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Friday, 14 April 2017

Tips, Ships and Executorships

“Never, ever, appoint a bank as executor to a will.” My dad’s advice was born out of sheer frustration.

“You’ll be all right one day son,” his own father had told him in expectation of a life-changing legacy due on the death of an ailing wealthy spinster living permanently in a hotel in Harrogate. As things turned out she lived another thirty years, by which time the legacy was no longer life-changing, much of it having dwindled away in unnecessary professional fees.

Edwin Ernest Atkinson
Edwin Ernest
Atkinson (1872-1939)
It was one of those unanticipated quirks of family history that testators fail to imagine when making their wills, which result in their money going to unrelated beneficiaries they never knew or had even heard of: in this case my father, his sister and the husband of their late cousin. It originated in Edwin Ernest Atkinson, chairman of the Yorkshire Dale Steamship Co., and Atkinson and Prickett Ltd., shipowners and brokers of Hull.

On leaving school, Edwin had first worked as a clerk for the Aire and Calder Navigation Company at Goole docks, and then as a coal exporter with the shipping company J. H. Wetherall & Co. In 1906 he began in business on his own, joined in 1911 by Thomas William Prickett.

Atkinson & Prickett
Within twenty-five years both were rich men with handsome houses on the outskirts of Hull at Hessle. Edwin’s was called ‘Waylands’, at the corner of Woodfield Lane and Ferriby Road. It had eight bedrooms, an oak-panelled dining room, two other large reception rooms, a billiards room, domestic quarters, coal-fired central heating, outbuildings, cultivated gardens, a heated greenhouse and vinery, tennis courts and a croquet lawn. Thomas William Prickett had a similar property, ‘Northcote’, next-door-but-three at 85 Ferriby Road. Among their ships – their dirty British coasters with salt-caked smoke stacks – were the SS Yokefleet, SS Swandale, SS Easingwold and MV Coxwold. There were trains of railway wagons bearing the company name.

Waylands Hessle
'Waylands', 93 Ferriby Road, Hessle (now 'Woodlands Lodge')
SS Yokefleet SS Swandale SS Easingwold MV Coxwold
Atkinson and Prickett ships: SS Yokefleet, SS Swandale, SS Easingwold, MV Coxwold

When Edwin died in 1939 at the age of 66, he left a life interest in most of his £27,000 estate to his wife and only surviving daughter. Adjusted for retail price inflation, this would be today’s equivalent of £1.3 million; probably five times that in terms of earnings inflation, and far more in terms of property prices. It was a considerable sum of money. His wife died less than two years later, thus his daughter, Constance Ruby, still in her thirties, assumed a life interest in the whole sum, to live in comfort and luxury for the rest of her life. She was the lady in the hotel at Harrogate.

Note that Edwin only left a life interest to his wife and daughter, rather than the capital sum outright. They therefore received income from investments, and the capital remained intact. It was perhaps a throwback to those earlier chauvinistic times when women were not expected to manage their own financial affairs. It also kept the money out of the hands of any unscrupulous husbands they might later marry.

Beverley North Bar Without
Numbers 8 to 2 North Bar Without, Beverley, with the fifteenth century gate to the right

Constance Ruby never did marry, although she did have a brief engagement at the age of twenty. She later became Clerk to the Archdeacon of York, living in the Precentor’s Court at York Minster. After her father died she moved to Harrogate with her widowed mother. Later in the nineteen-fifties, she moved to Beverley, into a half-timbered eighteenth century house immediately without the North Bar (the fifteenth century gate). She died there in 1983. As she was the last surviving descendant of Edwin Ernest Atkinson, the capital passed in equal shares to the families of his three siblings. One of them was my great-grandfather’s second wife.

Five years after his first wife had died, my great-grandfather had married Edwin’s sister, a forty-eight year old spinster. There were no further children, but a deeply shared interest in Methodism saw them happily through the next twenty-four years. Of course, they and Edwin’s other siblings had all died long before Constance Ruby in 1983, so the money passed to their families. Thus, one third of the capital passed by marriage, through my great-grandfather, through his children who had also died, to my father, his sister and their late cousin’s husband – people Edwin probably never heard of.

