Drowning in the Shallow End

by Charlie Mellor

  Access to the sixteen-seater vehicle meant that if you were discreet, you could sometimes use it to run personal errands. Annie and I found this perk particularly useful for the three mile trip to get our weekly food shop. On my very first outing, minutes behind the wheel, I totally miscalculated the width of the bus and snapped a wing mirror off a parked car. I just felt totally unable to control it. The second time out, heading along the same road, a vehicle was backing out from almost the same spot. I failed to notice it’s reversing lights and shunted it head on, knocking the car and its three elderly passengers right back onto the kerb. A letter of complaint was sent to the college principal about this incident. Many other mishaps followed.

  Returning one afternoon from another unauthorised trip, I again misjudged the width of the contraption when attempting to park it in a bay which was, in reality, just wide enough to accommodate one underpowered motorbike. Oblivious to the two cars parked on either side of this Lilliputian space, I bulldozed the bus straight into the rather fetching red car parked on the left. The minibus bumper jarred its way all the way along the side of this impressive motor, twisted its wheel axel and completely destroyed two of its panels. Initially I was astonished at just how much damage had been achieved, but then horrified when I realised it was Matt Buckley’s recently restored 1969 MGB Roadster. Our president looked more helpless than annoyed when he arrived to inspect it. It was like watching someone descend into a state of defeat – a man trying and failing to process the magnitude of what was in front of him. He didn’t say a word, simply dropped his head, sighed deeply and adopted the same innate involuntary expression which makes you want to put your arm around someone and hand them a large mug of sweet tea. Following this incident, my minibus licence was revoked which meant that, in the end, I hadn’t used it to drive a single student to a concert. Having said that, being banned from using the bus was an outcome which suited both parties and one which allowed me to enjoy all the pedestrian pleasures college life could offer.

  By the third year our little gang were still spending much of our spare time in the bar, but were also writing articles for the newspaper, managing the weekly discos, helping with fundraising events and even helping Billy Farrell with some of his less extreme political demonstrations. The pace was so fast, I hardly ever thought about life back home. I’m ashamed to admit it but the more I enjoyed college life, the less I would look forward to going back to hear Mum and Edward Baxter sniping at each other during end of term breaks. However, as term merged into term there was no avoiding the fact that we were all too quickly nearing the end of our studies.

  There was just one significant hurdle left to stumble over. Since Annie and I had been so heavily involved organising extra-curricular activities, we’d both failed to submit proposals for our all-important final year project. This meant we were issued with letters of concern from our head of year. Both of us were given just 24 hours to submit our intentions or be forced to retake this part of the course.

  “Oh no, it’s a really bad one…” was all Annie could say on receipt of the forceful ‘pull your socks up’ notification.

  It was very rare for Annie to ever get stressed. Usually she was adept at side-stepping life’s trifling concerns, the trivial and the minutiae. She was always the most relaxed person in our group about the state of her student overdraft, because no one ever bothered her about having to pay it back. However on the infrequent occasions when she was presented with a problem which was time-critical, Annie was without exception…hopeless. Conversely, I tended to excel at fretting, but did accept that the majority of my everyday stressors were probably invented – distractors and inconsequential barriers which I had sculptured for myself. So whenever a more tangible problem like this letter of concern actually arose, I was quite pleased to have something valid to focus on.

  “I can’t believe it’s me saying this to you Annie, but relax - there’s absolutely no need to worry. The deadline isn’t until first thing tomorrow – and then we only need to submit a brief outline of what we’re planning to do. I reckon I could do something about psychology and you are always good with child development. We’ll both be fine.”

  “The reason it’s called a dead-line Charlie, is because here’s a line which you cannot cross - or you will die,” she’d say over and over again, without a hint of irony.

  We stayed up most of the night, passing around a series of unsuitable half-baked suggestions which we hoped might placate our tutors. I rejected the old Joe Morrit idea of renting a room out to an American carpenter so I could nag them for weeks in order to study their reactions. The longer we spent on our deliberations the harder it became. By four in the morning we’d talked each other in and out of every idea put forwards and so decided to get a couple of hours kip before the dreaded meeting with our lecturers.

