Part 5: Early working days - A couple of plumbers
In the regular staff of the firm, beside old General Jackson,
were three other plumbers, all individuals as plumbers are apt to
become. They were mostly on larger jobs where the firm had not
contracted with a builder to do plumbing, glazing and painting. It
was not unusual, in Horsham at any rate, for a builder to employ
men in these trades. There was one exception to this in the firm of
G. Sharp, a dear old man who was a three branch hand by trade who
started and developed a general building business. He was known to
all and sundry as “Whippy Sharp”, why I cannot say as there was
nothing to suggest a whip about him. He was a quiet spoken,
pleasant little man, rather like the portraits one used to see of
William Thackeray. I’m afraid he was from modern standards rather
unbusinesslike but a first class craftsman who had the reputation
of being the best of the Horsham builders. He finally went bankrupt
because, it was said, he did too good a job. Even now, a house
built by Whippy Sharp commands the same sort of respect as does a
Willet house in Chelsea, Hampstead or Hove. And he was above all
things a painter! What despised and rejected Cinderellas of the
building trade.
Some thirty years ago I was exchanging confidences and
commiserations with old Jim Glaysher[1] (Nimshi) who, when Mr Sharp failed, had
started on his own some ten years before we did. We had just heard
the result of tendering for painting three schools for W.S.C.C.
Nimshi and ourselves were within a few pounds of each other. We
were, as he put it, cut to blazes by a cheap jack firm of furniture
dealers who hardly knew which way out a coat of paint should be
applied. He cursed the County Council in general and their
architect, Haydn Roberts, in particular, for accepting a tender
from such “a troupe of performing monkeys” cursed in the trade,
which he thought to be efficient in its exercise only needed a tin
of readymade paint. But there, he finally concluded, “You can’t
call it a trade now; its more like a bloody disease that’s got hold
of you.” Poor old Nimshi. He and I foresaw the end of all things in
the coming of readymade paint, and we were to a great extent right,
for the stuff in its early days was of very poor quality, and was
often applied by men of even less quality. It needed a certain
amount of training to make a paint suitable for a given job. When
however one could buy a readymade paint “suitable for inside or
outside application”, packed in lever-topped cans and labelled
“stir well”, old painters spat blood!
Some time back I mentioned three other plumbers with whom I worked
as an apprentice. They were all such unusual characters and so
different from each other and the General. Fred Mitchell, nicknamed
Dinah, was a Horsham man bred and born, apprenticed locally then
joined a cavalry regiment with nine other young chaps from the
town. Ten tried to enlist; nine were successful. All the nine
returned to Horsham on completion of the 7-10 years short service
having seen no active service as was common then, but most of them
had developed a chronic thirst wand were demoralised more or less
by army life. Dinah had a heart of gold and the habits of a sponge
where beer was concerned. And yet he suffered from the most
appalling headache and hangover after a bout of drinking. I think
his example did more to keep me on the straight and narrow than the
Band of Hope talks. He was kind to me, and being so often unfit to
work, he would lay down beside it and let me get on with it. His
standard of craftsmanship was higher than General’s. A joint had to
be wiped so that it appeared to be spun on a lathe, even a vertical
joint on a pump rising main down a well had to be perfect in every
respect. I remember him making me re-wipe a joint 85’ down a well
at Muntham no less than three times before he would pass it. Of
course, this was splendid practice for a boy. He also taught me how
to bend copper pipe, to make a leaden D-trap and a lead lining for
a coffin. I well remember he and I making a lead lining for a
coffin for the brother of the Squire of Denne Park. This sort of
job usually carried on far into the night. We started to make the
shell one evening after tea, finishing about ten o’clock. Then
Dinah went to the pub for an hour leaving me in charge till the
undertaker should call. He called about 11 p.m. and took us, the
shell and our metal pot to the house. I helped lift the body in
and, when undertaker had finished the trimming, went to find
Mitchell to solder on the lid. I found him fast asleep in the
servants’ hall, quite incapable of doing anything except hold his
head and moan. After a bit of shaking, I was able to make him
understand I had the metal – that is, solder - hot and ready for
wiping. He plaintively assured me he was no more able to “wipe the
top on” than fly, that I must do the best I could. “Now see here,”
said he, “You can’t make that long wipe without help and you won’t
get no help, got it? Well, this is what you do. Just wait till old
Beeching (the undertaker) goes home, then make about six solder
tacks here and there just to hold the lid on, dress the edge over
and no one will be any the wiser. And, don’t you see boy, it will
be easier for the poor old buffer to scramble out when he hears the
Last Trump!”
Denne Park.
In contrast to old Fred Mitchell was one Charles Tilling. It is
significant that he alone of all the hands had no nickname, so
little did we love him! I have discovered that a nickname is often
a compliment or at least a sign of affection. Tilling was just
Tilling to everyone. He was a native of Croydon with all the
cunning of a Cockney and a very debased Cockney accent of which I’m
sure he was rather proud. He was a great beer drinker with a “fair,
round belly” but not “with good capon lined[2]”. One could almost hear beer swilling
round as he walked. The poor chap suffered from chronic eczema
which of course he couldn’t help, but it increased his
repulsiveness. Also he had moist and sweaty hands and all his tools
were sticky and messy – how I loathed handling them! And his face –
the colour of a November setting sun – was made conspicuous by a
fat bulbous nose ornamented by big pimples. Not the hardy knobs
affected by Chaucer’s Miller; it was studded with soft,
white-headed nodules. All this surmounted by an antique bowler hat
which he wore indoors and out; the brim of same looked as though it
had been the favourite promenade of snails. He was more of a tinker
and botcher than a plumber, posed as having some knowledge of
electricity, but most installations of electric bells by him would
not ring. But he could handle zinc and lay a zinc flat as well as
anyone I’ve seen. Lead was dear at that time so zinc had a vogue,
much as copper has now, but I didn’t like Tilling, I have a poor
opinion of zinc and know nothing of electricity.
- [1] The 1901 English Census shows Jim Glaysher as a
plumber/employer, 42 years old, living with his wife and 9 children
on the London Road, Horsham.
- [2] A quotation from
William Shakespeare, The Seven Ages of Man, As You Like
it.
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