It was not so simple. An unfortunate legal charade had gobbled up much of the inheritance. The solicitor who managed the capital trust had sensibly taken steps to establish the names of the beneficiaries in readiness for when the trust was eventually wound up. He had collected the documentation to show that my father, his sister and their cousin were the rightful beneficiaries to a one-third share. But then, at some point during the nineteen-seventies, the National Westminster Bank trustees department persuaded Constance Ruby that her affairs would be better handled by them, and took over the management of the trust. They began the lengthy process of establishing the beneficiaries all over again, but after several years were still not convinced they had identified them all. Everything came to a standstill after Constance Ruby’s death. It was only through our persistent intervention that the case was transferred back to the original solicitors and at last sorted out.

Around this time, bank Executor and Trustee departments were becoming known for their outrageous fees. An article in The Times in 1985 explained how one executor saved nearly £7,000 by handling a simple £100,000 estate himself. Solicitors charged less, but were still expensive. We have no way of knowing what fees were taken out of the Atkinson trust, how well the investments performed, or how much income was paid out over the years, but when my father and his sister at last received their legacies, what would once have been life-changing sums had shrunk away to just over £3,000 each. Their cousin’s husband (i.e. Edwin’s sister’s husband’s granddaughter’s widowed husband) got £6,000. Welcome amounts for sure, but nothing like what my grandfather had predicted. £3,000 might have bought a small car. The total value distributed to all beneficiaries would have been around £37,000. Had the capital kept pace with retail price inflation it would have been at least ten times that amount. 

In later years, when my father made his will, true to his principle he appointed me as executor. After he died I handled everything myself. It was fairly straightforward. In another case I was able to manage sums in trust for children until they reached the age of eighteen. More recently, I handled all the paperwork for the estate of another family member. Despite being complicated by inheritance tax (by then inevitable for owners of houses in the Home Counties) it was still trouble free. Estate administration can be a long-drawn-out and time-consuming process which tests your patience and endurance, but if you have the time to cut out the banks and solicitors and do things yourself you can save an awful lot in professional fees; often several tens of thousands of pounds. You can bring things to completion much more quickly too.  

References:
Maggie Drummond (1985). Finding a will and a way to cut costs. The Times (London, England), Feb 16, 1985; pg 16.
Patrick Collinson (2013). Probate: avoid a final rip-off when sorting out your loved one’s estate. The Guardian, Sep 21, 2013.

Saturday, 8 April 2017

Baby Jane

When I give my heart again I know it’s gonna last forever
I won’t be that dumb again I know it’s gotta last forever

Theresa May, Donald Tusk, Rod Stewart

Theresa May, Donald Tusk, Rod Stewart

Sunday, 2 April 2017

The Old Apple Tree

Old Apple Tree

Was his name Dennis? Something like that. He was the next-door-neighbour’s great nephew who visited a couple of times from Grimsby or wherever it was they lived. He might have been ten or eleven, a year or two older than me.

I showed him the big old apple tree at the end of our garden. I said it would be full of apples if he came in the autumn. I climbed up, placing my feet safely in the joins and firmly grasping the limbs.

“Dead easy,” he said, and scrambled up to join me. “Can you swing along there?” he dared me, indicating an outward-growing horizontal branch about ten feet from the ground.

Below the end of the branch, about twelve feet (four metres) from the trunk, stood a metal clothes post. I had helped my dad dig the hole and fill an old oil drum with cement to anchor it there. Dennis’s idea was to swing hand-over-hand along the branch, wrap your legs round the post, transfer your hands to the top, and slide down like a fireman. He showed me how effortless it was, then climbed back up and did it again: one – two – three – wrap legs – grab post – slide down. It looked brilliant – like a monkey.

It was some weeks before I plucked up courage to try. It was one of those tricks that is much easier than it looks provided you don’t waver.  I could do it half a dozen times in a row. My mother said it was dangerous and told me to stop.

One day it went wrong. I’m not sure what happened. I must have missed the third hand hold as I swung my legs forwards towards the clothes post, and fell straight down and landed flat on my back. My mother had seen it all from the kitchen window and rushed out terrified.

“I thought I told you to stop that,” she yelled at me as I got up, a bit dazed, “You could have broken your bloody back.”

