

It was John who decided that we had to somehow stem the flow of blood. Using his scarf, he tightly bound my leg and between them they helped to support me until we managed to get home and call the local doctor.

Yes, I loved school. I loved the mateship and I loved learning. I wanted to learn and I wanted to grow up.

And that was where my acting career really started - in this tiny village school.

We did many productions. And I was very keen to be part of it. The junior school room was three or four steps higher than the main senior room. I loved it when we rolled back the folding doors that separated the rooms and presented the junior room as a stage. And I have wonderful memories of helping to hang the curtains that formed the backdrop and the wings and unfolding from the floor the red, green and blue float lights that I grew to love so much.

I will never forget my very first appearance. It was in a nativity play. Not the usual stable scene with Joseph Mary and the baby. It was a play about growing up. And I was ‘boy.’

In fact I can still remember my last line.

I can see myself standing there with the red, green and blue lights at my feet - and the indistinct faces of the audience as they stared at me.

I have my youth and strength. I have love and hope in my heart. May God give me the strength to carry this into manhood.

These words - and the feelings that swamped me as the audience complimented me with their applause will remain with me for ever.

Both Mr Jackson, the headmaster and Miss Aylett my class teacher very much encouraged my love of acting. And of course Mum and Dad were very much a part of my choosing this path.

Mum was an active member of the Rowington Players. And Dad would tell the most amazing stories.

During our ‘squatters’ period he would keep our spirits up in many a cold dark church hall with just candles for lighting, with nothing to eat and nothing really to keep us warm except each other. Dad would sit there and tell stories to take us in our imagination away from our plight.

The first time I saw Mum on the stage was when she was playing the part of Miranda the mermaid with the Rowington Players.

I remember copping heaps from my mates who would taunt me because my Mum had grown a mermaid’s tail. Mum was very well known to all of them because she was actually the school cook.

Of course I was encouraged to join the Rowington Players. My first role with them was in the play The Shop at Sly Corner.

I was playing the part of Archie who was an assistant at the shop. At the end of act one the owner of the shop grabs hold of Archie because of some misdemeanour and practically strangles him as he holds him down on a small footstool. Unfortunately the actor who was playing the owner was a confirmed method actor and on the opening night he played the strangulation scene with great vigour and intent.

As the curtains closed and the audience was left with the thought ’has he killed him,’ I lay there with a very sore throat and heard Dad from the front row turn to Mum and because he was slightly deaf, in a very loud voice said Well there you go mother, all we’ve got to do is to collect the insurance.

I remember thinking to myself as I lay there that the audience should not be laughing at that moment in time.

It was around this period in my life that our relatively settled time at Mousley End was destined to come to a close.

I’m not sure why we had to leave, but the authorities decided that we should move to live with a new family.

We found ourselves moving into a very large house in Rowington where a really old gentleman and his two daughters lived.

At first I remember thinking this was a good move. At last we were going to be living much nearer to Rowington School and secondly it was a much larger house with our own virtual living area. However, as I recall our private living area was frequently invaded by Mr Bould’s eccentric daughters.

Unfortunately we had no access to a bathroom as such. There was only one bathroom in the house and Mr Bould and his daughters had that to themselves. I remember on many occasions languishing in the long zinc bath tub in front of a nice warm fire only to be disturbed by one or both of these ladies coming into the room with some complaint or other.

I should perhaps explain that both of these ladies were very odd in many ways. In fact until I got used to them and their odd ways, I used to be quite frightened by some of the things they would say or do.

I remember one day they came into our room looking like a pair of ghosts.

In fact they had made themselves up. But not possessing any make-up as such they had used the flour out of the kitchen cupboard as face powder.

My brothers and I giggled helplessly at the apparition, whereupon these two unfortunate ladies set about us and had to be pulled away by Mum and Dad.

Lottie and Dolly were their names. Names I think I will never ever forget and characters that, given the right circumstances, will end up in a script that I will write one day.

But despite all the hardships, including Lottie and Dolly, I have to say I have very many happy memories of our growing up there.

Although we were now way out in the English countryside and far away from the city and indeed the war, we were still reminded of the fact that we were still at war. And even though we lived in a village I still remember walking home from school along country lanes hoping that some German soldiers were not hiding behind the bushes ready to grab us.

