When I was a small boy of eight, I discovered a farm at the end of the road along which we lived. Olders Farm, in Angmering, West Sussex, was 50 acres of mostly grassland, with two acres of fodder beet for the dairy unit of 20 Ayrshire cows. Fascinated by its comings and goings, I asked the farmer if he would allow me to help with mucking out and feeding. So began my fascination with farming.
With the promise that one day I would be paid, probably half a crown, I was allowed to take on certain farm tasks. I loved the work, and would happily spend every day of my school holidays there. Our only form of power was a Shire horse, which pulled the cart that carried the manure out to the field, but neither this nor my father’s warning against my choice of industry could put me off – I wanted to work in farming.
As my youth progressed, I continued spending every spare moment on the farm. One Saturday, when I was about 16, I was invited to a wedding at the local golf club, but didn’t plan a late evening – I had promised to look in on a sow due to farrow later that night. The best laid plans often go awry, though, and while at the reception I was introduced to Martinis. In my innocence, I had no idea they were neat alcohol, and while I did get back to check on the pig, all I can remember was waking up at 6 o’clock the following morning with a very sore head, surrounded by the sow and 21 piglets.
Two years later, I can recall my father telling me that if I was ever to get married and start a family, I would have to find a job that paid more than the £4 a week to which I had finally graduated. With my agricultural interests in mind, he suggested I write to Massey Ferguson and to Ford, the two biggest names in tractors at that time.
December 1954 saw me taking the trip up to Coventry for an interview at the MF factory. To my surprise, I was offered a job on the spot, and was told I could start work the following September. But that was nine months away – and I couldn’t afford to wait that long.
My next trip was to Dagenham, home at that time of Ford’s UK tractor manufacturing business, where the world-famous Fordson Major was produced. Somehow I got an appointment to see Harry Power, the head of the Fordson manufacturing operations, and father of Harry and John, who both later worked for the company. I explained to Mr Power that all I wanted to do was drive tractors, whereupon he told me that I would have to learn how to make them before I could do that!
Again, I was lucky enough to be offered a job on the spot, and this time it was to start almost immediately. I gratefully accepted, and was told I could begin work on the tractor line in D Building at 7.15am on Monday, 10 January 1955, on a salary of six pounds and three shillings a week. The parents of my father’s secretary lived in a house in Upminster, which was a train and bus journey away from the plant, and initially looked as if it would provide handy lodgings. However, I omitted to tell them about the 7.15am start time, which me
