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Uncle Reg was a clever guy. He apparently went to the same school as I did, Stow Hill, but nearly twenty years earlier. He won a scholarship around the time of the outbreak of World War Two, to the RAF College, Cranwell, Lincolnshire, where he learned the electronics of the day. Wireless or two-way radio, and the newly emerging radar were his sphere of expertise. He never said much about his exploits or his roles in the RAF, but he did tell me an amusing anecdote. When they managed to obtain a few cans of beer in some desert. All had a whale of a time consuming this bounty, and he built a large pyramid of empties in the tent. One of the other guys who was also the worse for wear, came in and knocked over this masterpiece, and Reg went after him threatening to kill him. Luckily, no-one was around to report him for chasing a half-naked 'erk' around the desert in the dark of night threatening to shoot him.

When I was young I hardly ever saw Uncle Reg, as by this time he had demobbed and had moved away to Manchester. His expertise had landed him a job at Jodrell Bank Observatory, and it was by this nickname that he was known later on. He had been married and had a son, but the marriage foundered, and he met and later married Hilda Gooderham, who was a divorcee herself. She had two children, Ann and Ian. Ann was about a year older than Ian, who was a few weeks older than me. Reg adopted them when he married Hilda. They would drive down to Lliswerry occasionally, staying for a couple of days before making the return journey. On one occasion they arrived having travelled down by train, and I was invited back to Manchester to stay with them for a week. We were walking through Clarence Place at about 8 or 9pm and saw a police car swerve dangerously in front of a car, forcing him to stop. The cop's driving was of the level expected of the inferior American Police drivers, where owing to their lack of skill they actually ram drivers off the road, then brag about it on their 'worst drivers' programmes! Apparently, they call it a 'pit' maneouvre. It's the pits alright, very dangerous and reckless, but well, you expect that of the brainless yanks. The name 'pit' is, I understand an abbreviation of 'Pursuit Intervention Technique'. I prefer my interpretation!

Anyway, Reg told the copper off, who then threatened to arrest him, even going as far as to assault Uncle Reg by manhandling him. Uncle Reg warned him not to try it, and that he was going to continue on to Manchester. The cop was very aggressive, but his partner talked him out of it. Just as well really, if he had continued, there were at least six other pairs of eyes watching, as well as passers-by who were by now taking an interest.

We caught the sleeper train to Manchester, and in the morning we travelled up to the Pendlebury Road, after having a look at the riverside studios of Granada Television from the top deck of the "buz" (pronounced boos) the Mancunian name for a bus. We arrived at the house, and Ian set about showing me around the area. That evening, I heard my first TV commercials, "Murray mints, Murray mints, too good to hurry mints" sticks in my mind as do other memorable ads of the era. There was no back on Reg's 'telly', and I was fascinated by the bits and bobs inside, and was transfixed by the glow of the valves. Reg warned me not to touch anything, and I was very happy to be obedient, especially when he told what thousands of these things called 'volts' would do to me. This early fascination was to shape my future, as thereafter I made up my mind to go into that trade. Reg warned me not to, but I did eventually, and how I wish I had heeded him then, but that, as they say, is another story.

During that week, adverts appeared telling of the super magic submarine that you could get in a box of breakfast cereal. We pestered Hilda to get a box, and dived in for the sub. However, Reg told us not to do anything with it. The instructions told you to pack baking powder into a small opening on it's underside, and we wanted to try it. At some point during the day, Ian and I were left alone and we rifled the pantry for baking powder. We couldn't find any. we tried flour. Well, you bake with it, don't you? Of course it didn't work. We tried all sorts of things, nothing worked. We forgot something though - we didn't keep a lookout - the front door opened and Reg caught us red - handed, well actually white -handed with sugar or something, and he blew his top with us. I was threatened with being put on the first train back to Newport. Such a big deal over such a small 'offence'.

Every time Ian arrived in Lliswerry after that, the shout 'mischief' would go up between us, and we would disappear, sometines with Ann in tow, around to Ted Page's field, where we would play cricket in the LONG grass would you believe it? The amount of balls we lost in that field would fill several buckets, but we used to enjoy the search as much as anything else. One day we three were playing in the field, and one of Ted's horses came galloping across the field, and charged straight at me. I dived through a hedge, but every time I tried to come back through, he would rear up, his front hooves flailing the air. He frightened me, and I had no reason to understand his action. I had not upset him to my knowledge, and to this day I remain puzzled by that event. Ann and Ian however, were able to go up to him and stroke him and pat him.

