To continue my journey after my epic trip through Europe, I was back in London. I had no money, I needed an immediate job and I found one!

After a visit to an agency specialising in jobs for pharmacists, I was offered a job to start immediately in Bethnal Green. That was not the choicest of places but the pay was good. I was a professional in those days and well paid. Almost all medicines were compounded and demanded a level of competence. 

There was a lot of poverty and illness in Bethnal Green. My first job each day was to make half a gallon of Phenol Gargle for I knew it would be in every prescription. I wonder now if this COVID epidemic was any worse than bronchitis and pulmonary diseases of those days. 

Life’s comforts in those days were very basic. The dispensary had a glass roof as if it was a converted greenhouse. It was very cold and heated by a simple paraffin heater that periodically overflowed and caught fire. Often, in the evenings as I groped my way to the underground station, the fog would be so dense that I could see nothing. Not even my hand immediately in front of my face. I had to seek and feel for one landmark after another. If I lost my way, it could have been disastrous. 

There were no large convenience stores and the streets were often lined with barrows selling fruit and vegetables. The fruit was almost always the choicest South African produce. South African wines dominated shop shelves and had sophisticated labels that made them look cultured.

It was not to last, however, for the media and politicians were making the most of Apartheid. Front pages of newspapers bore photographs of SA police dispersing riots and before long it had all disappeared. It was replaced by produce from Australia and other countries. I can’t help thinking as I write, that even today, South Africa could be a world bread-basket. 

In spite of the discomforts at Bethnal Green, I remained there until Christmas in 1959. The shop was owned by a widow who lived above the shop together with her family, her late husband had been a pharmacist. I often thought that the reason I was given the job was that no one else would accept it. However, I was somewhat desperate and the money was good.

I spent Christmas at 47 King Edward’s Road in Swansea. My mother, who was born in 1894, lived there

for some period. It was my cousin, Barbara, whom I had never met that was living there at the time of my

visit. It was quite an emotional journey and the experience of travelling to Swansea. I caught a coach from

London to Swansea and arrived there in the early hours of the morning. While looking at all the homes we

passed, I felt sorrowful and dejected not being at home. The coach took a devious route and passed many

serene homes with subdued lighting, Christmas trees and decorations.

I fully expected to encounter Father Christmas on the way but alas I saw no sign of him. Perhaps I did, it

was his Spirit that made the difference.

Once in Swansea, I was ushered to a room way up in the attic. I was immediately plunged into the

19th Century. The room was old, the furniture old and the wind howled through the crevasses around the

window. It all added to the atmosphere, the only thing missing was a gas lamp and a candle.

My mother often spoke of Cockles and Muscles, the seafood they ate in her youth. For old times sake,

I was provided with a plateful, I found them unpalatable, they had to be fried before I could make another

attempt at eating them.