Trauma

We seem to do trauma on a fairly regular basis in this household and yesterday was another one of those days. This isn't a diary entry as such but a collection of observations from an eventful evening.

I've never had to endure the delights of City Hospital in Birmingham before although it was known to me basically because the former workhouse building turned hospital was the place one of my Great Grandmothers died a very premature death. My entry to A&E after an expensive but necessary taxi journey was to witness two women, one middle aged, the other barely out of her teens arguing, older woman calling younger a 'motherf****r' and the younger retaliating by informing older of her husbands paedophilia and child abuse tendencies. The half full waiting room appeared to be enjoying the drama unfolding in front of them and if they could have drawn up their screwed down seats for a closer view I'm sure they would have.

Waiting has never been something I have endured gladly. It's a necessary evil in life but those 15 minutes I waited whilst 'the system is down' seemed like an eternity due to my desperation to gain access to the inner kingdom of A&E. So began my five hour marathon endurance test which was nothing to the suffering endured by my poor man.

Let's be positive first. The two Doctors encountered, one an A&E Consultant and the other a Junior Doctor on his orthopaedics rotation were excellent. Mr Consultant deemed it necessary to chase up the nursing staff on several occasions on what was a pretty quiet night in there if the number of empty cubicles was anything to go by. Mr Junior happened upon us when plastering was about to start, realised that something was amiss in the way things were being done, he left (I later discovered to read the notes and ascertain what was supposed to be happening) and then returned a few minutes later to take over the process. Later, on the ward Mr Junior was once again thorough, reassuring, courteous, considerate and quite happy to give his time, as was the health care assistant.

After being there for an hour and a half and female Sister nominally (use of word nominally deliberate there) in charge of care barely managing to provide pain relief let alone all the other things that Mr Consultant had ordered and even in that short time had started chasing up, I needed to go outside to make a few calls and being honest, a much needed smoke. One step out of the exit and 'have you got a spare fag love?' , three steps out 'have you got 25p for a cup of tea love?' which prompted the thought that I must investigate where it is that one can purchase such cheap beverages, five steps 'can I borrow your lighter love?'. I declined the first two requests and then stood slack jawed as I handed over my lighter to watch it being used to light a decent five skin reefer, right in front of the security cameras and two police officers standing a few yards away.

Back indoors nursing care improved a little by way of a young male nurse but female Sister was still busy moaning about Mr Consultant chasing her up for her lack of attendance and care. She quite clearly wasn't interested in doing what had been asked of her and her persistence in not providing basic care was astonishing in its intensity and deliberateness. Young male nurse advised me that going outside in the evening was a not a wise idea due to the local wildlife quote 'you've seen what goes on in here' and he also advised me that under no circumstances should I wait anywhere but inside for my taxi when I was leaving. He was right though I did see what goes on in there and I bore witness throughout the evening to arguments, bad attitudes, lack of respect to either the law or humanity and general all around nastiness. What a sad reflection of what life must be like for those that work there and perhaps in a way an explanation for what can only be described as a cynical 'don't care' attitude towards patients by the majority of nursing staff encountered.

Five hours after my man's entrance to A&E tracks were finally made to the Surgical Assessment Unit for admission. It would have been nice to observe a different standard and attitude towards nursing duties but alas niceness wasn't in the line of duty.

My taxi driver home was lovely. Five children to look after, he clearly worked hard and long hours but was a cheery soul who demonstrated real compassion to a very tired and stressed out woman and for that I am grateful. When you see the worst aspects of humanity all thrown together in one evening, it's always good to be shown that there are people out there who have not grown so cynical with life as to be uncaring and unkind. I am reminded of one of the strands in my life that I always try and act by; treat others as you would want to be treated....otherwise that bad karma will one day come up and bite you on the bum.

Oh and if you are ever unfortunate enough to suffer an accident in Birmingham may I suggest that you offer bribes to the ambulance service in order to get them to take you anywhere but Birmingham City Hospital. The Manor in Walsall is a paradise in comparison and I never thought I would hear myself say that!

Links to the Past

Having undergone what was for me the most traumatic dental surgery imaginable, it did after all take the dentist a whole hour to remove one solitary wisdom tooth and still feeling the after effects along with the abscess that necessitated the surgery continuing in full on action meaning yet more antibiotics, I decided a ride out on such a glorious day might just lift my spirits. After tootling along the canal to Rushall and then up through Pelsall and Brownhills returning along the canal to Dumblederry Lane in Aldridge I decided to pay a visit to Linley Woods and also to the site of Redhouse School.

