STORYLINE

JACK BEARDSLEY’S APPRENTICE

Foleshill is fully occupied maintaining Whitley bombers and making parts for Britain’s armed forces including the RAF’s fi rst jet-powered fi ghter. Will Heynes is expanding the SS engineering capability and Jack Beardsley is recruiting staff for his very own factory…

WORDS: LINDSAY ROSS IMAGES: KELSEY ARCHIVE

William Lyons categorised himself as a belowaverage golfer. He always said to himself that given time he would improve. Being out on the greens and fairways was something he truly relished in the company of friends, both old and new. A round with Bertie Henly, either at the Coventry Club or at Hendon when he visited London was always a pleasure. The two men were both about the same standard, and with very much a common interest in the promotion and selling of SS cars.

The SS relationship with Hawker Siddeley began during a round of golf at Hendon Golf Club when Frank Hough of Henlys introduced Lyons to Frank Spriggs, its managing director. The ill-fated construction of AVRO Manchester bombers, the refurbishment of Armstrong Whitworth AW38 ‘Whitley’ bombers and the later Gloster Meteor jet-fighter contracts all emanated from Hawker Siddeley, the parent company of A.V. Roe, Armstrong-Whitworth and the Gloster Aircraft Company.

Freemasonry was also something that William Lyons considered himself not very good at. He was sold on the three founding masonic principles; brotherly love - tolerance, respect, compassion and understanding; relief - to help those less fortunate; and truth – striving for high moral standards in themselves and encouraging it in others. He left it to the rest of them to organise and spread the word. It was during one of his infrequent visits to the local lodge in 1941 where another fortuitous meeting took place.

‘I am amazed that as a car-maker, you don’t have a machine shop,’ Christopher Oliver said, following introductions, and establishing that as General Manager of Armstrong Siddeley, his Group MD had suggested he seek out the SS boss.

‘Well,’ Lyons chuckled in response. ‘We have a long history of coachbuilding. It’s only since 1937 we’ve been fabricating steel bodies. Mr Heynes is growing our engineering team by the day and I know that we could make a bigger contribution to the war effort if we did have a machine shop.’

‘That is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,’ Oliver said. ‘Firstly, I should say that Mr Spriggs and myself are great admirers of your cars. You probably know that Armstrong Siddeley make the Cheetah aeroengine. Well, we are being encouraged by the War Department to spread our

manufacturing base as part of the shadow-factory strategy. You know, evading the German bombers, I don’t need to tell you about that. Anyway, we wondered whether SS would consider coming in with us – it would be to our mutual benefit, obviously.’

‘Hmm,’ Lyons stroked his chin. ‘Thank you. I’m always delighted when someone admits to liking what we do. I’ll have to put it to the board, but I do have someone who could run a machining centre, we’ve discussed it before.’ He threw his shoulders back. ‘The answer is yes, in principle. Once I’ve spoken with our people at Foleshill I shall be in touch with you in the next few days. Thank you again, Mr Oliver.’ They shook hands. Conventionally this time.

Would I be interested, William Lyons thought as he drove home that night. Would the admiral of the Swiss navy be interested if someone asked him if he’d like a ship for Christmas? He laughed out loud and banged the steering wheel.

Clouds of mist clung to the dewcovered fields across the English countryside on that bright 1941 autumn morning. A lorry drivers rest-stop on the A46 just north of Evesham was the venue for discussions between Will Heynes and Walter Hassan. Hassan was bored with aero-engineering and had written to his old friend enquiring about “opportunities.” Over black tea and butter-less strawberry jam rolls made by the fair hand of Mrs Hassan, they caught up with events over the last 18 months.

‘Sorry for your loss, Bill,’ Hassan said. ‘I can’t imagine how tough losing your eldest boy would be.’

‘Thanks, Walt,’ Heynes said, stirring his tea thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. Everything we do around the house and even around the local area is a reminder of our Simon. His empty bedroom, the school and the pitch where he used to play football. It is hard. He was just one though, that is what we keep reminding ourselves. Just one of the countless thousands who have died, and who will die thanks to that German idiot and his cohorts. The bastards nearly got Mrs H too. The ambulance taking her and Simon to the hospital got strafed. She was petrified, the poor thing.’