We did still hear the bombers as they made their way over. Oxford took a bad hammering on occasions as Coventry did that night that I shall never forget. And on warm summer Saturday afternoons we would watch the dogfights as they took place way up there in the sky.

I think I knew that they were fighting because occasionally we would see an aeroplane in the distance explode or fall to the ground. Whether it was childish naiveté or the fact that I didn’t want to admit it, I can honestly say it never occurred to me that people were dying at the time.

I was always emotionally stirred by the sound of the Merlin engine that powered the Spitfires as they made their way across the sky. It was a sound that I had fallen in love with years before when we lived at Castle Bromwich before we lost our house and had to be evacuated.

Because it was at Castle Bromwich aerodrome where they built the Spitfire aircraft and trained pilots to fly them. Strangely enough, many years later Castle Bromwich Airport was to become Elmdon Airport and eventually Birmingham International Airport and that is indeed where I was to learn to fly.

Life certainly does go round in nice big tidy circles.

In another incident I remember well, my eventual association with television was hinted at.

We were walking across the fields on our way to school one morning when we suddenly found heaps and heaps of silver foil - long strips of silver foil. We weren’t sure whether we should pick them up or not. We had all been warned about how we had to wear our gas masks and be aware of strange people and strange objects. But hey - we were kids and kids are naturally curious.

So we gathered armfuls of this silver foil and took them to school with us. Mr Jackson the headmaster had no idea what they were for. He told us we should have left them where they were.

When we got home that evening and Dad came home from work I asked him if he knew what all this was in aid of.

As usual Dad had the answer.

He told us that it was as a result of a new English invention called Radar.

This invention enabled England to be able to observe approaching German bombers way before they reached the coast. They were then able to determine where the bombers were headed for.

Obviously the German forces became aware of this and took action to confuse the British Radar.

A German aeroplane would fly over various parts of England scattering this silver foil. As the foil fell through the sky it caused many confusing signals to be traced on the radar screens and the English operators would be unable to determine whether the traces were German bombers or silver foil.

This Radar, a necessity developed for the war effort that I became fascinated with, was indeed an invention that had been made possible due to the development of television. The sending of pictures across the airways using radio signals.

Interestingly, I later learned that the first television to be shown in England was in 1936.

In fact the year of my birth.

So maybe that was an indication of my future path through life.

Born in the same year – maybe television and I were destined to grow and develop together.

As will become obvious later – this certainly proved to be the case.

I was now approaching adolescence. And the fact that I was growing up meant that I was beginning to take more interest in the girls at Rowington School - in particular Barbara Malins.

I remember being attracted to Barbara because her parents used to keep the local post office/village shop at Lowsonford, the village next to Rowington. Of course being wartime, rationing was in force. Each week families were allowed a certain amount of ration coupons which would limit them as to the amount of food, coal and many other items that they were entitled to.

This rationing, unfortunately, also applied to luxuries such as sweets. In fact we boys could not wait for Friday night when Dad would come home with our weekly supply of chocolate toffees, boiled fruit drops and other goodies.

Because Barbara’s mother and father kept the village shop Barbara was able to get a few extra sweets during the week. I discovered that becoming Barbara’s best friend meant a few extra chocolate toffees.

Was it indeed these little extra luxuries that eventually brought Barbara and myself together in adult life in order to share over 50 years of happy marriage?

Fate was in fact going to bring us even closer, because we eventually were to move into our very own new home in a brand-new row of council houses that were to be built at Lowsonford.

But before that was to happen we had one more move. Unfortunately Mr Bould died and Lottie and Dolly found themselves residing at the country’s expense in a nearby mental asylum.

Having left the Bould house, our next home was a little cottage in the grounds of a very large house in the village. Horseshoe Cottage was its name and it was in fact already over 200 years old when we moved in. But we boys thought it was heaven.

We had our own place. We had our own toilet - and I knew that I could now take my bath in front of the fire and retain my modesty.

The people that owned the cottage, Mr & Mrs Lakin-Smith, although very rich and very powerful members of the village society were extremely nice people. They made us as comfortable as possible. But even they had to admit that there was very little they could do about the inch wide cracks in the bedroom walls through which the cold winter’s wind would howl.

The walls were in fact not brick or timber, but a substance known as wattle & daub, a curious mixture of woven wood and mud! A substance that defies repair.

I think it was about this time that Mum and Dad realised that we were now actually being accepted by the village people. Villagers tended to form a very close society and strangers were not welcome. And indeed we were strangers. We were city folk.

