1950s: Reminiscences of a Derby Post Office penny runner

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Michael Marwood (72) was a telegram lad from 1949-52, starting the job at the age of 15. Like previous correspondents, he couldn’t wait to pass his test and graduate from a pushbike to the heady heights of a BSA Bantam. Here Michael, of Chellaston, describes the excitement of those youthful days.

Happy days: Michael Marwood, on his BSA Bantam, when he was a telegram boy in the 1950s

MANY, many years ago the telegram lads were known as Penny Runners, or so I was told. They wore a dark coloured uniform and a pill box hat

Fortunately, when I started work for the GPO as a telegram lad in April 1949, the pay was slightly more and the headgear was more modern.

Sid Pheasant, who recently wrote about his memories, and I are old friends. Sid is 69 and I am 72, so I started a couple of years before him.

At the age of 15, I reported to the Head Post Office in Victoria Street, where you had to wait for a uniform. You were also issued with an arm band and a pushbike which, believe me, was heavy.

After pedalling that around for some time, you couldn’t wait to be older so you could ride a BSA Bantam.

When you returned back from delivering your batch of telegrams, your docket, which recorded all your deliveries, was placed under the pile of other dockets until it was time for you to go out again.

While we were waiting for the next delivery, we would see if we had enough money to buy cigarettes from Mrs Pym’s kiosk. If we only had enough money for single fag, we would go to a cottage in Becket Well Lane where an old lady used to sell as many or as few cigarettes as you wanted.

We would also make tea in the mess room, providing someone had bought tea and sugar from home, and if we had been given a tip, we would take the teapot to the Wardwick Milk Bar and chat the girls up while we waited for them to fill it.

During the time I was a telegram lad, National Service was very much in our thoughts. Most of us would be called up at 18, so there always seemed to be more lads than work. But boys came and went as you could not escape being called up.

To name a few that I can remember, there was Sandy Powell, John Severn, John Mulvaney, Ron Banks, Brian Ratcliffe, Harold Beesley, Reg Brown, Bob Curry, Nev Porter, Charles Lamb, Pete Lewis, Reg Appleby, Jim Sturdy, Ray Argent, Walt Harrison, Duggie Shearer, Gerald Marriott, Ron Butts and Ken (Ritchie) Richardson, who died in an accident.

Our supervisors were all postmen higher grade from Midland Road. I can remember Len Faulks, Pete Dakin, Bobby Towle and Lou Hulland.

They all treated us well unless we upset them. Then you could end up going all over the place with telegrams.

Normal shifts were 8am to 4pm and noon to 8pm. One lad did an early shift of 6am to 2pm to deal with express packets that were required early by firms and then went on to delivering telegrams.

Often the first job to be done in the morning, during the winter time, was to light the fire so we could get warm and, if it was wet, dry our clothes.

When I first started, there was an initiation ceremony. The older messengers would duck your head in a sink of cold water – unless you upset them – then your head could be ducked in something else.

A postman came from Midland Road to repair and service the bikes and, if you were lucky, he would make sure that yours was a good runner.

Like most lads, we all got up to mischief, not seeing any danger. Harold Beesley and I were given a telegram run each; his was Normanton and Pear Tree; mine was Chaddesden and Spondon.

We both stood on the steps in St James Street, pushbikes at the ready, and then we decided to do a double. We would do Harold’s telegrams first, then mine.

All went well. We pedalled like the devil and, deliveries done, decided to take a short cut back from Nottingham Road, through the cattle market, via the canal path and in to town.

This way, we would make up some of the time that we had wasted – or so we thought. Everything was all right to start with. We cycled up Chequers Lane, as it was then, over the bridge, took a sharp turn to the left and shot downhill at speed. The canal was at the bottom, with a further sharp left turn to go under the bridge and we would be there.

But, it was not to be. Harold had a hole in the seat of his trousers which caught on the saddle of the bike as he tried to negotiate the bend.

Unfortunately, he ended up in the canal, both he and the bike covered in green weed. That took some explaining, as did the time one of the lads, who was being cheeky, ended up in a parcel sack in the middle of St James Street.

All the traffic stopped as the sack was jumping about. Another lad also came in for some stick after giving us some grief.

Someone nailed his uniform hat to the wooden table so that, when he grabbed it to go on his telegram run, he left the top of the hat fastened to the table.

Needless to say, we all got it in the neck when the gaffer caught up with us.

At one time, there used to be a policemen on point duty, directing the traffic at the junction of St James Street and the Corn Market.

One day, one of the lads (who will remain nameless) ran over the policeman’s foot with his bike as he turned in to St James Street. The policeman was not amused.

The day came that I was old enough to obtain a driving licence. After training and passing the test, there I was 16 years old and king of the road, or so I thought.

But when you have been wet through several times in one day, or have red and sore eyes with trying to see through fog, or are frozen stiff from driving in snow and frost, thoughts like that soon disappear.

Every week you were given time to take your motorcycle to the Midland Road garage for cleaning and any repairs, which were done by Bill Dearman, the Bantam specialist.

If you had been lucky enough to have been given tips and if you were on the late turn on Friday nights, we would all go to the Black Prince in Colyear Street, sit in the cheapest seats, normally the front row and pass round the hand-rolled cigs, which were so thin that, after one or two puffs, they had gone.

Then it was up to Jefferies at the top of Queen Street for pie and chips. Great memories!

Then, suddenly, the good times came to an end. We were 18 and National Service beckoned What further adventures lay ahead? Well, that’s another story.

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