Three days later day Tom was summoned to the ward office. The Staff Nurse had some news for him. “You are going to be released tomorrow and you will be collected at ten hundred hours. Because you have no pay book you will not be given any entitlements before you leave. Is that clear?” Tom nodded but did not know what that meant. “Do you know where I am to be taken Ma’am?” She did not know.
Tom had been issued with a small canvas suitcase by the Hospital Quartermaster Sergeant or HQMS as he was known. He packed his few possessions into the case and wondered where he might be taken the following day. The morning came soon enough and shortly after breakfast he was told to report to the ward office again. The Army doctor was already there, a Royal Army Medical Corps captain, who had been in charge of his treatment and a visitor, who did not look very friendly. “Are you Trevor Shaw?” the visitor asked. Tom stood to attention and wondered what he should say. In the end he said, “I think so. I had amnesia.” The man gave Tom a very hard stare. “I am from the police. You were called up for military duty and failed to turn up. That is an offence and you may be sent to prison. Do you understand?”
Tom was really worried. “I don’t remember any of this. How long ago was I supposed to report for duty?” The policeman looked at his notebook. “Four weeks ago. You were to report to Mons Barracks in Aldershot for officer cadet training.” Tom quickly thought about what to say. “That all makes sense now. I remember a big party, it must have been my farewell do, and the next thing I know, I am dumped outside Larkhill Camp. Oh bloody hell, what a mess. Am I in big trouble, Officer?” Tom did his best to look sheepish. “Ordinarily you’d be for the high jump young man. But the Captain here has told me about your accident and losing your memory and you haven’t tried to run away or lie so I suppose you’re in the clear. Trouble is, I came here to take you in but now I don’t know what needs to be done.” Tom was relieved and said. “Surely you can call someone and find out what should happen next.” The policeman looked at Tom as though he were mad. “Call someone? On the telephone? It’s not a matter of life or death is it? No, I’ll write my report and they will send instructions either for me or some gent from the Army to sort you out. Maybe you’ll get another visit from that Military Policeman, Corporal Baker.” Tom was convinced that his injured toe throbbed at the mention of Corporal Baker’s name. “All I need now young man is an address where we can get hold of you.” Tom suddenly realised that he was in fact homeless, a predicament that he had not suffered before. “I have nowhere to go I’m afraid. I can’t remember any detail of my past. It was lucky that somehow I found out my name.”
The Royal Army Medical Corps Captain had an idea. “How about staying at the Union Jack Club for a few days? I’m sure that they would take you, especially if I gave you a note from the hospital explaining your plight.” Tom had no idea what the Union Jack Club was. The Captain explained. “There have always been loads of London clubs which officers can join, but none for soldiers. So about 40 years ago the Union Jack Club was created to cater for the needs of soldiers and their families whilst travelling through London. Someone told me it was only about 2 shillings to stay there and just 4 pence for supper. And, it is within walking distance of here, near Waterloo Station.” The policeman was happy and left.
Tom was still unsure about his immediate future. He asked the Captain’s advice. “Sir, what is this officer cadet training all about? Have you any idea what that might mean for me?” The Captain made Tom sit down and he sat down on the other side of the desk. “This OCTU at Mons is a brand new establishment. Chaps go there as Officer Cadets, do six months of drill, PT, Army tactics and generally learn to be officers after which they get commissioned.” Tom was still not clear. “What’s an OCTU?” It was an Officer Cadet Training Unit and after successful training Tom would come out as a Second Lieutenant. Tom was told, although the Captain thought that he was reminding him, that everyone over the age of 18 had to do military service for 2 years. This was called National Service, and failing to appear when instructed, as he had apparently done, was a criminal offence. Such people would be arrested by the civilian police, whose duty it was to check that the facts were correct, and then the miscreant was handed over to the military authorities for punishment. The Captain looked at Tom’s notes that he had on a folder on the desk. “I don’t think that you need to do your National Service, unless you feel very strongly about it. That toe of yours will still give you some discomfort for a week or two more but there is likely to be a long term loss of balance. I’ve treated a few chaps with bits of their big toes missing and in every case they think the blighter is still there and so sometimes they have a little wobble and even fall over.”
