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 TAKING
training in carpentry and joinery, I made or helped make a number of
trunks. We started by cutting from planks the required pieces to be,
assembled as a box and preceded to piece together and seal the
joints by glue ‑ a strange smelling concoction made from horses'
hooves, which was always kept simmering on the gas ring and applied
hot.
The trunks would be in complete box form
with the lid produced by skilfully sawing right round the box,
holding it carefully on the sawing machine platform. Two sections
were produced, the box and the lid. Both had to be carefully trimmed
to make a fine fit no bumps or holes. A small smoothing plane was
used for this job using a sharp, finely set blade. Any careless or
rough treatment might result in the whole trunk being scrapped. It
took much practice to maintain a sufficient standard of workmanship
here. Afterwards a wood preservative was brushed on the whitewood.
The lid was fitted by a long narrow brass hinge placed into a groove
the depths of the thickness of the metal, say 1/16 inch.
A mortice lock also had to be fitted.
Then an oval spring clip fitted to the outside of the lid one
each, a few inches from the end its purpose being to keep the lid
shut without actually locking it. Now came the all-important metal
crocodile skin covering placed on the top, sides and ends of the
trunk. This gave it the accessory outfit necessary for touring,
travel or whatever, and all took place in the tinsmith shop by
tacking wooden strips equally spaced on the top and sides giving it
a robust professional finish. Four wheels were let into the bottom
of each corner of the trunk and, with flexible handles fitted in the
middle of each end, it could be lifted, pulled, pushed, up ended or
whatever, however heavy it might become. The finished trunk was now
ready for the anxious girl or boy awaiting its arrival.
Alternatively. It might go as part of an
order to one of the top London stores such as Harrods.' Raymond, who
came to Stepney Causeway aged eight was always a bit of a loner
until he moved to Somerset House. Goldings in 1927. There at last
you began to feel you were part of something" he says.
Barnardo Guild messenger summer 1989/99
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