Of the many bike rides I made, one was to Porthcawl, but when I arrived there, I decided to go to where our family had a caravan "Heather 2", with my two chums, Norman and Chris. As we approached the caravan, it became obvious that someone was in 'residence', though at first I didn't know who. Then Uncle Reg appeared at the door, raving on that I was sent to spy on him. I don't know why he choose to say that, as I had no prior knowledge that he was there. But his attitude told me that my presence wasn't welcome. Chris, Norman and I walked over to the nearby sand-dune, which was one of many in Trecco Bay until the late 1950's, ate our packed lunches, and set off on the return journey. It had taken us over four hours to make the outward journey, and a further four plus saddlesore inducing hours were not exactly the most encouraging prospect, but we had to go. We arrived back in Newport just as the sun was setting, and as we headed towards the newly built George Street Bridge, Norman was stopped by a cop as he had no lights. We explained that we had just cycled all the way back from Porthcawl, and after a bit of pleading, we managed to find a nice side to this guy, and he let Norman go.

One holiday at Porthcawl was spent with Uncle Reg, Hilda, Ann and Ian. Reg was into sea fishing in a big way, and this was another one of his pastimes that I found enjoyable, later taking this up as a hobby (this also is another story). One day we were skylarking about, and we grabbed hold of Ann's arms and dragged her down one of the dunes, with her giggling all the way. At the bottom, she sat up, still giggling, and I noticed something wobbling. Her ample left breast had popped out and she was blissfully unaware (I think). I nudged Ian who was just looking all around him, and pointed out as surreptitiously as I could, the exposed flesh. He immediately fell about laughing and pointing, at which she showed embarrassment, and promptly replaced it inside her 'cossie'. I never did find out if she was faking not knowing of her exposure, but it sure looked as if she was.

By this time they had moved down from Manchester and first lived in the Roath Park area of Cardiff, but they later moved to Cwmbran. When Ann left school she worked in the Girlings factory offices where I was working with the electrical contractors. We occasionally saw each other, but office staff never mixed with the workers. She was very popular, being a very attractive teenager with a very good figure. Lots of the guys were lusting after her, and when they knew of our 'relationship', were constantly on at me to try to secure a date for them with her. Ian went into the Welsh Guards Corps of Drums, and I never saw him again. Reg and Hilda, separated and she returned to Manchester with Ann, never to be seen again. I did hear that Hilda died a short time later. I have tried to locate Ann and Ian, even enlisting the help of the Salvation Army, to no avail.

Reg remarried a few years later. This 'lady' was Rose, someone he had known from his youth. He asked me to be his best man, a task I managed to do despite my being nervous as hell. The reception was at the Kensington Court club, where Aunt Sylvia had had hers about 13 years previously. We tied the usual assortment of tin cans and other things to his car and he was fuming as he drove off. She was a miserable individual, and could 'cock a deaf one' with the best of them. Her hearing was very selective, but she was also sneaky. When Reg did pass away in January 1973, she showed her true colours.

A drinking friend of mine at the time was a soldier in the Grenadier Guards, and on learning of the bereavement, offered to accompany me on the return journey to Newport, as my wife was still nursing our 4 month old daughter. Eddie told me that he would, as a serving soldier, accord Uncle Reg a military 'respect' as Reg had been a former serviceman, albeit in a different arm of the services, and turned up in full dress order. At the graveside he stood to attention, and at the appropriate moment saluted, turned marched away and replaced his cap, which had been placed in the time honoured tradition under his arm. Upon returning to Rose's relative's house for the 'wake', all I got was that I had no right to bring someone along like that, and I had had a bloody cheek etc etc. Needless to say, she was off my Christmas list, and I've had nothing to do with her since, nor would I want to! I did receive a nasty letter from her a few weeks later, but that went where it deserved to be.

In case Ann or Ian or anyone knowing of their wherabouts reads this, I would be delighted to hear from them.

© Len Jones 2004