‘I bet she was, mate.’ Walter Hassan said, face screwed up in anguish. ‘We’ve had some heavy bombing over Bristol too. We lost Adrian Squire in one of the raids, do you remember him? He was building those beautiful Anzaniengined Squire sportscars at Henley on Thames.’ Hassan shook his head. ‘He’s a sad loss to the industry. We had one raid at Patchway where I had to move my car so the fire services could get to the building. There was another raid about five minutes later and the spot where Phil Weaver’s car and mine were parked was just a mountain of concrete and iron structure with craters all round and unexploded bombs sticking up out of the concrete. I am one of the lucky ones, you and me both, I reckon.’

Will Haynes shrugged his shoulders, ‘Vehicles and munitions in Coventry, aeroplanes in Bristol, we’re obvious targets for the bloody Luftwaffe.’ He put both hands flat on the table. ‘Now then. The main reason we’re here, these vehicles the ministry want. They’ve got to be small, compact, and capable of towing a half-hundredweight trailer. This is the good bit though; they need to be capable of being dropped from a plane into enemy territory. What do you think?’

“... these vehicles the ministry want. They’ve got to be small, compact, and capable of towing a half-hundredweight trailer.”

‘You know me,’ Hassan smiled. ‘Whenever have I been able to resist building a specialised vehicle? It sounds like a small jeep with a 30 - 40HP engine and independent suspension all round.’ Will Heynes nodded. ‘I was thinking along those lines. You’d really move back to Coventry?’

‘Yes. No hesitation. The aviation industry is interesting, but everything takes so long. You do the work, it gets checked, then certified, then approved for release to the customer, who comes back with a load of comments, then you have to go around the loop all over again. It’s a wonder anything gets into the air!’’

Heynes smiled ruefully. ‘Funny, that is exactly what the boss says. We repair Whitley bombers at Foleshill, amongst a lot of other things. When they first came in, we looked at the airframe repairs, removing and reinstalling two refurbished engines, and we reckoned about a month’s work for a team of 50 people. They take a year by the time the ministry accepts them back into service. Mr Lyons is tearing his hair out at times, even though he’s not paying for it. Imagine if he was!’ »

Hassan laughed. ‘Yes, I can imagine. I can’t believe you’re fixing bombers – what else are you up to?’

‘Oh, we are completely overloaded with work, Walt. Anything and everything from building the RAF’s first jet-powered Meteor fighter, fuel tanks, bomb doors, relay boxes, amphibious and all manner of trailers. Even mule carts for the Burma campaign against the Japs – the Chindits are loading up mules with harnesses at the moment. We don’t know what’s going to be thrown at us next.’ Heynes sat back. ‘Still interested?’ ‘Of course I am.’ Hassan said. ‘It’ll be like coming back home.’

‘Oh, there is another factory now, in Leicester. It’s an old shoe factory. Jack Beardsley is up there to set-up a machining facility so we can make engine bits and pieces, mainly Cheetah engine parts for Armstrongs.’

‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ Hassan’s eyes lit up. ‘That means SS will be making its own engines, I bet that’s what Mr Lyons is thinking, the sly old fox.’

‘Yes. I think it’s a safe bet after the war’s over. Jack is buying-up machine tools left right and centre.’

‘Great!’ It was Walter Hassan’s turn to put his hands on the table. ‘When do you want me to start?’

If George Bailey had had less of a wayward upbringing in the backstreets of South Wigston he would have been terrified at the sight of the big boss man leaning forward over his desk and peering into his eyes. ‘Ow’s your maths, son?’ It wasn’t even a desk, more of a trestle, some planks strung between two tea chests. He was the only person in this massive old factory. It was strange he thought, even considering there was a war going on. A bit creepy.

‘S’awright,’ George replied. ‘I can hold me own. Me’ dad wor’ a blacksmith for a while, works at Morris Motors now.’

The big man’s eyes lit up. ‘A blacksmith, eh? Well I trained as a whitesmith. It’s like a delicate version of a blacksmith, sheet metal an’ copper fittin’s an all. I bet your dad did ‘orses ‘ooves, an’ gates, an’ fencin’. Did you ‘elp him much?’

‘Yeah, all the time. Gas weldin’ an’ all. We used to fix trailers, an’ some motors.’

‘What’s 12 12’s then?’

‘134, sir.’

‘What do all the angles in a triangle add up to?’

‘180, sir.’

‘What units will they be then?’ George noticed that the ‘u’ in unit sounded like it was never going to end. He was funny, probably from Yorkshire. Like his Dad.

‘Degrees, sir.’

‘Very good. And what would you do if a bomb went off and fire broke out in our brand-new factory. Over in the other corner.’