It was more in fury than sympathy. Sympathy wasn’t her line. Any stupidity or misbehaviour tended to get an angry slap across the cheek. Whenever my brother or I drove her to her wits end, she would glare with pursed lips in the most terrifying way, growing red in the face until veins stood out in her temples.

As children we had little awareness of adults going through difficult times. Grown-ups were strong and invincible. What I now know is that my mother was not coping well. My grandfather had died suddenly before his time, and my grandmother needed a lot of support, especially in her shop. Much of this had fallen to my mother because her sister had seriously injured her hip in an accident. She was having to spend two days a week at Grandma’s, a five-mile bus ride away. We had also become close friends with the widow and her elderly mother who lived next door to us, but the old lady had died too, stretching my mother even further. And like many northern women then, she was entirely responsible for the house and children, and must have been persistently exhausted. We did not see any of that. We only saw that she could look angry and slap hard, and we knew when to back down.

One day I didn’t back down. I lost my temper and answered back. I had dared to think I was old enough to deserve more respect. 

I had been teasing my younger brother in the garden, calling him by some new rude words from school. My mother rushed out, angry at the foul language the neighbours might hear.

“Get inside and wash your mouth out with soap,” she bellowed, pointing at the door.

“Don’t you tell me what to do.” For that I received a furious slap across the face. 

“Arse, shit and bugger!” I snapped, and slapped her face back in retaliation.

Steam squirting out of ears barely begins to describe her expression. I didn’t wait to see what was next. I turned and fled to the end of the garden and shot up the apple tree. I had to stay there a couple of hours.

Funnily, there were no repercussions. I crept back into the house to overhear my mother chuckling as she described the incident to my dad. Perhaps we both learned something that day.

Soon afterwards the horizontal branch was pruned to make way for a garage, and the clothes post moved to a different place in the garden. That ended the monkey behaviour. There was no more face slapping either.

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Bath Hospital 1839

Bath Hospital Patients 1839

I fear that in writing about old newspaper content I am encroaching upon Estelle’s Skittish Library subject matter (e.g. Infectious Patients), but I just had to post this 1839 article from the Bath Chronicle, found in helping an acquaintance with family history research. It lists patients admitted to Bath Hospital, with details of where they live, their diseases and the outcomes of their treatment. One of those listed is the ancestor of interest.

I am sorry to hear that Fanny Tovey, of Midsomer Norton, Somerset, has paraplegia, but pleased that she is now much better. I am glad that James Mullins, of Wardour, Wiltshire, is completely cured of his lumbago.

It appears that dropt hands, sciatica, rheumatism, impetigo (contagious pustular discharge of the skin), porrigo (a scaly eruption of the scalp), lepra (skin lesions including leprosy) and psoriasis (red scaly skin) could be much improved or entirely cured just by using the healing waters of the Roman Baths – subliminally called to mind perhaps by the little wavy lines across the page. In essence, it sounds like what we would now call high-mineral hydrotherapy in warm spa water, for skin, joint, nerve and muscle ailments.

Weren’t they bothered about patient confidentiality in those days? Did these patients give consent to their names being used? Were they even aware that their personal details had appeared in the paper? No doubt the same treatments took place at our own spa towns in Yorkshire, such as Harrogate, and at other places around the country, but only Bath seems to have been so improvident with patients’ names. When I think of all the ethical and confidentiality hoops I used to have to jump through just to observe human participants interacting with computers, this newspaper cutting is astonishing.

“Well fancy that,” commented my fellow genealogist. “At least it wasn’t syphilis.”

“Would they tell you if it was?” I wondered. “It might not be good for business. All that immersing yourself in the same water and so on.”

As we know that is not how you catch syphilis it wouldn’t bother me now. I would be more concerned about taking the Bath waters with people suffering from contagious pustular discharges, leprosy and flaky skin.

Friday, 24 March 2017

Top of the Pops 1983

Top of the Pops 1983

I am getting myself up to date with the current pop scene by watching the Thursday and Friday evening re-runs of Top of the Pops 1983 on BBC Four. Spandau Ballet, The Police, Culture Club, and others, shine like gemstones out of the mud. Clearly, I still have a long way still to go. I need to start with everything I missed during the nineteen-eighties while immersed in university postgraduate work to the exclusion of just about everything else. 