  I’d remembered reading an article which claimed if you struggled to make a decision about something important, you should take a glass of water, drink half of it while focusing on your problem, then place what’s left next to your bed just before you fall asleep. Then, in the morning, after you wake, you should swallow the rest of the water and hey-presto the solution would make itself known. With no options worth considering, we followed these instructions to the mouthful before collapsing onto the bed next to each other.

  Later in the morning, awoken by the familiar sound of clattering cleaners, we both drank the remains of our tepid water and were amazed to discover that, immediately afterwards, we were instilled with an overpowering sense of purpose. The two of us knew precisely what we wanted to study and how we intended to deliver our project plan. One hundred and twenty minutes of disturbed slumber and all of a sudden Annie was talking like an impassioned academic about how she intended to demonstrate the way pre-school children learn to play, while I was sketching out ideas for a simple card game to investigate how we remember information.

  I was interested to see if it was possible to alter the outcome of a well-known memory effect called primacy-recency. In essence, the theory states that when people are required to recall from a long list of items, they tend to recall the high impact items shown at the beginning and at the end of the series with the greatest accuracy. Typically, items presented somewhere in the middle are usually forgotten or are remembered out of sequence. All of my initial exercises had demonstrated the tendency held up across a variety of age groups. Next, I was curious to see what would happen to people’s ability if a ‘disruptive event’ was introduced slap bang in the middle of the exercise. Would this deliberate distraction alter the way volunteers retrieved the rest of the information? Could the addition of a single high-impact coloured card, introduced half way, through a series of black and white cards for example, undermine conventional memory patterns?

  Motivated as much by Annie’s obvious commitment to her own ambitious study as by my own desire to do well, I spent weeks testing my hypothesis by conducting hundreds of controlled exercises. Results revealed that while the overall number of cards remembered was never affected, it was clear the familiar pattern of mainly recalling cards from the beginning and end of the pack had been completely upset. In all the tests, respondents recounted roughly the same total amount of information, but were now remembering items from right across the whole of the card set.

  I enjoyed conducting the research and found the whole experience to be an unexpectedly satisfying way to conclude to my student days. Completion of the project meant that I was even able to dupe my old mate, the finger wagging principal, into awarding me with a 2:1 degree, a result which astonished both parties. Achieving what turned out to be the best result for the year meant I was quite proud of myself for a day or two.

  I thought it paradoxical, that I’d done so well at this particular topic, especially since I’d always regarded myself as extremely poor at remembering anything. Could it have been the case that my preoccupation with this project was born from an on-going frustration at having forgotten large portions of my own childhood? Did
these blank spaces motivate me to investigate ways to alter capability in this area? Could some form of real-life high impact intervention ever help me to remember those missing episodes more clearly?

  7. Cold Iron

  Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade. "Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall, "But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all." Rudyard Kipling

  Armed with two pristine graduation certificates, Annie and I spent the summer of 1985 paying off our student overdrafts by working as waiters at a hotel in Ilfracombe on the North Devon coast. It was really a three month extension to college life. We lived in a decrepit old staff house with a transitory group of excitable youngsters from around the UK. We were all united by a shared desire to earn some money, get a sun tan and spend as much of our free time as possible getting drunk. It was great fun, but by the end of this summer sabbatical we were absolutely knackered. With little chance of finding permanent employment anywhere in Devon, we travelled up north to Annie’s home town, staying with her parents while we searched for work.

