Boys often want to be like their fathers and I was no exception. Dad was in the mines and entitled to eight tons of coal a year, dumped on the pavement in front the house. It had to be carried into the coal cellar, inside the back door, with buckets . First was the lumps to make a kind of retaining wall, then came the smaller stuff thrown in behind. As the small got used up it was hard to reach and I went into the cellar with the kitchen shovel and pretended to be Dad in the mine. As I shovelled, I could smell the sharpness of the dust and wipe my dusty hand on my forehead and then have a bath like Dad. There were no showers on the small mines until the Coal Board took over, so Dad came home dirty and bathed before he ate. He never came to the table dirty no matter how hungry he might have been after the occasional double shift - there was a war on and people didn't worry about working to rule much at that time; many, like Dad in the ARP, had a second responsibility and didn't get much leisure time. Mining villages are often portrayed as grim and ugly, but ours was set in some lovely country.

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