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Dare To Dream

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CHAPTER 1

Dream Time

My hometown of Dalry is a small town set in the hills of North Ayrshire in Scotland. In its heyday, it was once a thriving town with woolen and spinning mills that employed most of the people in town. Its claim to fame was that there were more pubs in the town than there were churches. In some ways, the pubs supported the churches for, after a good night's drinking on Saturday night, the celebrants repented on Sunday by filling the churches and putting on their most pious faces to impress others that the demon drink hadn't caught up with them yet!

It also had a very important railway yard and a station, which boasted four platforms. Each platform was numbered but all of the local people knew exactly what platform served their individual needs as to whether they were going shopping in Ayr, Glasgow, or Kilmarnock. When I traveled by train, it was always with great trepidation that I, as a small boy, would apprehensively see this large smoke belching monster approaching the platform that I stood on. I was always told that when an express train came hurtling through the station I would be sucked under it if I stood too near the edge of the platform. With this warning in mind, I was not going to be sucked under any railway engine but, when the locomotive had slowed down in preparation for stopping, I could only gaze at the array of cranks, linkages and valve gear that made up the operational parts of the steam engine. I could never resist the urge to touch all of that gleaming steel and find out what made it work the way that it did, so I always crept as close as I could just to smell the steamy, oily vapor that was blowing out of the steam cylinder glands and drains. When I got too close to my Mother's safety margin, she would yank me back and tell me to behave myself or I surely would be sucked under that great steaming monster. I didn't know it then, but that desire that I had to touch engine parts would, one day, more than satisfy any further yearnings for touching anything mechanical, especially hot steam engine parts.

This fatal fascination never left me, as even today, I love the smell of oily steam and the wheezing sound of the piston rods as they reciprocate through the glands on the steam cylinders. My Grandfather and my Father were both railway men, and being named after my Grandfather, it was expected of me to eventually follow a railway career. However, living in a small town with a big railway station, I soon found out that the only job that I could possibly get was that of a Porter. Now, I have nothing against a Porter and the work that he did, but it just didn't smell of oil and steam.

I was born and raised in Smith Street. There was nothing very attractive about this street. It had three large tenement houses, one or two other smaller houses and four houses that the occupants owned. The latter were significantly upper class and boasted fancy cut glass front doors. Their owners, however, were really very nice people and they treated us kids very well when they would ask us to go errands for them. They always tipped us and we would compare their tipping standards by the thickness of the bread, butter and jam sandwiches that we were rewarded with. I can't recall anyone of us who even got a penny for our efforts. The street also sported a small general store and we loved it when the lady who owned it asked us to do something for her. She always rewarded us with some candy, or sweeties as we kids called them. Apart from an occasional treat from my Mother, that little store would have gone out of business if it had had to rely on our business. Still, it was our little oasis. The one thing that I remember most of Smith Street was that our neighbors cared for each other in a way that, today; most people would not know how to handle. If one of our Mothers were sick, our neighbors would take care of the family until she got back to health. They would cook, clean and make sure that the kids got off to school in the morning with a good hot breakfast in them. This was over and above looking after their families. They were the salt of the earth.

Just around the street corner where we lived, there was another small store that seemed to have come out of a Charles Dickens' novel and the old man who owned it was a penny pincher and was aptly nicknamed Scrooge. He was very short sighted but would never wear eye glasses and he even wore a fez-like cap that was complete with a corded tassel and his nose continually dripped, and he didn't like children who came into his store and didn't buy anything. He stocked some cloth-bound hardcover notebooks and sold them for two pence. It was everyone's pride and joy to own one but we couldn't afford to buy one.

When given a penny for our pocket money, we always asked for two half pennies, the excuse being that two half pennies looked more than one single penny. Living close to the railway, we would trespass on to the railway lines and place our half pennies on top of the rails and sit back on the property wire fence to await the next train that would come along. Waving excitedly to the Driver and his Fireman to allay any suspicions of us trespassing, the men would wave back and after the train passed we would dive on to the tracks and secure our squeezed out half pennies, which had been magically transformed into pennies. We headed back to the old man's store and gave him our "two pennies" and walked out with a notebook. Kids don't have any consciences.