  Annie had talked fondly about Scunthorpe and I’d originally pictured her birthplace to be another sedate coastal town. I was therefore surprised to discover it was highly industrialised and situated twenty miles inland of the nearest estuary. The town seemed a far cry from the picturesque coastline I was expecting. Nothing wrong with the place by any means, but it did lack the dramatic scenery, fresh bracing air and the innate charm of our recent summer break. Not the most impoverished place in the north, but still a town where almost 20% of its population were classified as ‘economically inactive’. Going to boarding school, grammar school and then on to study for a degree, I’d always assumed I’d slide seamlessly into a rewarding career, work hard and progress. It was therefore quite a shock for me to discover just how few jobs were available in the area – not just for me – but for anyone.

  It would take me a while to warm to Scunthorpe’s steely charms and at first I secretly yearned to live in another place. I regarded this stage in my life as a transition – a stop gap to look back on as life unfolded. Captivation with my new environment would therefore be a slow process, requiring me to become more intimate with the region, the villages, the roads and the people before I truly felt settled in the Industrial Garden Town of the North. For ages I wondered where love had brought me.

  Initially, I was struck by how much every aspect of the town seemed to be forged from the fortunes of the (then nationalised) steelworks. Although fewer people were working at the plant than in its 1970’s heyday, Scunthorpe remained economically dependent on it. Pubs and clubs were still organised to meet the needs of the dwindling numbers of shift workers. Even the language of local residents was informed by the spectre of the former British Steel plant. The town was one of the few places in the country where the word ‘slag’ had more than one meaning.

  There was no denying that the steelworks did cast an imposing shadow over the region. The scale of business was immense - sprawling across acres of land containing hundreds of random rusty old sheds, many of which appeared to be unused. Some of the decrepit control rooms and gantries were clearly operational, but the overall impression of the site was that it was desolate and lawless. If you were a gritty northern band in search of a backdrop for your album sleeve, then here would be the ideal place to be photographed.

  Early attempts to suspend judgement about life in the area were hampered by the stream of bad press which was continually levied at the town. Annie had warned me that Scunthorpe often received more than its fair share of criticism and had been an easy target for comedians in search of a cheap laugh.

  “Why wasn’t Jesus Born in Scunthorpe?

  “Because they couldn’t find three wise men or a virgin.“ - Ba boom boom, tish.

  In 1981 comedian Spike Milligan even published a book entitled Spike Milligan, Indefinite Articles and Scunthorpe. Following criticism of his description of the much maligned municipality, Milligan responded angrily with the following statement:

  "We should like the people of Scunthorpe to know that the references to Scunthorpe are nothing personal. It is a joke, as is Scunthorpe.”

  My own theory about why the region was attracting such a lot of bad publicity, related to the town’s rather grim name. As a boy, I remembered that my Scottish granddad used the term ‘scunnered’ in situations where he wanted to express strong disapproval or even disgust with something.

  “I was scunnered to hear that Thatcher woman may get the job lad – she’ll destroy the rights of the working man...”

  The name just didn’t create a positive impression. Imagine the difference if the town had been called Rowland on Trent?, I thought.

  As it was, rival football fans continued to delight in the knowledge that they could use the words ‘cunt’ and ‘hor’ at the same time when referring to the opposing Scunthorpe team.

  Looking beyond all the unflattering media portrayals, I gradually began to find the experience of living in the region actually rather enjoyable. Cutting through the hyperbole, I got to know some of the finest people you could wish to meet. This should never have been a surprise given my girlfriend, the most loyal of Scunny lasses, was born and raised in the town. True, it was evident that this wasn’t a particularly affluent area – there were few signs of ostentatiousness or real wealth. However, the people who had found jobs, worked hard and instead of parading their wealth, built their homes, families and futures in a quiet ‘steely’ kind of way which I admired. Almost everyone I met was friendly - if rather blunt - and as time passed I grew to respect their no-nonsense approach to dialogue. I noticed there was a ‘cut straight to the chase and tell it like it is’ philosophy which informed most conversations. No one was ever to think too highly of themselves that they couldn’t be brought down to size.

  A couple of months after moving to the town I was introduced to Stuart Jackson who was dating Claire, one of Annie's neighbours. Stuart was very friendly and easy to talk to. Proud of his northern roots, he had a zest for life and was able to laugh at himself. He bore a striking resemblance to actor Matt LeBlanc and had much of the same cheeky charm. I warmed to him immediately.

