The Wage Freeze 1967
Thursday, May 20th, 2010It was the spring of 1967, the wage freeze brought in by the Labour Government was at its height, which was no good to a thrusting young man like myself and Barbara Castle, the Transport Minister, had brought in the Road Traffic Act that introduced us all to the breathalyser. I was working for John Laing Construction and I took the chance on a transfer to North Tees General Hospital in Stockton on Tees, which was in its construction phase, hoping the lodge (money given for working away from home) and a few other little financial rewards would see me through this lean spell. This move was another step up the ladder, for which I doubt that my immature self was ready for, but as they say money talks.
Although away from home and having to rely on one wage instead of my accustomed three with my part time jobs, I was enjoying myself. For most of the time I lived in Durham Town, having spent the initial period in various digs in Stockton and Sedgefield. The first night in Stockton I had been given the telephone number of lodgings on the A177 which I rang and put on a bit of a show, telling them of my advanced position on the staff of John Laings and were there any vacancies? “Come along pet and we’ll fix you up” was the lady’s reply.
Imagine my shock after reporting to this house. I was shown a bedroom with seven single beds in it and no vacant floor space. I was pointed to one in the corner and told to make myself at home and to come down to dinner, immediately. I went into the dining room where there was a large table with about 20 men sitting round it and they all looked as though they had not washed for a week. They were employed as mechanical engineers, fitting out the expansion of ICI Billingham, a large chemical works up the road. Beds were at such a premium, the kitchen had been converted into a bedroom and an open ended timber lean-to had been attached to the back of the house and cooking facilities installed.
The first sitting, of which I was one, were fed and we left the table leaving white circles on the tablecloth at every seat where a plate had sat. The area around the plates had suffered grease and oil damage from the unwashed hands of these men. It was not their fault, there was no washing facilities in the house, only beds. Off to the pub they went returning at 11.oopm to bed, no wash and up at 6.00am for work. The night’s drinking fluids was shot out the window as each man felt the need. I did not sleep a wink with the toing and froing and the snores out of every manjack of them.
I signed out next morning, never to return and spent the next few weeks in the comfort and security of a brand new YMCA hostel in Stockton. Stockton was not the best of places and most of the lads I was working with lived north of the town, so up I moved to Sedgefield into fairly reasonable accommodation. This place is now immortalized as being the parliamentary seat of Tony Blair, but then it was a sleepy little village with a laid-back socialist MP. I became friendly with him having met him at the bar of a local pub.
He had been to Oxford before the war, a contemporary of Harold Wilson at Jesus College. He often used to talk of Wilson pacing up and down his college rooms knowing that politics was his barrow but not knowing which party to join. So much for left and right. Wilson was the forerunner of centre politics so much enjoyed by Tony Blair and New Labour. I presume Nick Clegg, the Liberal leader in this new coalition had the same dilemma.
After a month or so in Sedgefield the bright lights of Durham came beckoning. Durham was a university town with a council set in the dark ages. A local bylaw forbade the presence of launderettes, so we had to drive six miles to Chester le Street to wash our clothes. Durham Town at that time was also the centre of a vast mining area and the aldermen of the town thought that the introduction of launderettes might make it too easy for the women. We youngsters and students had no women round us, none that would wash clothes that is.
The Miner’s Gala was the high spot of the year. It was a massive celebration of the political power of the mining unions. There used to be a grand march with each colliery having a float flying their own banners, all fulminating in a fiery speech by the leader of the Labour Party. Their day however was to be shortlived Ted Heath and Maggie Thatcher were on the horizon and Durham finally got its launderettes, but long after I left.
We used to drink Nimmo’s 4X, an explosive brew from Hartlepool, in a pub opposite Durham Jail, called The Dun Cow. The prison officers going on and coming off duty regaled us with stories of the prisoners, one notable one being Ian Brady, the Moors Murderer. Weekends were spent at and around the homes of a group of lads I got to know in Durham, who all lived out in the mining community of Ushaw Moor. The two hours previous to the Sunday lunch were spent in Ushaw Moor Working Men’s Club sinking about 12 pints of Federation beer with the fathers of these lads and then it was off to one of the houses for a slap up feed from their mothers who had pity on me “awah frae yam”. Which means “away from home” in Durhamese. There was always three vegetables on the plate along with potatoes and lumps of roast meat, I had never eaten so well. Of all the places I worked in and around England, this place impressed me the most for its kindness and generosity.
The political chaos was getting worse and there was no let up in the wage freeze. I applied for a job with Costain Civil Engineering and after an interview at Selby Power Station in North Yorkshire, I was accepted as an Assistant Quantity Surveyor on twice the money I was receiving from John Laing.£2,000 per annum or £40 per week, with the lodge I was loaded once more. It shows you how long ago that was as I was reading somewhere recently that the Generating Board or whatever they call themselves these days were closing that power station down. It was a brand new, state of the art, station then.
When I handed my notice in John Laing’s Chief Quantity Surveyor, John Renshaw, came up to see me, offering more money and ways round the political impasse. He was a nice man who played the trumpet in the Salvation Army band in Mersey Square in Stockport every Sunday morning and went on to become the managing director of the company a few years later, one of the very few bosses I ever had any time for. However I thought his offer was too late. If they had wanted to retain my services they should have thought of these detours round the laws before now. I thanked him for his kind offer but still left.
The late 1960s and early 1970s was the decade in which most of our motorway system was built and Costain and the Fairclough/Alfred MacAlpine consortium were at the forefront of the firms vying for these lucrative contracts. I was sent onto their Advanced Bridgeworks contract at Swinton, north of Manchester. There were bridges over the River Irwell, at the Robin Hood interchange, over the A666 and a really complicated one over the A580 East Lancashire Road. This was a contract let before the main motorway, the M62 came through. The date was April 1968 and I was in my third job since leaving school in September 1963. I was 22 years old and earning more than my father ever earned.