*               *               *

It was three very personable and attractive young ladies who patiently taught my three regular mates and 'yours truly', to dance. We were then around the age of sixteen, and being able to dance would prove very helpful in developing female acquaintances. Like most young men, we were rather backward when it came to the male prerogative, so what dancing taught us turned out to be an enjoyable pastime. It certainly helped to counteract the occasional female rejection and having to sit glued to one's seat at dances while others were enjoying themselves (something which the uninitiated suffer until they get over their inhibitions. Some never do.)

Saturdays were always special, the climax of the week. After work, at noon, it was: Home sharpish, a scrub, and on with the immaculately ironed white shirt, white starched collar and cuffs, matching tie --tied with an impeccable Windsor knot-- and a pressed handkerchief showing discreetly above the top pocket of a handsomely pressed suit. Usually, we would commence the evening listening to records to get us in the mood, then out to a number of pubs (Caerphilly is still littered with them), and ending up in one near to the local 'Palais-De-Dance'. Finally, en route to the dance, we'd go through a sobering-up process, so that we were able to stand firm and erect before the beady eyes of the dance doorman. If you didn't come up to scratch in your speech and gait, then it was a few choice words and back to where you came from. But we usually scraped in. Our optic nerves then got busy eyeing the ladies, followed by subtle positioning to get dances, and 'butter-wouldn't-melt' expressions for weekend dates.

Throughout our teens we went through many of the usual emotional problems, over spots, nervous tics, female rejection, and so on. Between us --and I can smile about it now-- it was Derek with his bad attacks of acne and the constant checking of his zip fly to assure himself it was still fastened; me with my hair back-flicking, nervous tics, and self‑consciousness about my protruding ears; Billy with his incessant wit, to make up for his lack of altitude, and Pearson with his tie touching complex and nervously keeping a fatherly eye on Billy's tongue, which often led to the threat of physical confrontation.

Playing records in our front room was the first leisure activity before going to a dance. A typical evening began with:

"Put on Phil Harris's 'Down Town Poker Club', Ron, after Nellie Lutcher's 'Fine Brown Frame'. Pearson wants his Doris Day's 'Wild Again'. Derek, one of Sinatra's and a Glen Miller, and you can put what you like on," Billy ordered, smiling cheekily.

"Oh, thanks Bill. And can I sit down then?" I replied sarcastically.

Pearson, glued to his usual seat, would sit bolt upright with an 'I‑have‑been‑waiting-for-hours' expression.

"Is that the same darning needle in the gramophone, Ron? I mean, we wouldn't want to see your records spoilt, now would we?"

"I'll put a new one in Bill, while you're sitting quiet. Alright?"

"Here you are, Bill. Have one of my cough-drops, and be still and quiet, I want to hear the record, not your mouth," Derek interrupted nervously, hoping to hear nothing more from Bill.

Then as usual, Mam bowled in without knocking, gave me a sideways glance, and said,

"You can put something in the 'lectric meter as soon as it goes out. I've put enough in. Oh, hello Billy. How's your mother these days?"

"Winning, when I left, Mrs Thomas."

"Playing cards then, are they? Are they going to The Goodrich for a drink tonight?"

"They probably will. They were a few pound up when I left," said Billy.

"And I was only just saying to your father before I came in, it's about time you all got yourselves some tidy girlfriends, and less of this gallivanting. I s'pose it's love 'em and leave 'em is it?" she said laughing.

To my surprise, they all flushed a bit.

"Woo. Look -- at -- the -- faces! Struck a nerve there, Mam," I said, enjoying myself.

"Pity you don't blush once in a while. Perhaps they're not as brazen as you! Anyway, I've got to go and get ready. Have a nice time all of you, and watch that drinking, it's not a bit of good to you," she concluded, shutting the door behind her.

"Where did you learn to blush then, Bill?" I asked.

"Ssh! I'm listening to Doris," he replied, turning his head away.

"Right! Whose got all the money then, Pearson?" and loud enough for Derek's ears.

"Derek has, without a doubt, Ron."

Right, Der', tell them how you promised me never to say that terrible word savings ever again. Go on. Tell them. And how you thought it was time you paid," said Pearson, poker-faced.

"What are you on about? You earn as much as me Pea'." (They both worked as shop assistants at the local Co-op).

"Oh! Sorry. I must have misheard you again. I must stop doing that Derek, it's becoming a habit."

"Look! I'll pay for all my own, if you like, Pearson."