But I have begun to realise they are not showing all the programs. They are missing some out. Now and again they jump a week, and sometimes you notice a ham-fisted cut near the end just before the presenters announce who will be on the following program.

For example:
  • On Thursday, 16th March, 2017, they showed the edition from Thursday, 19th May, 1983.
  • On Friday, 17th March, it was from Thursday, 26th May, 1983.
  • Then on Thursday, 23rd March, they showed the edition from Wednesday, 8th June (it was broadcast on Wednesday that week).
  • And today, Friday, 24th March, it is from Thursday, 23rd June.   

So what happened to the 2nd and 16th June 1983? You might be ahead of me here.

Another one they omitted was the 50 minute long programme of Thursday 5th May, 1983, celebrating 1000 editions of Top of the Pops since it was first transmitted on 1st January, 1964, presented by a collection of then Radio 1 DJs.

The answers are to be found in the Radio Times Archive, also known as the Genome Project. On Thursday 2nd June, 1983, Top of the Pops was presented by Tony Blackburn and Jimmy Savile. On the 16th June it was Mike Read and Dave Lee Travis. Savile and Travis would also have been in the 1000th edition. The BBC are no longer showing programs presented by either of them.

Now, I don’t doubt that Savile was a monster, and that to see him again on our screens would be disturbing, but surely, couldn’t they just edit him out? They could always slot in one of the short Sounds of the Sixties programmes to make up the time.

As regards Dave Lee Travis (and some may take issue with me here), why are his appearances being treated as harshly as Savile’s? Although Travis was accused of multiple indiscretions, he was only convicted on one count of indecent assault for which he received a three-months suspended sentence. Appalling as that is, even the Judge described his offence as of a “different order” to other high profile convictions.

Travis claimed he was simply a “tactile” person. “Tactile” behaviour was rife in the mileau of the nineteen seventies and -eighties, as anyone with experience of office life at that time will testify. Every week, Top of the Pops showed (mainly) male presenters sandwiched between apparently adoring, (mainly) female fans. It seems unsurprising that things sometimes got overly “tactile”, and that unchecked, some individuals continued it for years. It doesn’t mean it was right, or that the (mainly) female recipients of the (mainly) male attention sought it. But does Travis really warrant the same restrictions as Savile? Convicted offenders of all kinds appear elsewhere on our screens.

We being prevented from seeing an important archive of popular music. As Harriet Walker wrote in the Independent, “it is part of the fabric of our slightly moth-eaten national quilt”.

Sheffield band The Human League are just one significant act to suffer collateral censorship and have retaliated by releasing a DVD of their Top of the Pops appearances with Savile and Travis chopped out. Wouldn’t it be better to be able to watch their performances in the context in which they were originally shown. If The Human League can make the edits, why can’t the BBC?

Saturday, 18 March 2017

Talbot Samba

Never again would I have a French car, not of any kind, and especially not a Peugeot. I used to fantasise that if I were to win a nice one in a competition – no that is simply not possible – a nasty, unreliable, overpriced rustbucket – I would take great delight in inviting the world’s media to come and watch me push it over the edge of a cliff.

Talbot Samba
click for video

I once had the misfortune of owning a Talbot Samba. It sounds like the name of the dictator of some obscure African republic,[1] but it was actually a French-designed supermini based on the Peugeot 104, manufactured by the Peugeot-Citroen group from 1981 to 1986. It was similar to other French cars of the time like the Renault 5 and the Peugeot 205 which used mainly the same parts.

My Samba was B-registered, brand new in 1985, the first new car I ever had. I reasoned that, properly looked after, it would give me seven or eight years of economical, trouble-free motoring. It seemed a bargain at the time, clinched by blue metallic paint thrown in ‘at no extra charge’. Never was I more misguided. An East German Trabant or a Sinclair C5 would have been better. 

Surely, it cannot be unreasonable to expect a new car, serviced at the correct intervals by the dealer, with all recommended work carried out including the 2-year and 4-year rust inspections, to be still in  good condition after four years. Admittedly mine was kept out of doors, and I did tend to drive it fast on regular long journeys between Yorkshire and Scotland, and I had been doing 12,000 miles a year, and once or twice I did over a hundred on long straight slopes, but in general I looked after it and am a gentle, careful driver. It should still have been good. It wasn’t. I doubt it would have passed its next MoT test.

