Open Writing

I remember those Royal Air Force pay days. Four hundred raw recruits, lined up in razor-sharp parade lines on cold autumn Thursdays, as names were bellowed out alphabetically by a sergeant.

“…Hinchliffe, P…’’

Out I marched, boots clicking on the tarmac, towards the baize-covered table, behind which sat the paying officer, flanked by non-commissioned assistants.

Salute, announce name, hold out hand, receive the princely sum of 18 shillings.

Of course, we were living “all found’’ in barracks blocks. Free food, free clothing, free lodging.

This was in 1953. Eighteen shillings, or 80 pence in “modern’’ money, doesn’t sound much, but I never felt to be desperately short of cash. There was always enough for a bar of Cadburys chocolate, a pint of bitter and 10 Players cigarettes.

Some time in 1955, while still serving in the RAF, I spent my two weeks’ leave on work experience as a would-be reporter on a Yorkshire weekly newspaper.

“Who are you?’’ asked the chief reporter when I walked into the Batley News office at 8.45 on a Monday morning.

I explained that Mr Lord, the big boss, had said I could spend two weeks in the reporters’ room, seeing how things worked.

“Oh yes,’’ said the chief reporter, “I remember now. Well there’s no point in you sitting around doing nothing. There are notebooks in that cupboard. Grab hold of one and go with our photographer. The Mayor is visiting a kids’ home at 9 am. You can go and do the report.’’

I did. I enjoyed the task. I reported on events on each day of my “work experience’’.

On my final Friday at the Batley News, Mr Lord summoned me to his office.

“They say you’ve done all right,’’ he said. “Wouldn’t want you to go away thinking your work hadn’t been recognised.’’

He handed me a small brown envelope which looked as though it had been through the mail at least half-a-dozen times. It was sealed with a scrap of adhesive paper.

I broke the seal and took out a shabby £1 note.

“I didn’t want to be paid Mr Lord,’’ said I. “What I really want is a job. I finish my national service in October.’’

“Can’t promise a job that far ahead,’’ said Mr Lord.

“Oh. I’m going for an interview with another paper tomorrow morning before going back to camp…’’

Mr Lord’s face remained impassive. “Go upstairs and tell the chief reporter I want to see him. And you come back down here, and wait until I call you.’’

The chief reporter was in the boss’s office for not much more than a minute. When he came out he gave me a thumbs-up, accompanied by a big grin.

I had a job.

And for that job I was paid £4 a week.

Doesn’t sound much now, but on that amount I managed to run a Lambretta scooter, eat egg, beans and chips every day, and buy myself a new sports jacket every year.

Last weekend I was reading an article in a national newspaper: What A Difference 40 Years Makes.

* In 1964 a litre of four star petrol cost 5p. Now it’s 82p.

* A dozen eggs cost 18p. Now they cost £1.49.

* A pint of beer cost 8p. Now it’s £2.15.

However, the average wage in the UK is now 27 times more than it was in 1964.

OK, so we are a lot richer.

But I don’t remember being unhappy when I was on £4 a week.

Or, for that matter, on 18 shillings a week.