“I didn’t think that my injury was that bad. I have had a few problems with walking but I’d put that down to the pain. What happens if I want to go ahead with the Officer Cadet training?” Tom asked. “You would have to go before an Army Medical Board and be able to prove that you were fully fit. Now, if you don’t want to do that, then I can complete the relevant forms here. It’s up to you.” Tom was not sure what would be the best thing to do. If he stuck with the Army, they would pay, clothe and house him. If he asked for the Captain to sign release papers for his National Service, then he would be free to do whatever he liked, but he would be on the streets with no income. He asked if he could think it over after a night at the Union Jack Club. Tom was told to wait in the sitting room at the end of the ward and he would be given a note for the Union Jack Club. As he left the ward office, his heart raced as he bumped into the dreadful Corporal Baker and the policeman having a chat in the corridor. “So, you got away with it this time, Shaw.” The Military Policeman barked. “I don’t like skivers like you. You better watch your step. I’ll get you one day.” With that Corporal Baker gave Tom a shove in the stomach and walked towards the exit with the policeman.
Tom was given his note and with the directions to the Union Jack Club firmly in his mind he headed off. He no longer needed a stick but kept thinking about “wobbles” and “loss of balance” as he threaded his way through people and traffic towards the UJC as he had heard it called. The over use of abbreviations fascinated Tom. Everyone seemed to say goodbye by saying “TTFN” which apparently meant “Ta-Ta For Now”. He remembers hearing it on the radio as a catch phrase by a comedian called Tommy Handley. He had just crossed the Thames over the Waterloo Bridge and was waiting for a bus to pass before he crossed the street when he accidentally stepped into the road. The bus was not going fast and stopped easily several feet away. Nonetheless, the driver leant out of his cab and rattled off a full set of expletives that took Tom by surprise. This was the first time that Tom had noticed that he was not entirely steady on his feet and he was now able to recall several other “wobbly” moments. Perhaps, because the doctor had mentioned it, he was now looking out for problems.
He produced the note at the UJC and was allocated a bed in a bunk room on the first floor. The place was clean, but utilitarian with signs everywhere either giving instructions or listing prohibited activities. He noted that he was not supposed to be in the room between “0830 hours and 1630 hours without a chit”, which he assumed to be a note from someone in authority. Tom left his small suitcase in a locker in his room and went for a walk looking for a café. He was super conscious of his balance and found walking to be perfectly okay, What he did notice was that standing, perhaps at the side of the road whilst waiting to cross, required conscious effort in order to stop doing an involuntary step forward. Using a stick may have prevented him noticing this balance issue before. By the end of the day he was convinced that he would not get through the medical to join the Army and that he must make a life of his own starting from scratch.
There was a mess hall in the UJC and for 4 pence he was given a cooked supper of fairly bland meat and two veg’ followed by what was described on the menu board as “Roly Poly Pud”. Tom asked the chap next to him what that might be, only to cause several people near him to laugh. “Cr
ikey. Where’ve you been? Perhaps you posh chaps call it Matron’s Leg.” Tom was none the wiser but he was hungry and the cinnamon and nutmeg flavoured pudding was not at all bad. There was a large communal area with a couple of over stuffed and tired looking sofas and dozens of dining room style chairs and the odd small table. This is where most of the guests would take their tea and have a gossip after supper. Whilst drinking his “nice ‘ot cuppa” Tom and one of the chaps that he had met at supper decided to go and find a local pub.
There was a pub just around the corner form the UJC. This was Tom’s first visit to a pub in 1947. His jaw dropped as he walked through the door. There was sawdust on the floor and large round pewter bowls scattered around on the floor. These were the spittoons that some of the patrons chose to use. Tom discovered that the sawdust was there to improve the hygiene. Spittoons were considered to be very unhygienic and most customers would rather spit on the floor. Spitting was deemed necessary by those who chewed tobacco and the smokers with their unfiltered cigarettes. Tom remembered the sign in a bus saying that “expectoration was prohibited” on London Transport. The sawdust would also absorb spilt beer and horse manure brought in from the street. The bar was best described as utilitarian. There were only three beer taps with a choice of Bitter, Best Bitter and Mild. The shelves behind the bar had a few glasses on them, several bottles of whisky and one bottle of gin. The lavatory was disgusting.