Brownhills Bob posted recently about the sale of Linley Woods prompting many memories from childhood to resurface. The woods have always held a fascination for the children of Aldridge and in particular those that lived on the Redhouse. They were forbidden to me but that didn't stop me from going down there when I could; the thrill of the forbidden and perhaps someone reporting my presence there to my parents always made such visits delicious.

Access proved a little difficult due to the what even at this time of the year was dense growth.


However as can be seen from the following photograph it seems that the woods are still well used.



The dips appear just as terrifying as when I was a child and I was tempted to give them a bash on my bike. Maybe another day when I have someone with me to call 999 should an ambulance be required!





I then took the short ride down to where Redhouse School, subject of a recent blog, once stood.





The forbidding gates say it all really but you can still glimpse the school sign just behind them along with a Walsall Council sign warning me of the dire consequences of trespassing. This I ignored as there was a sizeable gap just by the gates that I could squeeze through and I did. I was there not to cause damage or any distress to local residents but to take a few photographs of what is left. There is very little left apart from rubble but it is amazing to see how nature is reclaiming the site at present although I wondered how long for because surely such a prime piece of land will inevitably and despite the protestations of local residents, eventually be redeveloped for housing stock.

Do you remember 'Plant a Tree in 73'? I do because apart from being an avid Blue Peter viewer back then, we planted four at Redhouse. There were four houses, Barnardo, Scott, Elgar and the best house of all because I was a member, Nightingale. Each house had its own tree and I was devastated to be ill on planting day because I had been given the honour of doing a little spade work for Nightingale and so I missed my opportunity of immortality! These are the four trees today, standing testament to a more hopeful future than the one that the school actually encountered. The silver birch was the tree that belonged to Nightingale.



Somewhere underneath those trees is a time capsule or at least there was. Perhaps someone read the school log book before it was closed and discovered this treasure for the future and perhaps it was disinterred. Perhaps not. If the capsule is still there it would be nice if some of us that were there back in 1973 be allowed to rediscover our past.

My final picture was taken roughly from where the old Class 1 stood and looks over what would have been the school hall, classes 3,4,5 and 6 towards the school field. I hadn't realised until today quite how much of the old school field had been sold to the developers for housing when the old Infants School was demolished. It was a massive chunk, virtually all of the space where the football pitch, scene of many famous victories over Leighswood, Cooper and Jordan, St Mary's and all those really far away schools from foreign parts such as Walsall Wood and Brownhills, stood.

I didn't see any ghosts today but I did experience an immense sense of sadness due to the silence. This site was once such a vibrant and noisy scene, filled with children learning and playing and fighting and just being children. Now it is eerily quiet during the middle of the day.

Soul Destruction

There had been a downturn in the birth rate but the Estate was still filled with children, as were the surrounding areas that were not strictly part of the Estate but which had help feed its school. Lots of children. All needing an education.

You know when a place is being given up on and abandoned to a nefarious fate when despite all those young humans running around, they close the schools. It is done apparently to save money for the local authority that abdicates all responsibility for allowing a school’s reputation and performance to descend to such a level that they see no other alternative. Had action been taken a few years previously, before the real rot had set in, then maybe the school could have been saved. The end when it came was inevitable. Middle class parents in the geographically close areas to the Estate would not send their children to the local school quite literally on their doorsteps because they did not want their children to be brought down to the level of the so called socially deprived children from the Estate, which in its turn was on a downward social spiral having had its soul ripped out by the closure of so many work places on the adjacent industrial estate and never having really recovered. I’m not sure whether it ever dawned on anyone that the children on the Estate would no doubt have enjoyed being brought up to an all encompassing, equitable acceptable level if that indeed was really what was needed.

Redhouse JMI School opened its doors in 1958 at around the same time that the Estate that shared the same name was built along with a plethora of private housing that had quietly gone up in the area since the end of World War 2. The Infants school opened first; the Junior school being built whilst lessons had already started. They shared the same campus but were separate buildings, each with its own hall, heating system, kitchens, classrooms and Head Teachers.

I started there in September 1967 aged five and a half. Such were the numbers wanting to attend due to the post war baby boom that I was a full six months over compulsory school age. This did hold me back for a little while but not for long due to the inspirational teaching of Miss Carne, an elderly (well it seemed that way) white haired, tweed wearing spinster, who was extremely stern but also incredibly kind and dedicated to her job. If there is one thing that has stayed with me throughout my life having received my primary education at Redhouse, it is that all the staff there, without exception, were dedicated to giving their charges a top notch education without any regard to which side of the road they came from. They all seemed to believe in equality in education and in pushing their students to their academic and sporting limits.