  “Hi, I’ve been really looking forward to meeting you mate,” he said. “I’ve heard that for a… “, pausing to select the right word, “posh lad, you’re all right. I don’t suppose you’ll know many people here yet, so if you ever need someone to show you round, someone who knows the score, let me know. Scunny is sound, I’ve lived here all my life. It’s the reason I got this done…” He rolled up the shirt sleeve on his left arm.

  He revealed an enormous tattoo, covering most of his arm. The voluminous ink-work featured a skull with a burning cigarette hanging out of its mouth and the words ‘MADE IN SCUNTHORPE’ stamped underneath it in bold lettering. Note to self: Tonight I am in the company of an indigenous Scunthorpe male: a man of steel.

  Annie and I would meet up with Claire and Stuart most weekends and then later, as friendships developed, Stuart and I would also arrange to go out together mid-week for a few drinks. On the face of it, it was amazing that we found anything to talk about, given that he and his entire family were enthralled by my mechanical nemesis: the motor car. I’d even go so far as to say Stuart and I sat at the opposite ends of the ‘I like cars’ continuum. His older brother was a moderately accomplished stock-car racer and Stuart had taken a job as a trainee mechanic in a local garage to support his brother’s interest. Our easy friendship overcame this and other apparent obstacles. Despite no shared history, dramatically different backgrounds and virtually no common interests; we immediately clicked. Because he was so unguarded, I found Stuart to be tremendously likable and something inside told me that he would become a lifelong friend.

  One of the things I admired about him most was that he was a grafter, not afraid of hard work. If anything ever went wrong in his life Stuart quickly adjusted to changing circumstances and worked relentlessly to f
ind a solution. He was a practical thinker and had an ability to see through complexity to find obvious solutions. At junior school he was picked-on for being small. His mother, furious at seeing her little boy upset, would grab his hand and frog-march him round to the perpetrator’s house. She would force Stuart to knock on the door, demand to see the antagonist and their parents and then make Stuart explain to them all precisely how he felt. If his Mum wasn’t convinced this had put an end to things, she would even encourage her little boy to fight with them on their own doorstep. This walk of bravery around the council estate where they lived was repeated every single time he was bullied, educating both Stuart and any potential adversary that ‘none of the Jacksons ever walk away from difficulties’.

  Our favoured watering hole was a pub called The Ashby Star and during the mid-1980s, the majority of our social life centred around the rougher of the two bars inside this little boozer. The uninspiring Star building was constructed in the fifties and looked like a typical red brick estate pub, which had been plonked in the middle of a concrete car park which was too large for its intended purpose. Back then, there wasn’t exactly an exuberant atmosphere inside the pub. There was no frisson of excitement or jubilation about the place, but if you managed to keep your head down it was a satisfactory environment to enjoy a drink. Stuart’s brother was one of the Ashby Star’s best known regulars. He was very different in his nature to Stuart – less communicative and not as outgoing. Like all his mates he was direct and uncomplicated. A spade was never a spade, it was always a shovel.

  Any regular, who’d demonstrated sufficient loyalty to the dated boozer by drinking at least five nights a week, over a number of years, would be rewarded with a simple nickname. Everyone called Stuart ‘Little Jacko’, while his older brother was known as ‘Jacko’; not because he was especially tall but rather eighteen months older. Regardless of your age or position, the same rules applied – the shorter the nickname granted, the higher you were in the pub’s pecking order. To this day I still don’t know many of the proper names of omnipresent boozers such as Wig, Botch, Piggy, Tommo, Sparks or Blowie. The convivial landlord, the six letter Fritzy, was a beast of a man who kept a hideously dented and alarmingly stained wooden baseball bat right next to the main till in full view of all his customers. It always surprised me he’d never been allocated a three or four letter replacement for his Fritzpatrick surname – this was after all his pub.