Tom and his friend had pints of Best Bitter which the friend considered to be an expensive treat. Tom learnt a lot from their chat. People continued to talk about the dreadful winter and there was still a fuel crisis causing frequent power cuts. Large numbers of workers had been laid off as factories closed. Everyone had expected rationing to be reduced, but instead it was becoming more severe. There were many servicemen being demobbed and finding it impossible to find work. For the first time, Tom felt worried that he might find setting up a new life difficult, if not impossible. Matters were about to get much worse.
Tom and his friend were just outside the UJC when the huge frame of Corporal Baker pushed past them on his way out. He was the worse for drink, but still quite upright and smartly dressed in his uniform. He stopped, turned around and called out, “Shaw. Come ‘ere. I was lookin’ for you.” Tom did not know what to do, but he thought that he had better comply with the instruction and stood smartly to attention in front of the bully. The Corporal swung a fist into Tom’s diaphragm and sent him to the ground gasping for breath. Tom could not put up any defence. The Corporal stood over him shouting, “Get up you little shit. You ran away from duty. You’re a bloody deserter in my book. Get up. Get up or I shall kick your face in.” Tom struggled to his feet but lost balance and had to start again. As he just managed to start to straighten up, he felt the onset of the darkness but was hit again, this time in the face. He fell back unconscious. The Corporal would not have stopped there had it not been for the quick action of his friend who, as the first blow was struck, had run out to the road and called a policeman to the scene.
The sight of the policeman stopped any further assault but the Corporal remained looking down at Tom in an act of brutal defiance. The policeman saw that the Corporal was in the Military Police. “What happened here then mate?” He asked. “This man’s a deserter and he was resisting my arrest.” That was not what Tom’s friend had told the policeman. “This gentleman here says that you were abusive towards this bloke and whilst he stood to attention you hit him. Is that true?” The Corporal sneered at Tom’s friend. “I have reason to suspect that the two of them have absconded together, so don’t trust what he says.”
The policeman bent down to examine Tom. “My goodness me. Trevor, it’s me Fred. Wake up me old son.” Fred the policeman turned to Tom’s friend. “We need to get this young man to hospital. He’s out cold and bleedin’ like a pig.” He then turned to the Corporal. “Right Corporal. I know this man and he’s a civilian, so I have jurisdiction here, understand?” He did not wait for a reply. “I am going to take your name and unit and I am going to report you to your Commanding Officer.” With that the Corporal turned and walked away into the night. When the ambulance arrived, Fred gave instructions to the crew and then went in the back with Tom. They were taken to the QAMH.
Tom woke up in a hospital bed with an Army doctor, a nurse and a London policeman staring down at him. He tried to speak, winced in pain and stopped. “It’s all right, Mr Shaw. You are in safe hands thanks to the swift action of this police officer.” Tom was lucky not to have a broken jaw but he had lost a tooth which had caused a nasty tear in his gum and a gash on the inside of his cheek. He was treated the following morning and released the day after that. Police Constable Fred Yardley was there when he was discharged. “Hello Trevor. I went across to the Union Jack and I’ve got your things.” He leant towards Tom’s ear and winked. “I persuaded them to give you your money back as you didn’t stay the night.” Tom’s mouth and jaw were very sore and he managed to mumble his thanks. “Now don’t you argue, but I spoke to my Mrs last night and we thought that we would put you up for a couple of nights, just ‘till you got your strength back. What do you think?” Tom was delighted but could not manage a smile. “Thwanks Fwed” he said as he tried not to disturb the stitches in his gum and cheek.