The trouble started within three months. A small rust bubble appeared on the roof – an unusual place I thought. It was treated under warranty by the Nottingham dealer that supplied it. I was surprised to be told they had in fact re-sprayed the whole top half of the car but, being a trusting sort, I felt entirely secure in the six-year anti-corrosion warranty.

For the next couple of years all seemed well. I moved to a new job in Aberdeen and every couple of months drove the 750-mile round trip home to Yorkshire. In those days you could dash along for miles and miles at ninety without much fear of offending the police, and I often managed the one-way trip, with one stop, in less than six hours. The smooth slate-grey colour of the exhaust pipe was the envy of every motor sport fan.

The drive did not always go so well. Once, stuck in long queues of summer holiday traffic after an incident on the A1, a trip south took more than ten hours, but basically the car always did its job brilliantly. The key to surviving such long drives without becoming too irritable is to plan your stopping points in advance, and so I always ate my sandwiches in the same places depending the route. A shady lay-by on the A68 through Kielder Forest was one regular stop. The trip was a carefree existence outside of normal space and time, rootlessly drifting through an inspiring landscape that changed through Northumberland and opened up north of Edinburgh, and in the other direction, a warm sense of arrival back home in Yorkshire on the A1 approaching Wetherby.

But it was not to last. Rust reappeared when the car was two-years old. After the first treatment the back hatch had not been properly re-aligned, and rust returned where the door seal had been rubbing against the car. I also began to notice that the smallest scratch or chip anywhere in the paintwork would quickly corrode unless touched in immediately, and the paint on the roof guttering was flaking off leaving exposed rusty metal. There was a similar problem with the pinch-weld behind the rear bumper.

Morrison Brothers, the courteous and helpful Peugeot-Talbot dealers in Aberdeen dealt with everything under warranty, and after the back door had been correctly refitted I realised there had been a faint exhaust smell which had now gone away. That was frightening in retrospect, bearing in mind the long trips I had been making. It explained the frequent headaches.

The problem with the rear pinch-weld occurred twice again at yearly intervals. Morrison Brothers dealt with it again on the first occasion, but by the time it reoccurred I had moved back to Nottingham. I took the now four year-old car back to the original dealer and was treated abysmally. “Nothing to do with us,” they claimed, “It’s the Aberdeen dealer’s fault. They didn’t treat it properly. It invalidates the warranty. You will have to take it back to them.” They were entirely unconcerned that Nottingham and Aberdeen are four hundred miles apart.

I wrote a letter of complaint to Peugeot-Talbot but got no response whatsoever. It looked like they were playing for time – using excuses and delaying tactics until the car was out of warranty. Also unbeknown to me the Nottingham dealer was on the point of losing its Peugeot-Talbot franchise.

I suspect they had also looked at the car more closely than I had, and realised the full seriousness of the problems. When I looked more carefully I found severe rusting on the horizontal box section below the radiator grill. Under the back seat was a crumbling pinch-weld which appeared to be coming apart. The paint inside the boot was bubbling where the wheel arch joined the floor. When I pressed gently my finger went straight through the metal leaving a hole through to the road wheel. It was obvious that corrosion was raging inside the box sections. Outside, the roof sills were flaking again, and generally the paintwork was appalling. I suppose that after conveying me between Yorkshire and Aberdeen so many times, the car did not owe me much, but I kept coming back to the fact that it was little more than four years old. It was infuriating to observe other B-registered Sambas, even X- and Y- registered ones, driving around seemingly in pristine condition.

Perhaps the rust-proofing had not been done properly when new, I don’t know, but to my mind these are exactly the kind of faults that should be covered by a six-year anti-corrosion warranty. I also had a list of other problems that seemed excessive in a car of its age: leaks in the radiator bunged up with Radweld; a deteriorating clutch and gearbox; a broken door handle; a window winding handle that came off in your hand; a wobbly, squeaky and I thought inaccurate speedometer; a non-functioning fuel gauge; broken clips for anchoring the back seat; and more broken clips for holding down the tool kit. The slightest dampness in the air would prevent the engine from starting or make it run erratically if it did. As well as all that, the service and MoT test were coming round again, and it needed new tyres and brake shoes.

