Picking Coal in Post-War Scotland

By

John A.K. Lowe

“Coal is a black rock used as fuel: a hard black or dark brown sedimentary rock formed by the decomposition of plant material, widely used as a fuel”.  Encarta® World English Dictionary [North American Edition] 2007.  That is a scientific definition   However, for our family, coal was the only source of heat as we crowded around the fireplace on cold damp winter nights in Scotland.  In addition, coal was needed to heat the water that we used for washing and bathing. 

A previous article discussed the impact of the geopolitics on my growing up in a coal-mining town in post-war Scotland.  That was the big picture of world events.  In contrast, this article explains about picking coal, or black diamonds.  Coal was a critical element in the minutia of our daily lives.  In the town of Loanhead in Midlothian, picking coal was a family event.  As the oldest son, I helped my Mother pick coal on the slopes of a bing and carry it home in burlap sacks.  Later, my sister and brothers took their own turns on the bing to help Mother pick coal, as they grew older. 

Most coal in Scotland is mined in deep underground mines:  collieries or pits as we call them.  At the pithead, the good coal was separated from the waste slag on large sorting tables and the waste rock was transported on great conveyer belts to a bing.  A bing is a coal spoil tip, or slagheap, although bings also exist for other wastes, such as spent shale, ironstone, and limestone wastes.  Over the past twenty years, most bings have been reclaimed and they no longer deface the Scottish landscape as they once did in their hundreds. 

To pick coal, we trekked from home to a bing a few miles away.  For a few hours, we scoured the slopes for pieces of coal that the pithead sorting process had missed.  In this quest, we were joined by many other poor families, mainly women and children and the occasional old man, also picking coal.  Mother and I, bundled up against the cold, damp, ever-present wind slithered around on dangerous steep slippery slopes to scavenge our pieces of coal. 

With a good eye, a piece of coal can be distinguished from the slag by its slightly different color, and coal is noticeably lighter than the surrounding rock when picked up.  First, you spotted a likely prospect, lifted the piece up to feel its weight, and then dropped the coal in a sack.  The process was repeated until all our bags were filled.  Then we hoisted the bags of coal on our shoulders and carried them off the slope to old baby carriages, and to my bike.  

One Christmas, my folks had bought me a new bike.  Actually, it was a reconditioned bicycle but, no matter, it was a major purchase for them and I appreciated it.  Mainly, I used the bike on my paper route, and later to get to high school, about 2 ½ miles away.  As a bonus, I was free to explore my region, cycling into Edinburgh city, or up into the hills, or visiting beaches over 20 miles away.  More importantly to the family, a bike was very useful to transport bags of coal home from the bing.  I wheeled my bike home with bags of coal draped all over it - in the V above the pedal crank, over the horizontal crossbar, and over the handlebars.  

Periodically, the police rousted all of us off the bing after receiving instructions from the pit management on the excuse of concerns for our safety.  Luckily, the policemen were locals from the coal-mining region.  They were sympathetic to our plight and only went through the motions of clearing us off the bing.  No one was arrested.  Sometimes, we all just withdrew off into the woods, out sight and out of the rain, and returned to our scavenging when the police moved on.  

Our hatred of the pit management was irrational but instinctive.  Coal mining had existed in Scotland since the 12th century, and was a relic of feudalism.  Although the coal mines were now owned by The National Coal Board, set up in 1946, we had listened to many sad tales about hunger strikes, safety abuses, and unnecessary deaths.  We heard about evictions from pit-tied housing, and about shameful slavery even earlier in Scotland’s history.  Our minds were filled with the injustices committed by the mine owners.  

At home, the one coal fire that burned in the living room was open but it had a small boiler set in the rear to heat water for washing.  There were other fireplaces in some of the bedrooms but we were too poor to afford the coal to light them, and we blocked them off.  Thus, we needed the fire for our warmth in the cold winter, and had to keep it burning year-round to heat the water for washing clothes, dishes, pots, pans, and for washing ourselves. 

We must have stunk back then.  Keeping clean was a challenge.  Back in those times, we washed our hands and face regularly, whether or not there was hot water.  A dirty neck was seen as a sign of uncleanliness, and was to be attacked aggressively.  For some strange reason, my Mother and Granny took sadistic delight in scrubbing my neck with a hard scrubbing brush at any excuse.  We took baths very infrequently.  Showers at home were unheard of, although some working men used shower at the end of the shift down in the pits and in some dirty factories.  As very young kids, we bathed together, or at least shared the bath water to take full advantage of the heated water.  Later, I was able to negotiate the right to the first bath on a Saturday night before going out on the town as a young teenager.  Nowadays, when traveling in Eastern Europe, I would sometimes have a brief recollection of old Scotland, caused the smell of unwashed bodies and old sweat.

