# Story Time



## Harry Nicholson (Oct 11, 2005)

After 61 years there remain a clutch of memory images of my time at sea. One memory is of resigning from Marconi's at Hull in 1956. I'll paste the first draft here. I've written a story around the bare details of what I recall. I've distinct memory of the fight outside Polly's Bar, of the call sign issue in Marconi's waiting room, and of facing the manager across his desk when I resigned. The rest is a lot of dressing up to make a story. 
I've used the actual call sign of a Harrison boat that probably was nowhere near Hull on that day. That's a distortion of history that I might reconsider. But there are plenty of distortions in 'Wolf Hall' - and many more from Willy Shakespeare's quill . . .

Please feel free to point out flaws and inconsistencies:


Next day, as we approach the estuary of the River Humber, I make up my mind. I've been thinking about my career and concluded, since that unfortunate encounter in Singapore with VAT 69 whisky, it is in poor shape. Since the fine troopship Dunera, I've been Shanghaied onto a Jimmy Nourse tramp and had to threaten my way free of two years on her, only to find I'm aboard this crazy coal boat trundling around the Holy Ghost (I've picked up collier slang for the UK Coast). How long will it go on? I'll put a stop to it.
It's 1600 hours when we tie up at the coal staithes of Hull. I hurry ashore to find a telephone box. Everywhere in Britain the phone boxes are GPO red, but in Hull they are white -- how strange. (The GPO have never owned the telephones here.) I dial the number for South Shields Merchant Navy College, where I studied for my 2nd Class PMG certificate of competence to operate a ship's radio station. I'm overjoyed to learn I'll be accepted onto the three month course to upgrade my qualification to 1st Class. It begins in four weeks time. Hurrah!
This news deserves a night out. I go ashore with a couple of the crew. The pubs are brightly lit and noisy with salty revelers. Hull is packed with cargo steamers, of many flags, and the fish docks bristle with the masts of trawlers landing cod from the seas around Iceland -- so money flows across counters into the tills of happy publicans. 
After an ale or two in The Duke of Wellington, and a couple more in The Empress, we head down a side street for The Paragon. Apparently The Paragon is the place to be. It's known locally as Polly's -- indeed, there is a painted image of an Amazon Green parrot on the pub sign outside the entrance. It's impossible to find a way through a swaying circle of men, and a few women, gathered beneath the parrot. There's heaving and pushing as the fist-fight at the centre comes and goes. The crowd rushes back into the pub as two policemen arrive. Now we can see the combatants. One is sprawled on the stone flags of the pavement and the other is trying to help him to his feet. The police are asking for names.
The lanky man now has his opponent on his feet and supports him with an arm. He addresses the police with a rich American, Southern States, accent. 'We want no trouble with ya'll. This guy is my best friend.'
A helpful bystander points to a few teeth on the pavement. The lanky man collects them up, carefully puts them in his friend's coat pocket, and turns to the police. 'I'll get these teeth put back in ma friend's head. Now, sirs, if you don't mind, we'll quietly amble back to our ship.'
In the morning, after a foaming glass of Andrews Liver Salts that *****s the nose and restores the will to live, followed by tomato juice, and a helping of porridge, I set off for the local office of my employer, The Marconi International Marine Company.
The small waiting room is full. About a dozen men seated, in navy macs (it's swishing down with rain today), and a couple standing. I look around at the faces, young and mature. No fancy passenger liners call at the port of Hull -- these are men from tankers, deep-sea cargo tramps, coasters, whaling ships and big trawlers. There's scraps of slow conversation in the thin tobacco fug. I detect a general air of disaffection.
A wooden loudspeaker hangs just below the ceiling. It begins to tweet out a British ship's call sign. One man knocks the dottle out of his pipe and leaves the room. Ten minutes later, another burst of Morse, another call sign, and a man rises.
The conversation wanders around the room. 'Who are you with?' -- 'Hogarth's of Glasgow.' -- 'Ah, Hungry Hogarth's -- that's a bugger.' 'And you?' -- 'Harrison's, out of Liverpool' -- 'Baron boats! Why, man, that's just as bad. Two of fat and one of lean.' There are wry grins and a few laughs. Seamen understand the reference to the red and white bands on Harrison funnels.
A chap removes his pipe and begins to croon a parody of Harry Belafonte's latest:

Brown skin girl stay home and mind de baby
Brown skin girl stay home and mind de baby
I sail away on de Harrison boat
And if I don't come back
Stay home and drown de baby

Another takes up the refrain but is interrupted by a burst of tinny Morse from the little loudspeaker. Men look around, but nobody rises. Five minutes go by. We read our newspapers, some chaps pencil around the names of horses that will run this afternoon. The speaker comes to life with the same call sign. GTYD is keyed very slow, in a manner that we recognise as intended sarcasm. 'Oh, deary, deary me,' someone mutters. Nobody moves. The call sign beats out again, GTYD, over and over again, fast and furious this time.
After a while the door opens and the office manager's moustached face peeps in. 'Is Baron Douglas here?' There's no response. 'Is Mr Elliot in the room?'
The Harrison man folds his newspaper. 'He is.'
The manager sniffs. 'Can't you recognise your ship's call sign?'
'I certainly can. And I can key it better than thee. But, I do have a name. If you want to see me, then use the name I had when I joined this bloody outfit.'
After that, there is no more work for the loudspeaker. The manager opens the door and politely asks for each of us by name.
At his desk, he passes a hand over his face. 'It's August tomorrow and I don't know what we're going to do, I've had five resignations already this week.'
He slouches and looks as though he's short of sleep. I begin to feel sympathy for him.
He straightens his back and blinks once or twice. 'So, you wish to resign, Mr Nicholson. Why is that?'
'In September I'm going back to college to upgrade my ticket to 1st Class.'
'That is commendable. I hope you are successful and I hope you return to Marconi's. We tend to place 1st Class tickets on quality vessels, such as Cunarders and other passenger liners.'
'Corburn is here to load coal. She'll sail in five days. I won't be on her.'
'I know that. I'm informed you are due paid leave; fifteen days, including those earned by Sundays at sea. There's no point in you staying aboard. We'll get you signed off tomorrow. Your present employment expires at the end of your leave. I hope you come back to us.'
We shake hands, and I walk out with a spring in my step. 

(MV Corburn was sold to Greek owners in 1972. She was renamed Aigeorgis under the Cypriot flag. Scrapped at Brindisi, Italy, in 1979)


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## tsell (Apr 29, 2008)

Great reading, Harry - more please!(Thumb)

Cheers

Taff


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## Troppo (Feb 18, 2010)

More.


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## cueball44 (Feb 15, 2010)

'Polly's' was not 'Paragon'. 'Polly's' was further down the street opposite what was the then 'Tivoli Theatre'. Where Arthur Lucan 'Old Mother Riley' died backstage. Tell us more. (Thumb)


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## Harry Nicholson (Oct 11, 2005)

cueball44 said:


> 'Polly's' was not 'Paragon'. 'Polly's' was further down the street opposite what was the then 'Tivoli Theatre'. Where Arthur Lucan 'Old Mother Riley' died backstage. Tell us more. (Thumb)


Thanks for that. I was uncertain about Polly's. Interesting about Lucan ... I'll look into that. Old Mother Riley was a great favourite at our children's Saturday morning cinema - him, and an early space opera (what was its name?) got us out of our seats .


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## cueball44 (Feb 15, 2010)

Harry Nicholson said:


> Thanks for that. I was uncertain about Polly's. Interesting about Lucan ... I'll look into that. Old Mother Riley was a great favourite at our children's Saturday morning cinema - him, and an early space opera (what was its name?) got us out of our seats .


'Flash Gordon' Trapped in the cave of the mud men ?


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## beedeesea (Feb 28, 2006)

Harry Nicholson said:


> Thanks for that. I was uncertain about Polly's. Interesting about Lucan ... I'll look into that. Old Mother Riley was a great favourite at our children's Saturday morning cinema - him, and an early space opera (what was its name?) got us out of our seats .


Remember one called "Rocketman"?

Brian


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## Harry Nicholson (Oct 11, 2005)

beedeesea said:


> Remember one called "Rocketman"?
> 
> Brian


Rocketman? Vaguely . . . Flash Gordon, yes. Pocket money one shilling a week - sixpence for the pics and sixpence for a glossy American 'horror' comic. I later developed another income, from gathering sea coal off the shore and selling it round the doors.
I wish I could recall the First Class course at Shields -- it's a blank.


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