I wanted trouble-free motoring, not delays and excuses. I am ashamed to admit I part-exchanged the Samba for a year-old Volkswagen Polo. I would never have dared sell it privately. The VW dealer hardly gave it a glance. By then it was four years and nine months old with 59,000 miles on the clock. They only allowed me £1,395 for it but I could hardly get off the forecourt fast enough. I should apologise to whoever got the Samba after me, but really, you should have examined it more carefully. I was delighted with the Polo. It was so solid you could hear the stereo at 70 mph, and the doors closed with a thud like the doors of a railway carriage.

From then on I resolved never to have anything more to do with Peugeots, or any French car for that matter. And the recent news that Peugeot are to take over Vauxhall adds a whole new set of models to my list. It’s probably irrational. ‘Friday afternoon’ cars can be anywhere, but being fobbed off in the face of such incontestably serious deficiencies is unforgivable: hence the fantasy of pushing a Peugeot over a cliff.

But Jeremy Clarkson did it for me. I would not normally endorse either him or his antics, but in his 2009 DVD ‘Duel’ he catapulted a Talbot Samba, “a terrible little car,” at high speed into a wall (see from 1:13:15 at http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2mb96v). What a pity it wasn’t a brand new top of the range Peugeot.

Jeremy Clarkson Talbot Samba Jeremy Clarkson Talbot Samba

[1] I was probably thinking of Dr. Hastings Banda of Malawi formerly Nyasaland.

Monday, 6 March 2017

Alt-0247 and Rule: the Ed Sheeran Prize for Computer Science Education

Perhaps there should be a new category at the next Brits, the award for the year’s most outstanding contribution to computer science education, the first winner to be Ed Sheeran for his new album ÷ (pronounced Divide). This follows up his previous albums (or LPs as I still call them) + (Plus) and × (Multiply).

In trying to search for the new album, my daughter was frustrated by the lack of a ÷ key on her computer. She was about to go through the tedious procedure of using the ‘Insert Symbol’ menu in Microsoft Word to create one, which she could then copy and paste into the search box, when I said “Just type Alt-0247”, and the stargate opened into a whole new world of understanding. Ed Sheeran’s title had brilliantly illustrated the concept that everything you do on a computer has an underlying numerical representation.

The concept is ASCII – the American Standard Code for Information Exchange. I found it extremely useful in the early nineteen-eighties in working with Tandy TRS-80 and BBC computers, when I had the dubious honour of being the author of an educational computer program called Munchymaths.

ASCII had been developed twenty years earlier by IBM’s Bob Bemer and the American National Standards Institute (ANSI) as a standard way to represent characters in computers. It allows computers to communicate with each other.

In ASCII, the divide (or obelus) symbol is represented by the number 247, and can be produced by typing Alt-0247 on the number keypad.

To do it, hold down the Alt key while typing 0247 on the number pad, (number lock must be switched on), and the ÷ symbol appears when you release the Alt key. Some of us know this, and some of us don’t. It’s the Great Alt-0247.

Here are some other well known phrases or sayings in ASCII format:

  • To be, or not to be; that is the Alt-63
  • We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created Alt-61
  • Alt-62 love hath no man than this
  • To see the World in a Grain of Sand, And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Alt-8734 in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour

Apologies if some or all of these symbols do not work or render as intended on your device. They appear correctly in the most used fonts in Windows 10 on Microsoft computers, but different devices, software and font selections use different codes. There are now several versions of the extended ASCII table to provide for the enormous number of characters computers are called upon to represent, such as  ê   €  Œ   ¶  and so on. The infinity symbol ∞ is particularly troublesome. Unfortunately, ASCII is not as standard as it could or should be.

Furthermore, ASCII is only an intermediate representation to make things easier for us stupid humans to understand. Underneath ASCII there are lower-level concepts such as octal, hexadecimal and binary, but let’s not go there now.

Ed Sheeran, however, is always going to be spoilt for choice for new album titles.