"Have we finished here then?" I asked, before things took a more serious turn, "We could get in a few frames of snooker before going on for a drink. We can talk and play at the same time there. Come on. We'll listen to records tomorrow. You coming Bill, or are you still sulking?" I asked, grinning, and his blank expression telling me he was thinking of something clever to say.

But we couldn't leave until we had our customary session in front of the large mirror over our mantle shelf; Billy up on his toes, Pearson stooping down, and Derek trying to fit himself in somewhere between. As for me, I always used cheap Brilliantine, neat, the kind which set like cement.

We all got along surprisingly well considering our dispositions we were so very different. Gradually, however, through our relationships with women, we drifted apart (and in my case, to entirely new ground). We were, I suppose, just entertainment associates, not really close friends.

As each summer came and went, it seemed as if the long warm sunny days were becoming fewer. And, unless we spent at least a couple of days at the seaside, would have passed by even more unsatisfactorily. A visit to Roath, the public Park and boating lake in Cardiff, just wasn't enough to satisfy our family's needs. For us kids, summer meant going to the seaside, to Barry or Porthcawl. It sort of put a seal on things.

Faraway places were too expensive -- or so we were told. Besides, those other resorts couldn't boast of anything more for children to see or do. And anyway, who wants the misery of travelling such a long way? That was a waste of sunshine and play, I thought. And back then, a holiday abroad was never heard of.

When in our twenties, Malcolm and I purchased an Austin A40 pick-up van, which had an open back for carrying building materials. Unfortunately, the front cab could only seat two persons. On this particular occasion, our main concern was how we could use it to take Mam, and our three sisters Carole, Lyn, and Trudy, to Porthcawl for the day. It was our day off, the sun was out, and Mam knew we have a few bob to spare, She had already decided we'd go, before we'd arrived home.

"Well alright! You all go. I'm not sitting in the front with Malcolm, while you're all sat in the back like gypsies. And I'm certainly not sitting in the back, all that way. Definitely not," I said, indignantly.

Malcolm agreed. It was a silly idea. Mam stared at me, her eyes narrowing.

"We're all going or nobody goes," she said defiantly, as if it was originally our idea to go in the first place.

The girls began to whimper, feeling the trip was slipping away because of a childish disagreement. Mam stood pondering, wondering whether it was a sensible idea after all.

"There are only two seats inside the cab," I reminded her, "and there are six of us."

"We'll be alright. Get some cushions and something for over our heads. We're not as fussy as you pair."

Though looking at the girls, Mam was of course referring to Malc and me. She had decided to brazen it out. The girls shrieked with joy, and set about cleaning out the back of the van. Borrowing various cushions from the chairs indoors, they laid them down on blankets and rugs. And then they piled on, with enough food, drink, books, beach balls, and various bags to fill another pick-up, all within minutes, and shouted,

"Come on!"

Malcolm and I looked at each other, and grinned, trying not to embarrass them by laughing.

"Well, they look comfortable enough Malc, but what if it rains?" I asked.

Mam interjected, "It's not going to rain, Ronnie, it's a lovely day! Come on. Let's go. Or it'll be time to come back," impatience and embarrassment creeping into her voice.

Our neighbours in Heol-Yr-Onen must have thought us a pretty site. An opinion I expressed as I got into the cab.

"Never mind how we look, we'll manage. You just drive away," Mam ordered, giving me one of her 'don't you answer me back', looks. We stopped at the first garage we came to for air and petrol, and we all put on special smiles, as if everybody travelled like this nowadays.

We thoroughly enjoyed spending money and making sandcastles at Porthcawl. But the most memorable moment was during the return journey. As expected, traffic was bumper to bumper, alternating between slow, stop and start, for most of the way. We were doing all right, until we encountered what seemed like an endless incline. Then our little van began having mechanical hiccups, until it stopped completely. Almost immediately, motorists behind us were quick to give their assistance: hooting on their horns. Some manoeuvred carefully out and passed around us, making sure we were well aware of their feelings on the subject, the terrible crime of breaking down at the worst possible place. They made various angry gestures in order that we should feel the full weight of our guilt.

Malc and I took turns in clutch and throttle technique, but to no avail. We could only gain a few feet at each attempt, before the engine would cut out again. Then we heard:

"What's the matter with it? What IS the matter with it, Ronnie?" Mam kept repeating peevishly.

"I suggest you all get off to lessen the weight, and help us push," I said sarcastically, the sweat streaming down my face.

