The Jetty, River Plant

A Memory of Dagenham.

January 1977.

The rain was almost horizontal that day, ice cold too, as I walked towards the hut at the delivery wharf of the Ford River Plant in Dagenham, Essex, I thought to myself that it really could not be any worse than this.

It is odd, the human brain, well, mine is anyway. That moment is an indelible memory locked in my particular timeline, the nineteen year old apprentice, almost experiencing working life at what felt like the ends of the earth.

I pulled my inadequate coat collar up past my upper lip and nose as the rain turned to sleet, the wind had picked up and the distance from the delivery area did not seem to be any shorter as I leaned into it. I think I remember this as the worst moment of weather at that point in my human career, a misery beyond measure, stretching time to prolong itself.

The ice, sleet and rain dashed off every surface and patterned the angry river. The usual black, white and shades of grey of the Dagenham landscape turned silver as the wind picked up and threatened to take me sideways, away from my goal. I held my hood down and peered through a tiny slit and approached the door.

The memory does not end right there, the receiving hut was a warm and cozy oasis, the old fella who sat there laughed at the poor wretch who stumbled in, for what I do not know.

Within three minutes a pint mug of steaming tea was cradled in my hands, and all was well.

The memory fades.