Contraband coal was a serious affair.  Under the trade union agreement, coalminers received a personal allotment of coal to heat their homes.  Nevertheless, that did not help us.  Although we lived in a coal-mining town, my Dad was not a coalminer.  He had started off as a Master Painter after serving his apprenticeship under his father, old Sandy Lowe.  However, the Scottish weather made house painting an unreliable trade and Dad became an Animal Technician instead, gained promotions, and later gained a management position at a medical research institute.  On the other hand, Mother’s older brother, Uncle Bob was a coalminer.  In desperate times, Uncle Bob would give his younger sister a contraband bag of coal but this was a dangerous gesture for him.  A miner could lose his personal coal allotment if it was found out that he had sold or given away any of it.  By prearrangement, Uncle Bob would leave a bag of coal outside his coal bin so that I could sneak down the street in the dark of night after everyone had gone to sleep, and collect it quietly without being seen. 

We occasionally bought coal from the regular coal merchant but we were broke most of the time and frequently ran out of cash before the coal delivery.  We were constantly running short of coal.  Sometimes, when we had enough money, or more likely, when we had borrowed the money from my Auntie Jean, I would be dispatched on my trusty bike to the coal merchant’s yard to fetch a bag of coal to keep the fire burning. 

I never know my grandfather, John Aitken King.  He had worked down the pits as a general foreman, and Granny was a miner’s widow.  After he died, Granny was not granted her widow’s coal allotment due to some bureaucratic problem.  Buying coal to keep warm from her small widow’s pension was a major financial hardship for her, and she continued to press her appeal for years after his death until finally her tale reached the infamous Moffat brothers.  In the Post-War years, the Scottish Union of Mineworkers was led by Abe and Alex Moffat, staunch old-style communists.  Fortunately, they took up my Granny’s case and forced the National Coal Board to grant her the widow’s coal allotment.  From then on, Granny idolized the Moffat brothers.  She would not allow any of us to speak ill of them, not even when they flew off to Moscow for strategy consultations.  They had won her coal for her.           

In today’s climate-controlled homes, it is hard to comprehend the significance of coal to us back then.  In that era, we needed coal all the time.  We were totally reliant on coal for our warmth and cleanliness.  Coal was a constant concern and struggle.   

Growing Up In Post-War Scotland:  Geopolitics

By John A.K. Lowe

I am a member of the Depression & Post-War generation, called the “Silent Generation”, because we never heard from it.  The upcoming onslaught of the Baby Boomer generation has forced me to recognize that I do not belong:  I am not a Baby Boomer.  Instead, I realize that the differences between my growing up and the experiences of others were enormous.  The differences encompassed much more than just the age differences between the generations.  My formative years were influenced by a vastly different world than the American world of friends and family.  That old Scottish world has disappeared almost completely.  My world was defined very differently in many dimensions, by history, culture, traditions, national pride, education, and by social class.  Geopolitics, Cold War, and turmoil of the post-war period made a major impact on my growing up in Scotland.       

Born during the darkest days of World War II, I could not understand the poverty, misery, and fear that dominated during those times, and I could not appreciate the great, solid courage.  Much later, I heard the old stories from my old Granny, family members, and others.  Everyone had a story to tell.  And, what magnificent stories they were!  My Dad telling me about serving with the Royal Navy fleet that faced down the Vichy French fleet at Oran to prevent it from joining up with the Axis fleet in Italy.  Merchant seaman from my hometown returning to Atlantic convoy duty after being torpedoed by U-boats, and then being torpedoed again and again, until eventually being lost at sea.  Mild-mannered and kindly Uncle George fighting in the desert against Rommel’s Afrika Corps.  The mementos from the infamous Burma railway in the local Doctor’s study.  Moreover, the neighbors’ memories of sons that never returned home.           

I grew up in a small Scottish coal-mining village.  My formative years were spent amidst the dying embers of the British Empire as it withdrew messily from the remaining colonies in Malaysia, Cyprus, Aden, Rhodesia, and Kenya.  In the post-war period, the US had other concerns with the beginning of the “Cold War”, and my American friends may be unfamiliar with some of these conflicts. 

For example, British newspaper headlines featured the famed Ghurka mercenaries fighting against communist guerrillas in the Malaysian jungles.  However, some of the old headlines included names familiar today.  EOKA’s bloody bombs in Cyprus, where the remnants of that conflict still linger on in the partitioning of that island, complicating Turkey’s application for EU membership.  British troops fought terrorists in Aden, now in Yemen, and scene of the deadly USS Cole bombing.  The Rhodesia crisis created Zimbabwe, where Robert Mugabe continues to brutally oppress his people.  In the early 1950s, the British army fought against vicious Mau terrorists in Kenya, later the scene of the 1998 bombing of the US embassy in Nairobi.  Some trouble spots never change!  .  

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My formative years were spent in difficult times – in times of great social changes.  After World War II and up through 1960s, the Britain establishment held on tenaciously to the rigid social class structure of the Victorian era and the outmoded traditions of the British Empire.  Over time, the class struggle was finally starting to tear down Britain’s obsolete institutions and about time too! 

