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apprenticeship, which was to last three years: I was to be paid thirty shillings a week during the first year, £3 the second, and £5 in the final year. He got a good deal – an efficient slave for three years. The premises were Dickensian: a long, narrow slice of property fronted Howard Street; the gated porch, which it was my job to sweep, gathered litter and stray cats, and was sometimes used as a urinal – thankfully syringes and condoms were not yet commonplace. There was a display window, the dressing of which was also my responsibility; behind that, a reception area and waiting room, leading to the finishing room/general office, and then a warren of darkrooms, containing enlargers, sinks, cascade washers and flat-bed driers. A corridor shelved with negatives, both glass and celluloid, led to a recess for a mirror and hooks for outdoor clothing. At the end was the lavatory: lit only by a tiny cobwebbed skylight, it, like the rest of the premises, had neither handbasin nor ventilation. The pan was brownish yellow with age and worse; I do not recall there being a brush or tin of Harpic, but a charwoman sometimes appeared accompanied by the owner’s wife.
    I negotiated a higher salary, eventually screwing seven guineas a week out of him by the time, in 1951, I decided there must be more to life than spending much of it in a darkroom. I enrolled for a seven-month course in shorthand and typing; book-keeping was part of it, but after a week it was agreed this was a waste of everyone’s time, so I concentrated on keyboard skills instead. This was probably the wisest decision of my life: I have used a keyboard, in one form or another, on an almost daily basis, ever since.
    The tennis club, where I spent most evenings in summer, was in south Belfast, so I would go straight from work by tram to the Stranmillis terminus and walk along the Lagan towpath to the clubhouse. From September through to April many hours were spent at the ice rink at Balmoral – even more distant from home. At work I met colourful people, many of whom had escaped from Nazi Germany just before the war, and a few survivors of concentration camps. The Jewish community worked untiringly on their behalf, and many were talented musicians and artists. Heinz and Alice Hammerschlag were violinists belonging to the Music Society, but Alice was also a gifted artist who painted abstract designs in the early days of acrylic paints under her maiden name (Berger). I have one of her paintings and some hang in the Ulster Museum. Some, such as Zoltan Frankl, the art collector who established a knitting factory in Newtownards, were active in any local artistic enterprise: I was always on the fringe, having nothing to contribute, everything to learn, and despite good school French, being virtually monolingual.
    Many of the girls at the club fitted Betjeman’s description of Joan Hunter Dunn – wholesome, hearty, outdoor types and probably good breeding material. Though not unpopular, I did not fit the image. Derek, one of the male friends I made, was five years older, sang in a light-opera group, was interested in ballet and played a fair game of tennis; additional attractions were that his office was near my workplace and he drove an MG sports car. It made sense therefore to hitch a lift, rather than take the slow, clanking tram to Stranmillis. We went to many ballet performances at the Grand Opera House during the years 1945–47. Only when an indiscreet friend told me that Derek had confided that he did not seem to feel the same way as the rest of the men about women did I begin to understand why our relationship remained platonic. Twenty years were to pass before homosexual acts between consenting adults became legal.
    On my miserable salary I maintained a fashionable image, devoting far too much thought and time thereto. The New Look arrived to lift female spirits after years of utility clothing. But evening dresses posed a problem, in