But I have to say I think it was Mum and Dad’s honesty and openness and their good humour despite the circumstances that endeared us to this close-knit society.

Dad, who was an electrician by trade, would go out of his way to do any little job for folk in the village.

One weekend he was doing some rewiring for Mr & Mrs Lakin-Smith in their big home. I desperately wanted to have a look at this big posh dwelling and convinced Dad that I should go and help him.

Unfortunately, despite many warnings from Dad that I should be very careful whilst in the loft and only tread on the rafters, I forgot and found myself on the floor below staring at an enormous big hole in the ceiling through which Dad was looking at me.

At least before I received my punishment he did have the grace to ask if I was all right.

The punishment?

No radio and no sweets for a week.

Mum also became very involved in village life. As I mentioned before, apart from the work she did with the Rowington Players drama group she worked as the school cook at Rowington School.

Mum was a brilliant cook. Despite the rationing and lack of good ingredients, Mum’s meals were meals to die for.

And it gave me enormous pleasure to see my mates at school tucking into yet another school dinner that Mum had prepared ending up as a pile of very empty plates.

It was about this time at school that we had to decide on a senior education. In those days the eleven plus exam was in force and all junior students had to take this exam. I desperately wanted to pass it because if I did pass, then I would be able to attend Leamington College.

The reason I wanted to consolidate my education there was because a former pupil of the college was indeed Sir Frank Whittle. And it was Sir Frank Whittle who had invented the very first jet engine.

Because of my interest in aeroplanes I spent many weekends at Honily Aerodrome. It was the nearest aerodrome to Rowington and to my joy was the home of a large Spitfire Squadron.

One Saturday afternoon, after watching the Spitfires taking off I heard a noise that I had never heard before. A noise that filled the air. A kind of screeching, wailing thunderous noise.

It really frightened me.

And then I saw it. This brand new, totally different aeroplane was taxiing out to the runway. But what was causing it to be able to move? This machine had no propeller. In my frightened fascination I couldn’t move - I just crouched and watched.

This noisy, scary machine made its way directly in front of me, lined up on the runway and then all hell was let loose.

What I was not to know was that I had just witnessed a test flight of the brand new Vampire aircraft powered by the first jet engine invented by Sir Frank Whittle.

Unfortunately, I did not pass my eleven plus. Unlike my younger brother, Robin who did pass and indeed did go to Leamington College.

My not passing the exam of course meant that I now had to make a decision as to my future. I had always been interested in writing and so the logical move would be for me to go to a commercial school and learn shorthand and typing.

My older brother John, who also failed his eleven plus, was now attending Sparkhill Commercial School and it was decided that I would follow in his footsteps.

I had already made up my mind that I was going to become a senior reporter on one of our local Birmingham evening newspapers.

But more of that later.

Life at Horseshoe Cottage continued.

Of course there was no electricity in the cottage. And so we were back to candles and Mum had to cook on an old wood fired Aga stove. For entertainment we listened to a battery radio which was powered by an accumulator - a very heavy powerful battery that Dad had to pick up each Monday evening from our local garage where it had been re-charged.

One Monday night when he came home he told us that he had forgotten to pick up the accumulator and would do so on Tuesday the next night.

Being young and very selfish, we boys pestered Dad, telling him that we had to have the radio that night because Monday Night at Eight was one of our favourite weekly programmes.

It says a lot for my father who had left home at six o’clock that morning, cycled two and a half miles to the railway station, completed ten hours work in a factory before cycling back home, that without question, he got back on his bicycle and cycled the five mile round trip in order to pick up this very heavy accumulator in order to accommodate our selfish needs.

And not one word of complaint.

I mentioned before that Dad had a great sense of humour which kept us going through many a hard time. But it was a sense of humour that sometimes didn’t quite work.

One very cold winter’s night, I was looking through the cracks in the wall wondering how deep the snow would be in the morning. I snuggled down in my nice warm blankets when Dad and Mum came in to say goodnight.

It was then that Dad said a very strange thing. He said Alan my boy, you know that I love you - but I have to tell you that after tonight I won’t be seeing you again until next year.

He left the room. I was devastated.

I wondered if it was anything to do with the war. I cried myself to sleep as I thought that after everything we’d been through, how unfair it was that Dad was going to have to leave us to go and fight the Germans.

