Bemrose And Sons: In the grip of the iron lady

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JUST before Christmas, I had a phone call from an old colleague of mine now living in Aylesbury. “This is an 87-year-old who has not seen you since you left Bemrose & Sons to join the forces in 1940. I am Doug Miller. Do you remember me?” he asked.

Of course, I remembered him. He used to work in the stereo department. There followed a discussion about mutual friends and acquaintances of that period.

Doug joined the forces just after I did and did not return to Derby after the war. Our conversation set me contemplating my happy working life at Bemrose & Sons.

I started in 1935 at the old Midland Place factory and, on reporting to the front entrance, was directed to the composing department where I was due to start my apprenticeship.

When I arrived, I was astounded to see a large department with only six lads present. They were my fellow apprentices. The reason for this was a shortage of work and all the compositors were on short time.

About an hour later, my future work-mates trooped in and, spotting me as a newcomer, cheered me up immensely by saying that I had picked the wrong job as a compositor as they all died at an early age from lead poisoning through handling the metal type.

The old factory was in a very dilapidated state. In the composing department, the worn-out floors were a mass of slivers of wood. If you should wear a hole in the sole of your shoe (as you often did in those days), frequent visits to the First Aid department were necessary to removed splinters from your foot.

I shall always remember everyone’s joy when the floor was finally removed and a new Canadian maple floor was installed.

There was a no smoking throughout the factory. In those days, I think printers were among the biggest snuff-takers in the country. Many a request was made to us apprentices to bring in half an ounce of snuff on our return from lunch.

It was very interesting to see the varied performances used to partake of the snuff. One well-known character used to roll up his sleeve and, after puffing a line of snuff on his arm and sniffing his way down to his wrist, would inhale it in seconds.

I particularly remember the days when the angling club had a match in the evening and brought their maggots to work with them.

During the lunch break, races would be organised and long pieces of lead (called furniture) would be laid in rows to form tracks so the maggots could compete against each other.

One day there was consternation when a shout was heard: “The gaffer’s coming!”

In the panic to clear up, a piece of lead was dropped on the maggot which had been winning all the races and squashed it. Still, it received a quicker end than inside a fish at Stenson Bubble!

I used to go home for lunch in those days and was always in a hurry to catch the bus which left Midland station so, when the buzzer sounded, I used to run out. One day, I was in full flight when I heard a voice shout: “Tacey, see me in my office at 2pm!”

It was Mr Archie Gell, the works manager. Reporting to him in the afternoon, he said: “There are not many people beat you out of work when the buzzer goes.”

“No, Sir,” I replied, “and there are not many people beat me getting in to work in the morning.”

The starting time in those days was 7.45am and I was always to be seen nattering to my friends at 7.10am outside the factory.

“Fair enough. Point taken,” replied Mr Gell. “But take more care in future and do not knock anyone down.”

We did a lot of Government work which entailed working nights and I remember the lads, instead of going to the canteen for their meal, would lower the wastepaper basket on a rope (we were on the second floor) to a fish and chip shop in Canal Street. The money had to be sent down on the first lowering.

In those far gone days, the labourer, Tommy Allen, used to bring the tea at break times and he would stir it with a stick which he continually wiped with a dirty piece of rag he kept in his pocket.

He was eventually replaced by one of the new-fangled tea machines, but it was always breaking down and, after many people got the tea in their shoes instead of the plastic cups, the cry was heard: “Bring back Tommy, even with his dirty rag!”

Eventually, I became manager of the department and, one day, Mr Harry Hall, the managing director, marched into my office with a rolled-up ball of paper in his hand.

“Mr Tacey,” he said, “when arriving at work this morning, I passed beneath your department’s windows and this missile struck me on the head. If I had not been wearing my bowler hat, it could have caused an injury. Find out who was responsible!”

What chance did I have of finding the culprit. I gathered the staff around me and explained the situation, but all I got was a series of smiles and a muttered remark from someone at the back: “If we had seen him, it would have been a lump of lead not a ball of paper!”

The factory finally outlived its usefulness and we moved to a new site at Wayzgoose Drive. What a colossal job it was to move all the heavy machinery! To us old-timers, the atmosphere was never the same but one cannot stop progress, as can be seen with all the new buildings being erected in the city today.

Bemrose the printers, visited by Margaret Thatcher in 1983

When Mrs Thatcher visited the new factory, I was introduced to her and, when she shook my hand to congratulate me on my 50 years’ service, I could understand why she was called the “Iron Lady”.

Her grip was so fierce it took me several seconds to get any feeling back in my hand when she released it.

I wonder if there is the same happy atmosphere at Bemrose’s in these modern days of computers. I don’t think so. It upsets me when I walk past the site of the old Midland Place factory as it is now a car park. Thanks, Doug, for your phone call which brought back these memories.

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