"Get off?! I'm not getting off, Ronnie. You keep trying. It'll go," Mam insisted.

The girls just stared at me in open defiance. In response, Malc and I decided to lay down on the grass verge to try to ease the silent agony in our legs, to listen to Mam's further admonitions on the subject, and to wait for the battery to regain a little more of its charge. Finally, we conquered that hill, and regained some of our composure ‑‑for a little while anyway.

Those early experiences certainly equipped us for much more 'vehicle nursing', in awkward locations in the years that followed, and always with the same frustration.

At last we pulled in to Heol-Yr-Onen, and were greeted with,

"Where have you bloody lot been to?" said Dad, sounding a trifle put out.

(You see, he rarely came home to an empty house, without a meal ready and waiting on the table).

"We've all been to Porthcawl. We had a lovely time, Alf. You would have enjoyed yourself. Your dinner's in the oven. Put the gas on," Mam replied, aware of his resentment of seaside trips, adding, "You know Alf, I think you've outgrown the habit."

In all honesty, we were exhausted, but wouldn't let on. We had already let on among ourselves during the return journey; like mirrors reflecting each other's true natures when under the adverse circumstances that resulted from a day at the seaside.

*               *               *

"The eldest son of my sister Edie in Yorkshire is coming to stay with us in a coupla' day's time. I want you to be a bit more outgoing with him. He's never been to Wales before. He likes a game of snooker, so take a day off work and take him to that place where you spend all that good money I could well do with." Mam instructed.

"What's he like, Mam?" I asked.

"I don't know. I haven't seen him for years. He's about thirty, likes a drink, and plays snooker, I'm told. He's having a bit of woman trouble at the moment, so he's coming down alone."

A few days later he turned up. My first impressions were that he was certainly bent on enjoying himself, more than visiting his Welsh relatives. He was brimming with health, confidence, and enthusiasm.

"How about a snooker hall, have you got one in Caerphilly, Ron?" he asked over breakfast.

"Why? Do you fancy a knock-about then?"

"Not working today then, Ron?"

"No."

"Right! Show me where it is," he said smiling and getting up.

 We arrived there early. The hall was empty except for May, the old lady looking after the place. She was behind the counter in the corner, gluing on new cue tips. We quickly cleared a few frames. Yorky is sharp, I thought.

Then the first of the regulars appeared: 'Woodbine', the official scoreboard marker, dishevelled, and with a customary fag in his mouth. He glanced over, mumbled something, and then shouted to May at the other end of the hall:

"Tea, May! And something with it, before I choke to death."

"Who the hell is that?" Yorky asked, nodding in his direction.

In fact, every time one of the 'characters' appeared, Yorky would ask,

"Who's he?"

A few moments after 'Woodbine's' arrival, 'the joker' walked in. He always unburdened himself of his new gags, and then left without ever playing a game. He was followed by 'the brothers', who lived opposite the hall and came in looking for a 'muggins' (any gullible newcomer). If you won money from the younger brother, then 'Play Me', the elder brother, played you next. It would be at cost, on a 'double or quits' basis, and would only stop when he was winning.

Friday night, after everyone had been paid, the players for 'big stakes' looked around for their beer money. They would give away one, two, or even three black balls on the scoreboard. This was usually sparked off by the quiet man in the black suit, tie, and trilby. By 7 p.m. the hall was full, and people would be buzzing around the skittle table, with the 'little-un', a larger-than-life youth, picking up 'crumbs' from the players for marking the scoreboard and running errands outside the hall.

Then my mate 'Billy Walk-About' came in, strolled over to our table, and whispered,

"Who's he?"

Yorky and I laughed. Billy got his nickname from the psychology he used to upset an opponent into playing badly. He would size up his shot from every angle, and walk around the table for some minutes before cueing -- by which time your much‑needed patience to play well had evaporated.

"What's the joke?" Billy asked.

Really, the joke was on all of us. We could have asked the question, 'Who's he'? of almost anyone in the hall. Our misspent youth under those table lights, listening to the clack of coloured balls, was robbing us of the opportunity of developing a good character; something which can only be achieved by knowledge, a variety of experiences, wholesome study, and good associations that encourage useful habits.

*               *               *

When I was eighteen, in the second year of my apprenticeship, I spent most evenings in dance halls, where the women were: The Palais in Caerphilly, the Library in Senghenydd, the Premier Hall in Abertridwr, the 'Institute' in Blackwood, and not forgetting the very large wooden shed in Caerphilly that we called by many names, and where almost everything took place. It was the sort of meeting place where youngsters learned how to socialize.