That was the only reason I could think of as to why he would be leaving.

It wasn’t until the next morning when I realised two things. Firstly there was at least two feet of new snow and secondly that Dad was there having breakfast.

I was of course delighted that he was still with us – but confused after his comments the night before. As I stared speechlessly at him, he looked me straight in the eye and said Happy New Year Son.

I could have killed him.

As time went on and we were all growing up I began to realise that the war that was still raging was affecting us less and less. Other events that were having an impact on our lives pushed the war into the back of our minds.

I learned one very valuable lesson that actually helped me when, later on in life, I became a shop steward and represented the ACTT technicians union at Associated Television.

Dad had a job at a big industrial factory in Birmingham. He was a skilled electrician.

Unfortunately one day as he crossed the yard to go to his workshop, a crane cable broke and a large piece of metal fell hitting him on his back. He ended up badly hurt and was taken to hospital.

Another setback had hit the Coleman family.

Once again it would appear that we were without money or means. Dad was not going to work for a long time. The company that Dad worked for accepted no responsibility and he was, according to them, not eligible for any form of compensation or hospital expenses.

It was then that I learned the real meaning of the word Trades Union. Dad told us boys this story one evening when we visited him in hospital and he had just been given the news from his shop steward.

In those days being a member of a Trades Union was indeed what the title suggested.

A union uniting the workers together.

Each week every member would donate their threepence into the kitty. If and when a member found themselves in trouble, then this kitty would be there to help support him and his family.

In Dad’s case the union backed his claim for compensation and hospital expenses and the case was won.

Not only did he receive ample compensation, which helped us through some difficult times, but the union insisted that he was given a lighter job once he returned to work.

In fact he decided not to return to the industrial life in Birmingham but secured a position which he enjoyed for the remainder of his years as an electrician at the local hospital in Solihull.

Unfortunately the Trades Union movement got out of hand and its original concept has been well and truly lost. Gone are the days when each threepenny bit went into a kitty to help an unfortunate member in times of trouble.

I have to say that perhaps it’s a little odd that I should have secured a career in the television and film business when in fact, because of our location in the middle of the Warwickshire countryside, we had no access to film theatres and there was obviously no television.

But of course progress didn’t stand still.

Mum and Dad had done various bits of work for a lovely couple in the village called Mr and Mrs Waring.

Television had been around for a number of years, but in the early days the signal was not available in country areas. But the time came around when television was now available in Rowington and Mr and Mrs Waring had purchased a television set with a round, small nine inch screen.

They invited us over and I remember being transfixed by watching pictures that came from nowhere as we were entertained by one of George Formby’s earlier films. A miracle in my eyes - and little did I know that this medium was going to give me the most rewarding and fulfilling career that anyone could wish for.

I had also reacted with the same amazement the day I was taken to my first film experience.

Our city cousins had invited us to stay with them for Christmas. On Boxing Day they were going to take us to the pictures. This was when I was much younger of course - as I recall about five years old.

Being a smart five-year old I didn’t wish to appear ignorant so didn’t make any enquiries as to what going to the pictures entailed. In fact I remember thinking that it was probably just a big room with lots of pictures around the walls.

Imagine my feelings when these enormous curtains opened and there in front of me were these larger than life people - moving and talking.

I was gobsmacked.

The film was The Wizard of Oz - perhaps not the first film a naive five-year-old should be watching. What was worse, once I had got used to seeing these larger than life people telling their story in black and white - you can imagine my mix of emotions when these people suddenly turned into bright technicolour people.

I left the cinema with many mixed emotions.

I don’t remember watching very many other films during my formative years. Only one really sticks in my mind. Barbara and I and a few other friends had spent the day in the local town of Leamington Spa. I think we’d actually been to the local swimming pool, which we always found a pleasant change from taking a dip in the dirty Stratford upon Avon canal which ran at the bottom of Barbara’s garden.

As we were cycling on our way home that evening we noticed that the hall in a nearby village, Shrewley, was presenting a showing of the film Anchors Aweigh.

Having checked in our various kitty’s we decided that we had enough money in order for us to complete our day’s entertainment. I really enjoyed the film.

Little did we know however that Mr Jock Masson, the local policeman was on his bicycle scouring the various villages trying to locate us for our by now very worried parents.