It was a real local school. It would have been considered strange to be sent to a school out of the area and by out of the area I mean Cooper and Jordan, up in the Village or to the foreign parts of Leighswood! When the cliché of school days being the happiest of your life is referred to I would agree that my time at Redhouse was very happy. School days were regimented and discipline was strict. You respected those teachers but they were wonderful teachers and knew that the only way to ensure that valuable knowledge was imparted to pupils was through brooking no unacceptable behaviour. Each teacher had their own methods and what would now be considered torture techniques. Mrs Wilkes had a cricket bat and a baby’s dummy; woe betide anyone who chatted too much in her class because there wouldn’t be time to draw breath before the dummy was placed into the offenders mouth. I was secretly relieved when I was allocated to Class 3 that year and not Class 4 and Mrs Wilkes! Mr Boulger had his training shoes or if not wearing them then the offender would be required to supply their own plimsoll or training shoe. With other teachers such was their demeanour that you didn’t even try it on, for example Mrs Whorton, Mr Ball and Mrs Thomas. In theory Mr Bennett, the Head Teacher, had a cane but it was rarely used because you just didn’t misbehave to that the extent that a risky visit to his office had to be made. The only time I remember it being used was when there was a mass fight after school on Gorsey Way and there were a few.

I could reminisce about the teachers, other staff and pupils of what was an incredible school and fill a book and that is what I may do. When I was researching a few background details for this blog it became apparent that there is no written history of the school. So if you have memories and would like to get in touch I would love to hear from you. Just drop me a line to taxwizzard at gmail dot com.

The two schools were amalgamated in 1987 and then ‘rationalised’ onto the Junior School site in 1992. The Infant School was demolished and housing built on the site. The school was finally closed in 2006 and demolished shortly afterwards. It didn’t quite make its 50th anniversary. The local children now face journeys to school rather than enjoying a short walk. I don’t think I’m the only ex-pupil who holds more than fond memories of what was an incredible school, the closure of which removed the final element of soul and cohesion from the Estate and its surrounding area.



This photograph appeared in the Walsall Observer in July 1973. I was the girls captain of the athletics team and Vincent was the boys captain. In the middle is Olympic medalist Pat Cropper. Our school, Redhouse had for the first time ever usurped the usual winners of the District Sports Day, Leighswood. It was a time to be proud of our achievements.

The Redhouse

The photo was taken a couple of days ago. It shows the rear of McKecknies from the canal.

Whenever as a child I replied to the question 'Where yow frum' with 'Aldridge' I was usually met with a finger brush to turn the nose up and the response 'Yam posh then aye ya'. I never considered that I was posh a possibility as I lived in a council house on the Redhouse and the Redhouse was seen as a bit of a dump to everyone else that lived in Aldridge and yet, although it was a council estate I could never see why the good burghers of the rest of Aldridge should see it as a dump. We sent more than our fair share of children to the Queen Mary's Schools in Walsall and also to Aldridge Grammar, there was even the odd university student so I always saw the estate as filled with decent hard working class people some of whom had aspirations.

Virtually every home on the estate had connections with one or more of the three enormous factories on the adjacent industrial estate; Birlec, where my own Mother worked as a secretary, BRD or McKechnies. All three are long gone now. The old Birlec factory now sorts and recycles all our green bin rubbish. BRD latterly GKN is closed and McKecknies having gone through several name changes/takeovers/buy-outs is largely mothballed although a small number of people are employed within the huge caverns that once employed thousands.

As a child I used to sit at my Mother's bedroom window and watch people from the estate scurry to work for the appointed shift. The men would often carry small women's shopping bags or maybe a duffel bag containing their flask and lunches if on a late or night shift. All would be wearing a cap on their heads, women a headscarf and they were smart. Men who only every saw the dirt and filth of an assembly line wore blue shirts and a tie and a decent pair of functional trousers. No jeans, they were for those student hippy types not decent working class men. Three times in 24 hours I would hear the siren signalling the change of shifts at 6am, 2pm and 10pm and additionally at 8am for the day shift. Thinking back that siren must have been a left over from World War 2 as it had the distinct tones of an all clear sign.

The three factories all provided additional facilities for their workers and staff. Both the BRD and McKechnies had thriving sports and social clubs and a playing field. All three had canteens and all three provided their employees children with a brilliant Christmas party. I only ever attended those for the Birlec but was always envious of those who had families with feet in every camp and attended all three. Good party food, sausage rolls, cheese and ham triangular sandwiches, crisps and treat of treats fairy cakes followed by jelly and ice cream. Father Christmas would arrive towards the end of the party and dish out the presents and I was thrilled when reaching my teenage years to discover that the present was a WH Smith's voucher, which meant I could add to my book collection.