Tom stayed much longer than either of them had planned. Fred and Enid lived in a small terraced house in Victoria. Their house had been rocked by many bombs but had, unlike the neighbours’ houses opposite, remained in one piece. Fred was well known in the area and had managed to get Tom a part time job working for the greengrocer’s shop next door. The terms were harsh but Tom was delighted to have an income, enough for him to pay a modest rent to the Yardleys. Tom was expected to work 6 days a week, but if there was no delivery of fresh fruit or vegetables on any day then he would only work until lunchtime, but he would not be paid at all that day. It turned out that Tom was only paid for 3 or 4 days a week, but the odd free afternoon allowed him to get out and about, walking around London. Tom’s room was tiny but that did not matter. He still found it difficult getting used to an outdoor lavatory and the dreaded Bronco shiny lavatory paper. He also could not get used to being called Trevor and so he told the Yardleys that he was known as Tom to his friends and so Tom Shaw was created.
His links to the military were long gone and he had completely forgotten about the awful Corporal Baker. Fred had made a report about the beating outside the UJC but warned Tom that it would probably lead to nothing. Life was tough in those early post war years and bullies, like Baker, often got away with minor offences as long as they were appearing to be working for the establishment. Tom’s greengrocer employer was another case in point. Although he was friendly with Tom he was exploiting him, yet he would often put an extra potato in the paper bag for a pensioner or someone in uniform, particularly if they were a policeman.
Tom found that he was saving money, albeit slowly, and he needed to open a bank account. Fred told him how to go about getting a duplicate birth certificate which he would need to open the account. He went to Somerset House in the Strand and paid 6d to be allowed to search part of the records, which in his case was the section with surnames beginning with Sc through to Si. Once he had found the entry for Trevor Shaw he paid a further 2s 6d for a copy of the birth certificate. Armed with his, or rather Trevor Shaw’s, birth certificate he opened a bank account and paid in £12 15s. He had struggled for several weeks since arriving in 1947, but now he felt as though he was part of the fabric of that era.
Tom had a lot of time to himself and he had hatched a plan to raise much more money than the greengrocer could ever pay him. He planned to place bets on races and football matches and rake in the winnings. In his spare time he created a list of as many sporting winners that he could remember from his pub quiz days in case, as he got older, he started to forget the their names. Placing bets on horse races could only be done legally at the race course but Fred had told Tom that it was quite easy to place a bet if he got to know a run
ner for one of the illegal bookies that operated all over London. Fred did not know, of course, that Tom had privileged knowledge of the results. Nobody seemed to consider the bookies’ trade to be illegal and they were seldom the focus of police interest unless they were involved in more serious crime. Even Fred had placed a bet or two before the war.
Tom only knew the winners of the classic races and there were quite a few gaps in his knowledge and so he had to make the most of the few races that he could target. The illegal bookies did not give such good odds as the legal ones at the race courses and so Tom wanted to get to as many of his races as he could. He would mainly use the illegal bookies for bets on football matches. The next opportunity for Tom was the Derby. He had managed to find out that it would run on 7th June. Epsom racecourse was just outside London and Tom was thrilled by the idea of a day out at the races. “You can’t go dressed like that.” Fred told him. Tom only had his aging “Yankee” clothes that he had arrived in and some working clothes that he had bought at a street market. He needed something smarter that would be more suitable for a day at the races. One afternoon he went to the East End where there were better markets and quite a few small tailors’ shops. He came back with a second hand pair of pinstripe trousers from a tailor’s shop which were adjusted on the spot. He bought a waistcoat from another tailor and a quite fashionable raincoat from a market stall. When he returned to Victoria his outfit was given the thumbs up “as long as you keep that raincoat on, rain or shine.” Fred had said.
On the day of the race Tom set off for Victoria Railway Station and found the train to Epsom Downs. He had a 20 minute walk at the far end and was there in plenty of time for the first race. Tom found the whole atmosphere exhilarating. He had remembered that the 1947 winner was Pearl Diver but he did not know what odds to expect. He still wished to be cautious just in case there was any scope for things to happen differently from his past and so he only placed a bet of £5 to win. He managed to get good odds with one of the bookies and he then found a quiet corner where he ate the spam and mustard sandwich which Enid had given him.
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