My family consisted of my Mother and Father, my sister Mary, and later my younger brother David and, later still, my little sister Betty. My Mother's Uncle John Craig also lived with us. Uncle John, as we all called him, was a master weaver by his trade and was a wonderful man who showed me how to tie knots and make all kinds of wooden toys. This was a handy thing to learn as growing up in the 1930's, through those awful depression years, my parents could not afford many luxuries; and that included toys! Somewhere in time, I can't recall exactly when, I lost my sister Mary to diphtheria. This was a devastating blow to the family, but being approximately two years old myself, I cannot remember too much about her at all. Even today, I still wrack my memory to try and catch a glimpse of what she was like. I often think that was grossly unfair. In 1936, my Father passed away and two months after his death, my younger sister Betty was born. With world affairs as bad as they were at that time, my Mother had a hard time keeping three kids dressed and fed.

It was then that I made up my mind that I, as the "head" of the house, would change that situation as soon as I had an opportunity to earn some money. Most kids want to be a pilot, or a fireman when they grow up. For me, the smell of steam and hot oil still lingered on in my nostrils. The question that bothered me most was how am I going to achieve this dream of mine?

Growing up in a rural environment, I became a Boy Scout and loved hill walking and camping out. There were very few nooks and crannies that I didn't know about in the hills and valleys around me. My Mother called me a gypsy on many occasions when I would stray from home just to follow my curiosity. I would look at one of the three local rivers that flowed around the town and wonder where it started its journey to the sea. Next thing that I would do was to plan a hiking trip to find its source. It never crossed my mind that it could be many miles long and that I might be camping out for a couple of days or, even more. However, I was always impressed with some of the river's beauty, especially when the river was in full spate. An impressive set of waterfalls on the River Calf was one of the local beauty spots as can be seen in the accompanying photograph. It further intrigued me to know that a cave existed behind the falls and that it was haunted by the spirit of a man who had flung himself over the falls in a fit of depression. I found the cave, but I never found the ghost. This curiosity to find out what lay around the corner soon became an obsession with me. Now, I wanted to find out how I could get to see the world and get paid for doing so. All this at the age of six!!

Even at the age of six, I still had to face reality. The reality was that we were too poor to do anything other than dream. My Mother had ten shillings and sixpence per week for her widow's pension, which was supplemented by taking in other people's laundry and scrubbing doorways in the houses of our affluent neighbors. She was limited to having a total income of twenty-one shillings per week and, if she earned more than that, and the pension office found out about it, they would deduct the excess money from her pension. I always thought that she deserved better than that but, a shilling was a shilling in those days and it could put some groceries on the table. Whatever our financial status was at that time, she always believed in a good meal, three times a day, a good shirt on your back, and a pair of good boots on your feet. The good shirt and the boots came from our local Parish Office and, by wearing these; everyone knew that you were on the "Parish". It was a badge that declared to one and all that we were poor and on public assistance. However, we were grateful for whatever we could get and as the old saying goes "every cloud has a silver lining"; the silver lining for me was that the soles of the Parish boots were lined with steel toe and heel caps and had five rows of steel studs on the soles. They were the best boots for running and sliding on the concrete paving stones on the hilly sidewalks that our little town boasted. The only problem with them was that they never wore out.

Sometimes I could assist the railway deliveryman with his parcels and other bits and pieces that he had to deliver around the town. He was an earlier version of UPS. He used a sturdy Clydesdale horse to pull his delivery cart. That horse was a beauty and looked very regal in its leather and silver livery. When I first started helping the driver, he played a trick on me by having me sit immediately behind the horse's tail. I thought nothing of it and felt very important to be sitting up there with the driver (other kids sat at the tailgate of the cart dangling their legs over the edge), it was only when the horse started to pull with great effort on a hill that I found out why the driver placed me in that position. The horse raised its tail and passed wind with great gusto right into my face. The driver never did laugh out loud but I could see by his shoulders heaving up and down, and his pipe jiggling around in his mouth, that he was having a rare old time to himself at my expense. After that, I dangled my legs over the tailgate swallowing my pride. It was, nevertheless, a little job where I got a lot of tips that gave my Mother a little more illegal financial help and for me, some pocket money. Entrepreneurs have to start somewhere!