On Saturdays, 'the shed', as we called it, was crammed from end to end with sweaty bodies, moving involuntarily like waves of the sea, until the band stopped for a few breaths. The band would then start up again, as would the heavy thuds of feet stomping to the music. The band could only occasionally be heard above the bedlam. Those jiving did so in complete abandon, whether to the quick step, tango, waltz, or sometimes the military two-step.

It all could be heard a quarter of a mile away on a quiet evening. If you sat down during a dance, bodies would just fall over you, so you danced for your own safety, or allowed yourself to be taken round with the heaving mass, whether you could dance or not. Some would be eating cake or sandwiches or drinking soft drinks as they were carried around the floor, on leaving the heaving mass at the canteen doorway.

By 9:30 p.m., there had been half a dozen fights in the cloakroom, and mounds of garments once held by coat hooks strewn all over the floor like discarded rags. And you were not able to get into the men's toilet after 10:00 p.m. Those already there were having difficulty leaving. Drunks would be blocking the doorways. Everywhere the air was thick with cigarette smoke, hair cream, and beer. Finally, the band would play a calming refrain. Around 10:30p.m., a loud voice would shout,

"Last dance!" followed by a desperate scrabble for the cloakrooms. We fought for doorways, girlfriends, and finally would spill out through the exit, only to be met with fights going on outside on the pavement. If you picked the wrong moment to pass, you could easily be involved in a punch-up. All this went on twice weekly. 

Nevertheless, that was the place where I met a lovely girl called Jean, who I caught in mid-flight during one of her jiving sessions. She hardly noticed me while we danced the next waltz, but I felt an unusually strong desire to see her alone, completely away from that wild environment. I failed, and went home feeling low and moody, yearning for her company. Jean was short, delightfully plump, and there was something else, an indefinable quality.

A week later, while leaving the local 'fleapit' (cinema), and just a few yards ahead of me, I saw her walking to the bus stop. She had been to see the same film. My heart pounded. She may remember me, I thought. I quickened my pace to catch up with her. Then I spoke.

"Hello, Jean."

She glanced sideways at me, and instinctively grasped my arm with both hands, as if she had been waiting for me. She gave me a lovely smile. Though we walked, we didn't speak. It wasn't necessary. We were both delightfully happy.

For months, we saw each other whenever we could. We never once went to a dance together. Whenever we were together, our hearts were enveloped by each other's voice and touch. We would sit for hours in Mam's newly furnished front room, listening to romantic music, kissing and cuddling in the dark. If Jean was late, I would move nervously about the room from chair to window, never confident that our relationship would become permanent. It was like loving someone who was dying. It was ending with every loving moment.

Occasionally, we spent an evening with Jean's parents, at her home a few miles away. They were poor, honest people, but there seemed to be a vague sadness about them. After supper, we'd wait in the quiet dark street for the last bus. Sometimes, it would travel along that lonely road of small terraced houses, stop, and go by, while we were caught in an embrace. The street lights would go out, and I would walk home in darkness as though it were daylight -- Jean's presence still strong in my mind.

During that two-mile trek home, my thoughts alternated between the following day's work and my longing to be with Jean again. These strong feelings for her would go on undiminished for months, until, for no apparent reason, she would break off our relationship and say,

"It's my fault. It's nothing to do with you", and giving no explanation.

For the next few months, I felt quite despondent whenever I thought of her. Gradually, this power over me diminished, and I began to enjoy the company of my mates again. We continued the endless round of pubs, dances, snooker, and table tennis.

After some time had elapsed, and my wounded feelings over Jean gradually restored, my efforts at rehabilitation were again shattered. She would make a sudden and unexpected appearance 'out of the blue,' and offering no reason for her sudden absences and revisits. Nevertheless, she rekindled my feelings for her over again, but never did I understand this strange part of our relationship -- her mysterious and dispiriting absences. Although she knew of my need to know, I didn't press her for an explanation in case I lost her again. I only felt that there was something destructive going on, something I was unable to fathom or do anything about.

These long periods of absence only bruised our love, and over the three years there grew an unsettling sense of unease. One thing I was sure of, we were not fitting satisfactorily into any premarital pattern. Neither Jean nor I had been tested in any way as to our fitness for marriage. Our relationship was just one round of kiss and cuddle.