This post-war period was the era of huge nationalized industries in railways, coal, steel, and the great shipyards on the Clyde that built the famous transatlantic liners.  On the other hand, it was the heyday of militant socialist trade unions fighting for popular causes on our behalf against the greedy and evil capitalist bosses.  Strikes and work stoppages were common.  Tempers ran high with allegations and counter-allegations.  Some British union leaders openly flaunted their Red connections, and were seen flying off regularly to Moscow for strategy consultations. 

As a young kid, I marched under flying banners with thousands of men, women, and children from Loanhead and other outlying towns into the great Holyrood Park, below the slopes of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, for the May Day celebration, organized by the Scottish Union of Mineworkers.  Then, the massed voices singing the refrain from The Internationale, the communist anthem, “So comrades, come rally, and the last fight let us face, the Internationale unites the human race”.  I heard the rich bass voice of Paul Robeson, America’s exile, singing about oppression and freedom.  

These were difficult times.  The post-war era in Europe meant violent and constant political strife, as the big “isms” of the day - communism, fascism, socialism, and capitalism - challenged each other, with violence and an uncertain outcome.  In France, workers and students took to the streets in national strikes.  In Italy, Italian governments were formed and fell, sometimes within days.  Britain suffered from continual national strikes by miners, steelworkers, railwaymen, utility workers, and dockers, which closed down the country and ruined any hope of economic recovery.

The Britain of my generation was a very grim Britain.  It was no longer “Great”, nor “United”, and utterly exhausted by the six years of war.  For example, we suffered from acute food shortages right up until the early 60s.  Coupons from our wartime ration books were required for food shopping at the local Pennicuik Cooperative store.  Meat was a luxury, and lesser cuts were made more tender in stews and pies.  Nothing was wasted, and organ meats were used in the making of sausages, potted-meats, and black pudding.  Our “gourmet” meals were made from Spam’s chopped pork, and Fray Bentos corned beef imported from Argentina. 

As a growing boy, I was always, always hungry.  On the other hand, I never starved.  At school, I received one-third of a pint bottle of milk every morning and an institutional 3-course lunch, courtesy of a Socialist government.  We fought over seconds!  After school, my Granny always had a tasty soup on the boil for her wee grandson, and my Aunties, Jean and Annie, spoiled me with scones and sandwiches.  We were poor but so was everyone else. 

As the post-war generation, we were just starting to become aware of the world at large and the Cold War.  Then, the evil of Soviet communism was revealed to us, and to the whole world, by its brutal suppression of the Hungarian revolution.  As young teenagers, we listened nightly to radio broadcasts from Budapest, full of brave exploits and courage, and first-hand tales of nasty secret police, torture, and violent death.  Later, we heard about the lucky escapes to Austria by some of the revolution’s leaders, famous athletes, and soccer players.  With others of my generation, we wanted to volunteer to fight with the brave Hungarians against this brutal Soviet tyranny.  As thirteen-year-old schoolboys, we had lost our innocence.  We were forced to face political reality.  Evil men still ruled in the world. 

Gut feel is not an acceptable management competence.  Winging it will not fly!

The new role for human resources requires a clear conceptual framework, comprised of the basics of all the different HR functional specializations.  It must include the latest leading-edge thinking and theories on human capita by academics, CXOs, and HR practitioners, as well as best HR practices. 

These best practices must have been tried out and tested by normal-sized successful companies.  We can learn little from experiences of the celebrity behemoths with their hundreds of thousands of employees.  Their practices are not applicable to normal companies.       

In addition, executives in the New HR role must possess solid competencies as all-round business executives in the global marketplace. 

Most company annual reports include the statement, “our employees are our most valued asset”, or something similarly trite.  Sometimes, the affirmation is attributed to a sincere looking CEO who is seeking our trust.  Other times, the phrase just appears as a faceless PR testimonial.  It has become standard “boilerplate” phrase and cynically we do not attach much significance to it. 

If employees are such a valued asset, why do many companies seek to minimize their interactions with their staff?  For example, companies outsourced the entire employee benefits function because they were tired of the headaches.  Thus, companies have offloaded dealing with their most valuable asset – their own employees - to a disinterested third party, usually offshore.  The focus for these companies is cost reduction.  Let’s stop pretending that it’s about taking care of the valued employees and their families.  It’s about time that CEOs and HR leaders lived up to the hype. 

The current trend of wholesale HR outsourcing is dangerous and thank goodness, a few companies are starting to recognize it.  De-emphasizing HR activities harms the bottom-line, immediately or eventually.  Paradoxically, CEOs and senior executives highlight that their greatest challenges are organizational and people issues.  However, they try to get rid of their people issues though wholesale HR outsourcing. 

For example, some companies have outsourced their global mobility activity but this is not always the right thing to do.  At a high-tech company implementing large systems worldwide against tight deadlines, global mobility was critical to success.  It is definitely not a good practice to outsource mission critical elements! 

Throw the problems over the fall?  No wonder business leaders have such a huge credibility problem.  In the end, CEOs and HR leaders must retain control of the activities that have a direct impact on the company’s results, and their success.