Danny looks to the Future.
We started thinking about it in '70. You may recall that, ten years before in RAF(G), they'd offered me an extension to age 55, and I'd accepted. After all, when you're 40, it doesn't seem to make much difference, 50 or 55: both are years into the future. And I still retained the option of getting out without penalty at 50.
Now decision time was only two years ahead. The options had to be considered. I made enquiries, and found that that I would earn only a derisory increase in my pension if I carried on till 55. I 'd been on the top of a Flt.Lt's payscale for years (and of course my "contract" specifically excluded any hope of promotion).
Even so, there were good reasons for staying on. The problem always was: How do I fill the gap between retirement and receiving the State Pension at 65 ? (for no one could hope to survive on my RAF pension alone.) And the prospects of suitable employment at 50 were so small that the reduction that an extra 5 years would entail was hardly worth considering. Even so, I should be on full RAF pay for five more years. The gap would be 10 years instead of 15. This, on the face of it, seemed the way to go.
But there were other factors affecting the decision. Frankly, I felt in my bones that it was time to say "Goodbye". The day of my (wartime) generation was over. It had been a good day, but now it was finished. My contemporaries were disappearing one after another. A new generation had taken over; it was no longer the RAF I knew, but a different one with a different spirit. By no means a worse one - but simply different.
I recall a winter's night about that time. At 0400 I was out on the main runway, checking the braking action. It was bitterly cold, the side flaps of our tatty old L/Rover were letting in more Siberian air than they were keeping out (and the open back didn't help much). I snuggled down in my old duffel coat and cursed as we performed yet another graceful pirouette on an icy patch. "I wish I were tucked-up home in bed", I thought, "I'm getting too old for this game !"
And from the family angle, things had changed. Moves every 2½ years were never much fun. But in your twenties (I suppose) they were a challenge. In your thirties they were tolerable. In your forties they became increasingly arduous: get your three estimates for removal and storage, pack up your goods and chattels (which had grown exponentially over the years), take your child(ren) out of school, find somewhere to live at the other end, say farewell to your friends and everybody else, march-out (or put your house on the market), load your car till the back-end was on the bump-stops and hit the road with family and pet. Then do it all in reverse at the other end.
In summer '70, we were still undecided. Then one Sunday morning something happened that was so serendipitous that it could have been an omen. Our family duly strolled down to Thirsk for Mass. Then back to the little newsagent on the corner of Topcliffe road. Here the friendly soul (who doubled as Thirsk's Special Constable) greeted me sadly. The Sunday Telegraphs had not been deliverd yet. I must be content with the Sunday Times as the least-worse alternative.
With this under my arm, we continued home in resigned dudgeon. All the duties expected of the head of the household had been done on the Saturday. The car had been washed, lawns mown, our daughter's swing shifted onto fresh grass. She and her pals and their bikes would give Sally-dog all the exercise she needed. Dad settled down in an armchair, lit his pipe and started on the "Times". This comprised umpteen sections, I worked through them all from cover to cover, with breaks for lunch and a siesta. In the evening I came to the very last section: "Official Appointments".
I riffled through this lot with little expectation. Stop-date appeared as age 45 on many of them, but nothing more - and most required qualifications I hadn't got. Then it jumped out at me. It seemed that the Civil Service Commissioners were minded to hold an Open Competition for an unspecified number of direct appointments to the established Executive Class. These would be for employment in H.M.Customs and Excise (HMC&E from now on); much of the work would be of an outdoor nature; a car would be required. You had be born not earlier than 1st November, 1921. Examinations would be held in London and many provincial centres in Spring 1971.
I was inside by exactly ten days -but it was enough ! This seemed an answer to prayer. What could I lose ? York was one of the centres, examination fees (if any ?) were minimal, I put my name down. No use building my hopes, of course - such an attractive offer (1450-x100-2150 p.a.) was good-ish money in those days, it would attract thousands of hopefuls. But: "Nothing Venture, Nothing Gain". Meanwhile I carried-on in the RAF (I think they only wanted a month's notice, anyway), and there was still two years to go (time for a few more Posts from Leeming !)
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C.
"We don't want to lose you - but we think you ought to go !" (Patriotic Music Hall song from WW1).