It was during one sunny summer's evening, as we casually walked and chatted near her home, that I seriously began to consider my future prospects, and the circumstances prevailing in the locality in which we lived. The valleys seemed to be slowly dying. I decided that as soon as my apprenticeship was concluded in a few months time, to leave Wales and go to live in London. Jean thought it all a great idea. But before the evening was over, she again ended our relationship, saying it was over between us. I felt sick. Another period of sadness had begun.

Months later, my mates and I were one night returning on the last bus from a dance, when it dawned upon me that we were entering the village where Jean lived. Within seconds I'd made a decision to try and see her.

"Hey up, Ron, where are you goin'? We're still in Llanbradach. Watch him Bill, he's had a few. Sit down, Ron," Pearson shouted, as he tried to stop me descending from the top deck. The bus slowed to a stop, and I got off. At night, her unlit street was as black as pitch. Jean's Mum opened the front door.

"It's Ron," I said sheepishly. Is Jean still up?"

"Oh, hello Ron. Yes she is! Come in and speak to her will you. Where do you think she's off to tomorrow? London! That's where she's off to! Talk her out of this silliness, Ron. What's she going to do in London?"

This came as a complete surprise. I was trying to weigh up what was going on, when Jean got up from her chair to hide. Her hair was covered in brown paper curlers, and she was prepared for bed, without any make-up, and more than a little embarrassed over her late caller.

The following morning I turned up at her house to see her off. She had her friend Margaret with her. Apparently, they had been arranging things for weeks. Both Jean and Margaret had relatives living in London. I told Jean that I would follow her to the big city in a few weeks. Soon after that, I got an answer from my aunt and uncle in London, confirming my request to live with them for a while. Ike would be there to pick me up.

As I was sat on the London train looking from my empty compartment at the endless fields passing my window like turf on a conveyor belt, I wondered about the future, and was apprehensive as to what my next employment would be. As usual, I was a little short of money. Then my thoughts returned to Jean, and I felt a little better. Perhaps my Uncle Ike will give me work in his building firm, I thought.

Jean was at the station with her friend when I arrived at Paddington. Ike turned up in his car, and we all got in. My first impressions of London were that its citizens seemed somehow detached from all the bustle and noise and people around them. I couldn't help but be preoccupied by this, their comings and goings, when Ike broke into my thoughts.

"We're now in the Old Kent Road, Ron. A coupla' miles up the road and we're there," he shouted, to be heard over the noise of the traffic.

"Is it as busy as this every day, Ike?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes. You wait till this evening. It'll be chock-a-block from end to end." Ike still had his inimitable way of speaking, his Welsh lingo, and some of the old Welsh sayings that he knew I would feel comfortable with. For all the years he'd lived in the city, he still hadn't changed, not really.

Everything in the city of London appeared larger, the roads seemed wider, the buildings generally higher, and every bit of space occupied by endless commercial establishments: Large stores, offices, hotels, and innumerable insignificant little shops in endless rows. It wasn't until we drove along the Old Kent Road that I began to notice the rows of terraced town houses. All of them were built with the same monotonous brown and yellow 'London Stock' bricks, and well coated with grime. The houses were certainly economic in design. Occasionally, we passed some contrasting architectural edifices, evidence of the clearly defined classes among Londoners.

Eventually, we turned into Wickham Road. The street sign was marked S.E.4. Ike and Millie lived in a rented basement flat in a large well-kept period house. Their flat had been attractively converted from stables. I was pleasantly surprised.

I soon realised I had neglected to plan properly for travel in London. Consequently, after breakfast each day I prepared well, noting transport times and changes. Although brimming with places of interest, there are long distances between each place. Having a few newspapers and an A-Z map at my disposal really helped, but I also had to learn may way around the London underground system.

Gellyn, one of Ike's Welsh relatives and an apprentice bricklayer who'd worked at the same building site in Caerphilly as I, had also come up to London to live with Ike and Millie. We became friends. He took me around, and as he put it, showed me the ropes.

There were so many interesting places that required more than just one visit to really appreciate them. The only distraction was the relentless noise from the traffic, which served to dull and almost cancel from memory the many wonderful things I'd seen, before my return to the city pavements. They say there are quiet places to visit in London, but I never found any, but the suburbs were much quieter.