‘I’d make sure everybody who was inside went outside, so we could count ‘em. Then I’d ring the fire brigade. Meanwhile I’d see what we could do oursen,’ wi’ an ‘osepipe, or a bucket or two, well a lot of ‘em, I suppose.’ He decided he enjoyed making things up as he went along.

‘Very good.’ The big man said, rummaging in a battered briefcase. ‘Now I want you to write a letter for me, here’s some paper, and a pencil.’

Oh no, George thought. This is where I get shown the door, apprenticeship plans blown away. Dad will be furious.

‘You sit ‘ere, tek your time. I’ve got some fellows arrivin’. We’re going to unload a lorry of hardcore and mek a start on levelling up the floor in the factory. We’ve got some machine tools arriving next week. Now,’ he stood up. ‘You come ‘round ‘ere and sit on me seat, as it’s the only one we’ve got.’ He pointed at the pad. ‘Write your address at the top on the right-hand side. Then todays date, then start off over here: Dear Mother and Father, or Mum and Dad whichever you prefer to use. Today I came for an interview at the new SS Cars factory in South Wigston. Mr Beardsley is the boss, and he works for Mr Lyons, who is the main boss back in Coventry. SS normally make cars but they are going to make all kinds of parts for the war effort; trailers, fuel tanks, aircraft parts, even some vehicles. If you can read this, Mr Beardsley is going to give me a job as an engineering apprentice. Love from your son, George. Got that?’

George looked up at the big man and gave him a sheepish nod. ‘OK Mr

THE AUTHOR

Following on from previous instalments, Lindsay Ross, marine engineer, Jaguar enthusiast and novelist, continues to explore the fact based fictional possibilities of William Lyons automotive journey. These CJ pieces will morph into a future novel with the working title of ‘Lyons’ Circle’, copiously illustrated with the beautiful line drawing work of artist, Enar Sayatova. To view the full body of Lindsay’s work, visit: www.lindsayross.co.uk

“This is where I get shown the door, apprenticeship plans blown away. Dad will be furious...”

Beardsley,’ he said. ‘I’ll try. I’m not very good at writing and spelling an’ all, but I’ll do me best.’

‘That’s the spirit, lad. See you in 10 minutes.’ And off he went. George looked around the empty office, then at the blank pad. He had an overwhelming sense of regret at the time he’d spent bunking off school. He hunkered down and started to write.

Jack Beardsley came in 15 minutes later, all smiles. ‘How’s the letter progressing, young man?’

‘I hope you can read it,’ he said, apprehensively handing the pad back. ‘It’s not me’ best.’

‘Thought you said you were rubbish,’ Beardsley said as he was reading it. ‘You’ve probably done a better job than I could. Can you start today, now?’

‘Yes sir, but sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘What’re the wages?’

‘Ah yes. £4 a week. Is that OK?’

George saw a mixture of fierceness and joshing in the older man’s eyes. ‘Smashin’, sir. Thank you.’ He smiled for the first time that day. They both went out onto the empty factory floor.

Beardsley stopped suddenly. ‘George.’

‘Yes sir?’

‘Sort out that 12 times table by tomorrow, can you?’

‘Yes sir, sorry sir.’ He felt like laughing with joy and excitement, but thought better of it.

Once the lorry was unloaded, Beardsley set young George to work chiselling up the old linoleum floor covering. The team of men came behind him ripping up floorboards and infilling with the hardcore.

After a while he heard someone singing, he could hear the words distinctly. Loud, clear, and a bit, haunting. Even though it was coming from the other end of the factory it was like the person was right next to him. He stood stock still and listened. Blimey, he was good, like he should be in a music hall, or maybe in a choir or something. But hang on, it was Mr Beardsley, wasn’t it?

A whitesmith courted me, Nine months and better, He fairly won my heart, Wrote me a letter, With his hammer in his hand, He looked so clever, And if I was with my love, I would live forever.

Five verses later, George was silently devastated to hear the lovestruck girl killed herself when she found out her whitesmith lover was actually married. He must have been a proper so and so that whitesmith, he was thinking.

‘Keep up, lad!’ one of the men cried out. ‘You’ll get used to the songs. You wait till Christmas-time when he sings the Bantam Cock, he’ll have you in fits!’

George resumed scraping and chiselling at a faster pace. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but it sounded like fun.

NEXT TIME: The end of the war and the formal adoption of the name Jaguar Cars Ltd. Oh, and the Bantam Cock.