Those three factories provided work and an identity for many on the Redhouse. They also provided a social cohesion because every man who wanted and could work would find a job, even the so called yampy lads would be found some menial job on the shop floor. There was pride and there was graft and wages weren't always brilliant but they were a life blood of that estate.

I'm not sure when the sirens fell silent. Certainly by the end of the 1970s 24 hour working had long since ceased and gradually the work force became depleted. Birlec was the first to close following the collapse of the steel industry for whom they had supplied furnaces.

A walk around the industrial estate now is a quiet experience. No sirens, no sounds of heavy industry, few cars and a sign of the times in that the bus stops outside the BRD and McKechnies are no longer in use. The old canteen at McKecknies with its large windows seems filled with ghosts from my childhood. The times I walked passed as a child and would find myself waving to someone inside that I knew. They would be balancing a tray laden with what looked like delicious food. Then there were the dinner/dances on Saturday nights when the stage would be dusted off and used to house the musicians. Now through the grimy windows you can still tables and chairs, some upended, some stacked untidily. The curtains on the stage look forlorn, dirty and dusty, faded relics of a time long gone. There are even trays scattered about.

We often look at the past through rose tinted spectacles. Times weren't always good back then but we have lost something that was good in the 60s and early 70s; full employment. For me that was something worth paying for. The pride and social cohesion that existed on the Redhouse back then disappeared when they closed the factories down.

A Plea for a little of your Money!

I've now set up my Just Giving page for my first 100 mile cycle ride at the beginning of May. The ride is for Macmillan Cancer Support Services and I'm really hoping that some of my readers will be kind and generous in helping me to raise at least £100 in sponsorship money.

For more details of the ride please click here

To sponsor me and help me raise funds for this really necessary and important cause then click here

I'm doing the ride because all of us have been affected in one way or another by cancer and so the work that Macmillan does touches us all.

Cycling Update

I thought it might be a wise idea not to bore you all to death with cycling minutia and so I'm now micro blogging about my exploits here. Hope to see you there.

This Year I'll Mostly Be Biking

It had been well over a month since my last ride. I got a nasty cold and then there were all the preparations for Christmas, the weather was truly appalling and so the bike stayed in the shed gathering concrete dust but that's another story. So yesterday morning, a stone heavier than I was a month ago, I dusted the concrete off the saddle and wheeled my trusty steed out of isolation.

Being sensible a short sharp ride appealed but as I left the road and joined the canal towpath, where peace and serenity greeted me I was tempted to change my mind. The sun was glistening on the water and although it was cold and I really needed those liner gloves I'd purchased during the week, my heart soared. It was so good to feel the wind rushing past my ears again.

Things have changed since my last ride. All the leaves had finally gone from the trees and shrubs and so I could glimpse things through the wood that had previously been hidden to me, so I slowed down in order to have a better look around at what winter time offered. After a few minutes I realised that my mind had wondered off at tangents all on its own. Previously this has only happened when out walking and never whilst cycling for I have to admit my first forays on my own although enjoyable, were often fraught as I came to grips with biking etiquette and with the dangers of riding on the roads. That moment of realisation gave me such a buzz and as I went along I asked myself why had I left it so long.

I made my way back pumping my little legs hard, so hard that when I dismounted at home I got the wobbles and couldn't walk. I was however exhilarated. Good job too because I have two big rides to train for! In a moment of madness I agreed with my wonderful S.O to sign up for two 100 milers charity; first the MacRide from Windsor to Stratford-on-Avon at the beginning of May and secondly Wolverhampton to Aberdovey for local charities and organised by West Midlands Police at the end of June.

The MacRide is my starter. Forty miles on the Saturday, overnight rest in a B&B and then 60 miles on the Sunday. The Aberdovey ride is 100 miles all in one day. I have to admit that the Aberdovey ride is a daunting prospect but if I can do it then there is hope for the human race! Considering that just two months ago I was a total novice to cycling and a very ancient novice too, it looks as though I've given myself a steep learning curve but then I never was one for doing something half heartedly. My longest ride to date has been 18 miles so a serious training schedule is the order of the year. I've been pouring over maps this afternoon plotting ever increasing distances.

This morning was bright and cold so off I went again and was pleasantly surprised to note that not only was double the distance from yesterday no problem at all but that I'm approaching double figures in terms of miles per hour. I wonder what I'll be achieving by my 50th birthday in April? My aim is not be an embarrassment to S.O when we tackle these charity rides. That will involve keeping my mouth shut as well as pedalling hard, long and fast...but that's another blog!