The excessive business within the metropolis is, I believe, what has caused its citizens to become cut off from the closer community spirit enjoyed in small towns. After all, when the novelty of innovation in the city fades, only the residents are able supply the all-important spirit, and that is of any real importance to the locality. An example of this, are the experiences of those who choose to live away from home, but who then become homesick. That indescribable ache is surely for the friendly spirit of people one knew, the spirit one felt in one's past associations, and not so much for the place itself.

London: The city of opportunity, where the hopes and dreams of the young are preserved, and where destiny interrupts for such dreams to go unanswered.

What is the mysterious attraction that large cities have? From experience, just a great deal more of the same: Buildings and people, with a greater variety and choice. In the final analysis, I have come to realise that what is important is what we have strived to conquer through life's adversities that hopefully is stored up to our credit, and how we develop by our associations, wherever we may be.

I found most city boarding establishments places of constraint against association. For some, even lonely hiding places. If, for example, one is sharing a room with some morose individual, a 'stay-at home' who just stares blankly into the fireplace, it becomes extremely wearisome.

Being a sub-contracting itinerant worker helped to give me more scope and confidence, more variety and interest. But, after a few years, I began to notice the interior decors of the places I regularly went to for relaxation and entertainment, more than I enjoyed the entertainment. It was a sign that my evening life had at last become one habitual round of meaninglessness. I felt surely that there must be more to life than work and the pursuit of entertainments, that work is not the very essence of life. Like millions of others, I had felt I was stuck with it. But I began looking for a more worthwhile existence, within society, and within myself.

While living in those dingy single rooms, recurring thoughts of the home I had left led me to evaluate my life. In retrospect, if only I had knowledge of the faith then, and of the right course to take. Why did the Son of man say, "Everyone that has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or lands for the sake of my name will receive many times more and will inherit everlasting life"? (Matt 19:29 NWT) Does one have to leave one's family or land for his name? The answer is, no (not unless one's family or community is preventing one from living in his name). We should bear in mind that one's first duty is to one's own procreated family. The promise of receiving "many times more," and "everlasting life," should help us understand this duty respecting our families, especially when it becomes evident to one's relatives that one of their number has begun a newness of life, for Christ's sake.

I left my own father and mother, brother, and three sisters, because life with my parents became intolerable, not because I wanted to serve The Christ elsewhere, but simply for my own peace of mind. Peace is one of Christ's much desired qualities, so it can be said, in that regard, I left for his sake.

*               *               *

Over the many years preceding my arrival, both Ike and Millie had made the necessary readjustment, from a life in the valleys to a life in London.

Ike, an ex-miner from Senghenydd (a small village near Caerphilly) had built up a small building firm in the Brockley area SE4 (and which, I was reliably informed, stemmed from his relieving the local fire service of their triple extension ladders while in the service during the end of the 1939-45 war). He soon became known as the craftiest little builder in Brockley.

Very few homeowners in the Brockley area would seriously consider attempting their own roof repairs, as most dwellings there were three storey town houses, and taller than most. But for the little Welshman, with his mop of thick jet-black hair and ready grin, it was his way into the building trade. It was a far quicker and more rewarding way to a better standard of living than that of shovelling coal.

His progress was further assisted by the high ceilings in the houses and flats of that area. Decorating them was financially more rewarding than other building works, and for which his clients paid heavily. Whatever he was called upon to carry out, he certainly charmed his clients with his little touches of personality. He could promote, say, the job of laying a few bricks to build a garden wall, to one of building a couple of brick garages at the bottom of that client's garden. To those he employed, he was miserly, a 'jack of all trades', and one who had 'urgent calls to make' whenever the work in hand required a higher level of skill.

His wife, my aunt Millie, longed for Wales. Her visits to the village where her father lay beneath the coal at Senghenydd colliery increased in frequency and duration as each year came and went. All their new furniture, and alterations to their home, was no substitute for her longing to hear Welsh voices in the village where her four sisters still lived their dull and insignificant lives. Millie and I would sit talking for hours in her small basement kitchen. Though I didn't realise it at the time, we were comforting each other. She made the cold indifference of city dwellers more bearable. I decided to leave London for a while, to charge up my emotional 'batteries' as it were.

*               *               *

Some years passed, and I returned again to London. I lived in a particularly dingy and poorly lit basement room at St Johns, near Lewisham. I was told that the room had previously been let to a black gentleman, who had rarely ventured out during the whole of his three year stay. He had been studying the whole time for a law degree, which apparently he achieved, and then moved out. (He probably found such solitary confinement ideal for his exploration of the realms of the legal system, with their statutes and precedents).

