Away in a workshop
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Edinburgh, 1941
THE DATE was December 25, 1941. In Edinburgh pedestrians wasted little time window shopping although Princes Street had put on a brave show in spite of shortages and rationing. Intending bus and train passengers tried to keep warm while they awaited the arrival of the familiar maroon and brown vehicles of the City Transport.
In the depot of Albion Motors, in Dunedin Street, mechanics and apprentices tried to find excuses to work at the benches near the long inspection pit, where four Valor oil stoves gave at least an impression of warmth. Even so, little pools where radiators had been drained had turned to patches of ice.
Ben, the foreman, put the phone down in the spares store and began checking the job cards in their racks beside the time clock, Someone had to attend a breakdown.
The war had brought full employment to the Albion depot and now the problem was not how to find repair work but how to avoid turning customers away.
Ben made his decision. "Bob, there's a KL127 broken down at . . 's Brevery. It's probably a half-shaft, but you'd better take an exchange diff. Take young Tinsdale with you and use the 'Breakdown'. I canna let ye' have the van 'cause it'll no be back fur anither hoor or so. Anyway, if ye have tae bring the lorry in, Tinsdale can steer, he's got a licence."
The Breakdown was a five tonner of 1920s vintage with a windscreen but no side windows to the cab. It was as a general hack when the little 8hp Morris van was unavailable.
Normally, an outside job was a welcome change from workshop routine to an apprentice like myself. The possibility of being allowed to steer a vehicle on tow was an added bonus only possible since peace-time regulations about driving licences had been relaxed.
Today was different. The very last thing we wanted to do was struggle with numbed fingers to undo propeller shafts and lift out heavy differentials.
Excuses were no good. I was sent to try to coax the old lorry into life: fill the radiator with kettles of near-boiling water; flood the carburettor; set the hand-throttle and magneto levers on the quadrant on the steering column; check the transmission handbrake on and gear lever in neutral then round to the front to turn the engine on the starting handle until compression is felt. A heavy swing of the .handle and . . . nothing!
On to compression again, another hefty swing . . . and still nothing! Eventually, and with the aid of hot water over the inlet manifold, the engine reluctantly started. I climbed into the cab, pushed the heavy gear lever into first (the gear oil must have been nearly solid) and, releasing the brakes, moved into position outside the big sliding doors.
Bob was waiting with his bits and pieces and, helping him load the replacement diff unit on to the platform, we stowed the remainder in the cab. I climbed into the passenger seat, and scrounged a cigarette from Bob.
"How is it you laddies never hae ony fags o' yer am?" he said as we settled down for the journey.
The disabled lorry belonged to a haulage contractor from Leith and it was already fully loaded with a cargo of beer in casks, all destined for the thirsty period of Hogmanay fast approaching. Even in those days, the usual Christian festivals of Good Friday, Easter and Christmas were treated as normal working days in Scotland although children eagerly awaited the arrival of Santa Claus.
The driver of the vehicle had sensibly settled himself in a nice warm "bothy" off the Brewery Yard.
The half-shaft bolts were withdrawn and hammering on the wheel boss soon enabled us to prise the caps clear of the dowels. The nearside shaft was broken at the differential end but despite efforts with a long bar and a big hammer, the broken section was stuck firmly in the diff and refused to budge. Nothing for it but to remove the overhead worm diff unit.
Laden as the vehicle was, the springs were nearly at full deflection reducing even more the limited space under the body. While I unbolted the centre bearing, Bob removed the four propshaft bolts at the diff flange. We pushed the two-section shaft back on the splines to swing it clear and tying it to the side of the chassis, we began the frustrating task of removing the differential unit.
While the gold-flecked, sticky brown oil, like treacle in the cold, was draining off, we finally removed all the locknuts and main nuts. As always, the gasket between the diff and axle casings held the gear unit "glued" in position and our joint efforts to free the heavy unit had no effect. Bob, lying down with his shoulders firmly supported on the tarpaulin-covered ground, got both heads on the wormshaft flange and pushed upwards with all his might while I helped. The diff broke free with a rush. The crowbar jumped from my hands and I drew blood from two knuckles; Bob, though, was spluttering and gasping.
As I joined him, it was clear what had happened. As the diff had come away, a large piece of oily, frost-moulded mud had fallen straight into his open mouth.
Set on the brewery wall above a small drain was a common brass tap at which brewery workers filled their mugs.