* * *

At Dalry Secondary School, I was a fairly good scholar. I loved the art class and the technical drawing class and, even some of the more academic studies. Unfortunately, I hated the mathematics classes and for three years was the despair of Mr. Brown (Cambridge University graduate) the mathematics teacher. I just wasn't interested in that subject and, as we were now at war with Germany, I became the class' Walter Mitty. I would imagine myself in the cockpit of a Spitfire shooting down German aircraft by the score. For some unknown reason that, even today, I swear Mr. Brown had eyes secretly embedded in the back of his head. He could be writing problems on the chalkboard and, without his head even turning around to face the class; he would call out my name and bring me out in front of my classmates. He would dress me down for not paying attention to him and then pull out his strap and pound the hell out of my outstretched hands. He never missed! Being at war, I always pictured Mr. Brown in a Gestapo uniform as he was very Germanic looking with blonde close cropped hair and deep blue eyes and he walked very stiffly. So much so, that viewing him from behind, his walk was almost goose-stepping. Only a twelve year old could picture that!

This lack of interest in mathematics was later to be an impediment to me, and one that I would regret.

It was ironic that Mr. Brown was to be my last teacher before I left school to start my apprenticeship as a budding engineer. After class he drew me aside and asked me what I was going to work as. He looked at me with utter amazement on his face when I proudly told him that I was going to be an apprentice engineer. He sputtered out, "Damn it boy, do you realize that engineering is a mathematical science and, for the last three years, you never passed one of my examinations!" That was the best piece of advice that he could have given me even although it was not complimentary, for up until then, it hadn't occurred to me that it was indeed a job where mathematics played an important role. As part of my apprenticeship training I had to attend night school four nights per week where I had to study mathematics, thermodynamics, physics, and technical drawing. Unfortunately for me, my boss was the cousin of the principle of the night school. He got my examinations' score cards before I saw them and if the results were not up to his standards, he would let me know in no uncertain terms and language that I had better pull my socks up if I wanted to continue my apprenticeship.

Mr. Brown, please take me back!

In the night school classes that I had to take, some of my classmates told me where they were serving their apprenticeships. Prestigious names such as Rolls Royce, John Brown's shipyard and other high ranking industrial companies were bandied around and I was the only one working in a small textile plant that made fishing nets. With this "competition" I felt doomed to remain in a second-class journeyman's role for the rest of my working life and my dreams of becoming a master craftsman seemed unattainable. Now, I knew what the proverbial red-haired stepchild felt like! However, as I settled in to my studies it was becoming very apparent that the larger companies only trained their apprentices in specific areas whereas; I was expected to cover every aspect of engineering tasks. It was very encouraging to me to be asked by my fellow students how to do certain tasks. Later, as a sea-going Marine Engineer, I found myself working alongside some of those who had been trained in the big name companies and had to show them how to operate lathes, milling machines and other machine shop tooling. The most important training that I got was "keep your eyes and ears open and keep your mouth shut". I will always be grateful to those who were willing to answer my questions and show me how to do my job correctly.

Those five years that I spent as an apprentice were some of the worst years of my young life. My boss, Mr. James "Jimmy" Shaw was very demanding and he was relentlessly on my top from morning until it was time to go home. Every Friday, I swore that I would not turn up for work on the following Monday morning. Every Monday morning I punched that time clock again and again. Even my Mother was on Jimmy's side!! It wasn't until my five years of hell were over that it dawned on me that the hard times that Jimmy gave me was his idea of making a man of me. I think, in all modesty, that he did a damned fine job of it, as I felt confident that my engineering skills were honed to a fine edge. Jimmy taught me skills that were not to be found in any textbook and encouraged me to think on my feet and act with confidence in resolving problems. He always told me to look at the problems closely because every problem contained its own answer. Under his watchful eye, I had to make most of my hand tools with the exception of engraved rulers and other such precision measuring tools. I became a blacksmith, toolmaker, carpenter and a general jack-of-all-trades, to Jimmy's way of thinking that was what a good maintenance engineer should be capable of being. Although I did not appreciate his enthusiasm and guidance at the time, I could not but admire him because he just didn't preach, he could do.
(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Dare To Dream by John Robertson. Copyright © 2013 John Robertson. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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