Ike and Millie lived nearby. It was Ike who found me the room. The landlady occasionally used him for her building repairs. I carried out the odd woodwork job for him. I remember being in the middle of making a pair of very large wooden gates, when I could see my mate Dennis coming up the lane. In exasperation, he shouted,

"Oh, I'm finishing! He's beyond. I just can't believe that man's antics."

"Who's?" I shouted back.

Your Ike! You know this conservatory he sent me to re-glaze?  Well! I got as far as the rounded panes at the end, when he came rushing in from nowhere with these daft strips of hardboard. He climbs up a pair of steps, bends this strip to the rounded shape at the end of the conservatory (Dennis held his arms out to demonstrate), comes down the steps with this bent strip of board, all careful like so as not to alter the shape, and lays it on a blasted sheet of hardboard and shouts, 'Quick Den. Mark it! Mark it quick! It's a pattern for that last pane of glass!"

Dennis was definitely peeved, you could tell.

"What happened then, Den?" I asked, trying not to laugh, and hoping for more of Dennis's mimicry (he was very good at it).

"I bloody walked off. I told him what he could do with his bloody job," he said, staring.

He paused for a moment --waiting for my response-- then took a step back, as if we both should consider this serious issue for a few moments.

"Well, Den," I said, "You can't leave him there to do the job on his own, can you? It needs two. And what if this pattern he's made is wrong? What then?"

"What then? What then?" he shouted, "He can give me my bloody cards. That's 'What then!'"

In all fairness, Dennis had been putting up with 'all sorts' from Ike over the past few weeks, but only because of Ike's promise of this special glazing job. Ike's interference was telling Den that Ike didn't think he was up to it, and that Ike wanted a share in the credit of re-glazing this beautiful Victorian edifice; especially as the conservatory belonged to an era when craftsmen took such pride in their work. The truth was, Ike had to put his 'four pennies' worth' in, to put his own signature to it.

I managed to talk Den out of his tantrum, but as usual, the lads got to hear of it, and we had to have it enacted over and over, for Dennis's benefit; until, that is, Ike came up with a better caper.

Around Brockley, we always got a lot of painting jobs, mainly exteriors. But on experiencing a spell of inclement weather, we were given a list of interior jobs. Ike gave me a large Victorian room to decorate.

"Two coats and wallpaper -- a good job, mind, as she's a cantankerous old bitch," Ike informed me, quickly disappearing.

A few evenings later, I was on the last 'knockings' of the job, when Ike rushed in. He gave the usual searching glances around the room, then declared,

"I think I'll slap another colour on that door to brighten it up a bit. It won't hurt."

"What fer," I said, "I've only just finished."

"It won't take a minute," he shouted from the hallway.

Then he reappeared with the paint, and his favourite four-inch brush, and began slapping paint about like water at a car wash.

"Aw... Ike. Look at it."

"What? What?" he replied without stopping, the brush still flapping about like a bird trying to escape.

"You've got it all over the walls, Ike, both sides of the doorway."

"Blast!  Drat-yr-ody (whatever that meant). How did that get there?"

"I don't know, Ike. Did it jump off the door do you think?"

"How much paper's left?" he asked, ignoring my sarcasm.

"Not enough!"

"Let's hope he's got a coupla' rolls left," he said, and he rushed out.

Despite the best of intentions, these mishaps seemed to follow him around. They were a regular topic of conversation at our local, but never in Ike's company, as he would hold the matter against your 'account', and come to collect when you least expected. I've sometimes heard it said --though I do not think it should be taken as the general rule-- that there are some short men who feel a sense of inferiority when in company with taller men, and when in conversation tend to contend with them. Could it be, I wonder, that short men who feel this way are actually lacking in inner stature? I think contentious behaviour is a veiled excuse for one refusing to grow into a mature adult.

Most mornings, Ike would take me along in his van to the local timber yard. Every time he made out a cheque at the counter, he would complain that they were 'on the pricey side'. One morning I asked him,

"Why do you go there if they are pricey? Wouldn't it be cheaper to go further afield?"

"Not really," he replied, "he pays for my roofing jobs."

"How do you mean, he pays for them?" I asked.