"Quick," spluttered Bob, "there's a tin mug in the cab. Get some water afore ah die frae this muck." I turned on the tap and to my surprise, a brown frothy liquid poured out: good Scottish Pale Ale, not water! Bob took a large mouthful, and swilled the liquid nois ily around his mouth before spitting it out on the cobbles.
He repeated the process then took a more appreciative swig. Smiling, he wiped his moustache. "Frankie-boy," he grinned, "awa an' get a refill afore we go dean again."
Then we lifted the dirty, oildripping axle gear out on to the old sack I had placed in readiness. Pulling the sack with its load clear of our working area, I clambered out to get the new oil-seals and gasket we must fit before installing the replacement cliff, but Bob's arm appeared, the empty mug in his fist. "Get me a fill-up laddie, it's rare stuff, this."
i was graciously allowed to stagger across from our Albion Breakdown to the disabled lorry and. with considerable strain, lower the exchange cliff to the ground. Bob was by now in a very good mood and he helped me lift the diff unit into place and settle it on the studs. I then concentrated on recoupling the propshaft and centre bearing and refitting the old and new axle shafts. At last it was done. Conscious now of my bleeding knuckles, broken nails, bruised head and generally filthy muddy condition, I packed up our gear and stowed it away on or in our old Albion.
I hauled the now totally inebriated Bob to his feet and, propping him against the side of the beer lorry, I extracted the job sheet from his pocket and made my way to the comfort of the bothy to find the driver. With a borrowed stub of pencil the driver signed our job sheet.
Bob.was now thoroughly malleable and without too much difficulty, I got him to stagger across to our own transport. "You'd better let me drive," I said. After setting the throttle and magneto levers, I turned the starting handle until I felt compression and gave a mightly heave.
The brute kicked back, Like anyone used to using a starting handle, I had avoided hooking my thumb over the handle so I escaped the otherwise inevitable broken wrist. The handle, though, had come back with such force that the heel of my right hand was stinging even as the heavy brass-covered metal completed a reverse swing to catch me a resounding thwack on the inside of my left knee.
Leaping in pain, I rounded the bonnet to see Bob sitting in the driving seat and busy fid
dling with the quadrant levers. Obviously, he had fully advanced the ignitition lever just as I was about to swing the engine. All the pain, discomfort and sheer frustration boiled over in me.
During the 18 months of my apprenticeship I had learned eVery foul epithet in the lexicon of the Albion mechanics. For the first time, I put them to full use. A shocked look appeared on Bob's face. "Frankie lad, whit wud yer faither say if he could hear yer language? Ah ken, laddie, it's a' mah fault. You drive us hame an' ah'll no bother ye any mair the noo!"
I reset the two fevers on the steering column and the old lorry started up on the first swing. I turned the wagon and set off thankfully for the Albion depot.
Driving was a tricky busineSs on the slippery granite setts which paved most of Edinburgh's streets and it was not made easier by the snow now falling white heavily. Twice I let one of the rear wheels run on a tram line and the resulting skid when I tried to change direction had the lorry slithering as I gained control. Sob was slumped in the corner.
As we neared the depot, I had been wondering how I could park the lorry and smug
gle Bob in so as to make it appear he had driven back and, at the same time, disguise his tipsy state. As I turned into the yard gates of the depot, the big workshop doors stood wide open and Ben, the foreman, saw us approach. He signalled us in and his jaw dropped as he recognised me at the wheel.
The foreman extended an arm and a podgy finger. 'Whit's the laddie daein' drivin' the lorry? Whit's the meanin' o' this?"
I had stopped the lorry and now I hurried round the front of the bonnet. "I asked Bob for a shot of the wheel," I began.
no talkinr tae you, Ah'rn takin' tae him," said Ben. Bob smiled at Ben and staggered down from the cab. "Aye, tha's it," said Bob. "The laddie asked fur a shot o' the wheel. Weel, wur ye no' a laddie yersel, Ben? So Ah thocht, Ah'll gie Frankieboy a wee present an' let him hae a shot at drivin'. Is that no right Frankie-boy?"
He turned towards the corner of the shop where the toilet stood, and gave us a wide grin. "Ach, think about it Ben. It's Christmas Day, i'n't it?
"Merry Christmas Ben, Merry Christmas!"
0 by Frank Tinsdale