On an instinct he wandered in to Shrewley Village Hall and to the consternation of the remainder of the audience proceeded to herd us all out and on to our bicycles before escorting us home.

It was around this time in my life that two new changes took place. Firstly it was time for me to leave Rowington School and I was about to follow John, my eldest brother into the commercial world and complete my education at Sparkhill Commercial School.

The other major event which coincided with this was the fact that Warwickshire Council had decided to build some new council houses at Lowsonford. Mum and Dad applied for one of the houses and to our great delight we were given the keys to 7, Giffard Terrace. At last we had our very own place, with our very own rooms and the privacy a family should expect to have without sharing all aspects of one’s life with other people.

A luxury we had not had since all those years ago when we lost our home at Castle Bromwich.

The other high note of this move of course was the fact that Barbara was now a mere stone’s throw away just down the road.

Because we now lived much nearer to each other, we became much closer. And it was during this time of my life that I was once again reminded of the impact the two words ’If Only’ can have on your life.

After all,’ if only’ that aeroplane hadn’t suffered damage to its engines and had managed to deliver its bombs to its target, we could still be living at Castle Bromwich. And ‘if only’ Mum and Dad didn’t have to go to the bomb damage people the next morning, then perhaps they wouldn’t have lost all their belongings.

Life is indeed full of ‘if onlys.’

And at this moment in time I was about to experience yet another ‘if only.’

Barbara was due to go to Birmingham on a particular Saturday. She was to meet her Auntie Phyl and I think they were going to buy some new clothes for Barbara. I decided that I wanted to go with them. Barbara wasn’t very keen; after all they were only going to go to girls clothes shops. But - hey - who cared, it would be a day in the big city. And so I insisted that I would go with her.

We cycled to the station, caught the train, met Auntie Phyl and I tagged along as we went to shop after shop after shop. All on a very wet day.

I was still very keen on acting at this stage of my life. Appearing in as many plays at school as I could and I was still a very active member of Rowington Players.

It so happened that a couple of weeks before our day out, Mum had read an article in the local paper stating that Michael Benthall, an eminent Shakespearean director, was looking for a boy to play the part of Puck in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream to be produced at the Royal Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford upon Avon.

And of course it had to be on that very wet Saturday that Mum got a ‘phone call from the theatre informing her that Mr Benthall was at the theatre that day and he would like her to bring me along for an audition.

Mum told the theatre that I was in Birmingham for the day but that she felt sure she could contact me and would bring me to Stratford, which in fact was only about eight miles away from Lowsonford, as soon as possible.

To her delight they said that Mr Benthall would be more than happy to conduct the audition providing we could make it before five o’clock in the afternoon because he was leaving for London at that time.

Oh for the days of the mobile phone!!!

Mum rang all the shops she thought we would be at; she rang the railway stations and left messages. She tried everything to try and contact us. She was determined that I was going to make that audition.

If only.

Mum rang the theatre as soon as I set foot in the door but unfortunately they informed her that Mr Benthall had already left and was on his way to London.

Later that year we all went to the theatre in order to see a performance of The Wind in the Willows. After the performance we went round to the stage door and Mum enquired whether Mr Benthall was in the theatre by any chance.

To our surprise, we were told that he was and when we explained our situation he very kindly came down and met us. He told us that he had been forced to cast a small adult for the part of Puck being unable to find a suitable juvenile.

He was kind enough to say that he felt I would have been perfect.

If only indeed…. It certainly could well have meant a new life for me.

In the meantime, Giffard Terrace certainly was offering us a new life.

Apart from being a brand new home with a water closet toilet in a bathroom instead of a bucket in a hole in an outhouse down the garden, it certainly gave me the feeling that at last a sense of normality had returned.

And as I’ve said, my time at Rowington School had come to an end. I think the headmaster, Mr Harry D. Jackson, summed things up pretty accurately when he wrote on my end of school report ‘Do not expect Alan to find a career in any normal 9-to-5 occupation.’

On reflection of my career path over the years how true this proved to be.

And so it was a new uniform, a new two and a half mile bicycle ride to the railway station and a very different way of life. Sparkhill Commercial School was in the big city of Birmingham.

I was no longer a country kid.

I thoroughly enjoyed my three years at Sparkhill Commercial School. My ambition to be a reporter was still uppermost in my mind and so I dedicated myself to mastering the fine art of shorthand writing. I really loved the