"Well. You know the slates I tell you to pick up every time I drop you off with the van, while I go over to the timber stacks?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well I don't book 'em in," he said, with a countenance of the little boy who gets his own back. This incident certainly showed a side to Ike's character that I had not been aware of. In fact, for all his lack of ability as a builder, it was probably his cunning that found ways to secure continuous work, and why men with greater skill were working for him, rather than the other way around. The ways he used to gain people's trust were as smooth as silk, and the scales were always weighted in his favour, especially with regard to favours he was owed.

It was through the influence he had over a certain landlady in Lewisham that he managed to get my wife Diane and I a very much sought after flat, just a couple of weeks before the day of our marriage. Not sought after as to its condition, but as to the rarity of flats at that time. Mind you, my aunt Millie certainly prepared the 'groundwork' with Ike, on our behalf.

It was at the beginning of our married life together, while we lived in this first accommodation, that I began taking a serious interest in reading the Bible. I mention this fact because of events that followed.

A most extraordinary event took place one Sunday morning while I lay awake in bed. I was looking up at a loose end of ceiling paper hanging down just a few inches, that for months I had neglected to put right, when I began to hear a crackling sound. And, before I had time to move, the whole length of ceiling paper that was directly above my head, from wall to wall, unpeeled itself and came floating down, bringing with it a cloud of white-wash particles, like snow. The paper landed whole, covering me from head to toe. While under it, my outburst of laughter quickly brought Diane into the bedroom. I was still under it, when she looked at it, and bawled at me,

"Oh! Ronnie! What a ridiculous and selfish thing to do. I'm not cleaning it up. Look at the terrible mess! It's disgusting!"

She burst into tears and stormed out, slamming the door.

For some time, I could not convince her that I had not pulled it down; though she was good enough to clean up that awful mess. Concerning that extraordinary incident, the thought that remains uppermost in my mind is, that of all the pieces of whitewashed ceiling paper, only the piece above me fell down covering my whole body.

With hindsight, I now realise that this incident began a change to the course of my life. This event was accompanied years later by certain spirit visions from God, that resulted in me writing The Opened "Little Scroll" in fulfilment of Revelation chapter 10; a work of revealing erroneous teachings ("whitewash") still existent in religious "Babylon" worldwide and symbolically described in Ezekiel's prophecy. In Chapter 13:11-16 it exposes "false prophets who are visioning untruth" and covering it over with "whitewash" (false teachings).

It was while living at Lewisham that more of these inexplicable and awe‑inspiring events took place. For during that period, I began to see spirit visions during my sleeping hours. In the first vision, I experienced a form of physical restraint by others unknown to me, of being held before a pit or grave, and then of being moved from there to see and feel the simultaneous descending and ascending of myriads of heavenly spirits, and from which was emanating a spirit of great peace and joy. This was my greatest moment of all happiness.

The next spirit vision was certainly great in clarity and solemnity: It was of being face to face with The Christ. ⁽⁸⁾  His appearance was formed or created out of the moving rays of light, but which had no distinguishable source. These soft waves of light, slowly moving emanated out of the darkness and formed his "face". I was awestruck with fear, enveloping my very being. Even so, for some moments I was able to examine all the details of his face. When I awoke, I felt an overwhelming desire to share it all with Diane, to wake her and pour it all out. But a feeling of futility came over me, as I realised I would be unable to explain such a vision, unable to tell her the meaning of the awesome "face". On waking, my thoughts were racing. I thought: My Lord actually came even before my face, but didn't make any utterance. Why? I pondered over it as I lay there in the darkness. I later learned that the Holy Spirit imparts understanding silently, by Spirit, and not by human language. ⁽⁹⁾

The third spirit vision was of two enormous white spheres, of one sphere trying to give birth to the other, while at the same time under some powerful constraint not to give birth. Not able to bear these dual opposing forces within my spirit, I awoke alarmed, I was sitting upright, and I was spiritually and mentally exhausted.

The fourth vision occurred shortly after Diane and I had moved into a newly built council house at Ashford, Kent, and the fifth after we moved to Abbey Wood, London. I had to wait some considerable time for the meaning of these visions to be revealed, of the way God deals with His sons.

            It was soon after the last vision, and while still residing at Abbey Wood that I began to study the Bible on a regular basis at home, with a man named Selwyn Roach. He was a young man of about twenty-five years of age. Although he was very patient, more than a year had passed before I had begun to make any significant progress. It was as if I had to begin the removal of certain superfluous things from my spirit nature, before basic understandings of God's Word could be clearly understood and remain within me, and allow me to move on to more solid spiritual "food" (deeper understandings) of maturity.

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