Neoliberalism in 2024 like Capitalism in 1934 is a system winded from its exploitation of ordinary people. It will break, if we force it.

Below is a selection from Chapter 19 ,where Harry and his family have moved to the outskirts of Halifax in 1934.

Harry Leslie Smith was born on the 25th of this month in 1923. What a span of history he lived through during his 95 years of life. I am glad he died when he did. Six years ago, we had a chance to pull back from the brink and choose not to go into the darkness of fascism. What we are living now will only get worse and it will take more than a generation to change. This Green and Pleasant Land Project that will be completed and ready for a publisher in May is a fantastic testament- not only to him- but every working class person from the Great Depression, who made it loud and clear after WW2- that they weren’t prepared to live short lived lives of misery to ensure the entailed maintained their wealth.

Your support keeping my dad’s legacy going and me alive is greatly appreciated. So if you can please subscribe and if you can’t it is all good because we are fellow travellers in penury.

While millions of men in 1934 were desperate to find work, Bill Moxon was intent on losing his job. Arrogantly, he believed employment for men such as him was as abundant as spring daffodils on the Yorkshire Dales. Bill was chucked from the meat rendering plant when he hit his foreman over a minor slight. Naturally, he took his anger out on my mother and attempted to hurt her as if she were the foreman who had fired him for cause.

When Bill became unemployed- we packed up what little we had and left the bleak, dishevelled stone outbuilding that stood on top of the moor above Sowerby Bridge. I wasn't sorry to leave, but I was not hopeful for what awaited me or my family.

King Cross Road on the outskirts of Halifax was my next known address. The neighbourhood was industrial, and even during the Great Depression, the skies above King Cross were thick with coal smoke belching from chimney stacks that rested like volcanoes on top of the surrounding mills and factories where cloth, carpets and sweets were churned out for Britain and its empire.

We ended up in King Cross Road because Bill Moxon convinced a landlord to let him a small store to open up a butcher shop for the skint.

From its inception, the butcher shop was a failure. Bill couldn't afford to buy better quality meat to make the type of pies those who still worked demanded.  He only sold offal, as well as sausages made from the worst parts of pigs, cows and sheep. Both Bill and the shop were filthy. Bill wore a butcher's smock covered in animal blood and grime. He dumped his rubbish from butchering into a stagnant canal outback that reeked of pollution from the other businesses that used it as a toilet like Bill.

I was enrolled at Bolton Brow school. During my first few months there, the other students made fun of me because my clothes were worn and hung loosely from my skinny body- famished for nutrients. But I fought back, and during taunts of "One, two, three who is cock of thee, the bullies learned my fists were hungry for vengeance against those who judged me less than them because of the holes in my trousers.

In the winter of 1934, my shoes began to rot away. The soles were broken and I stuffed old newspaper and cardboard in them to keep my feet dry. It didn’t work very well and feet began to developed sores from being constantly wet. I felt dejected and ashamed. For a few days, I stopped going to school My life was ruined before it started because my family was too poor to put shoes on my feet. I was resentful that I could not get an education because society favoured wealth before merit.

When the weather improved, I returned to school. Only Mr Dawson, my maths teacher, demanded an answer for my absence from his class. When I gave him none, he said I must remain behind after his lessons- were finished.

After the other students left, Dawson called me up to the front of the class. He sat behind a thick wooden desk and reached into his upper waistcoat pocket. He produced a silver snuff box. Dawson opened the box. He tapped snuff onto his finger. He deeply inhaled the ground tobacco into his nose and then sneezed.

“Why were you absent from school yesterday and the day before?”

“Not my fault, sir, my shoes.”

I lifted my foot upwards so that he could see the gaping holes plugged haphazardly with leaking newspaper and soggy cardboard.

“Ah,” “That is a dilemma. Go home.” “ But see me again after class tomorrow.

At the end of lessons, on the following day- I remained when all the other students left. I stood by Dawson's desk while he pulled open the top left-hand drawer and took out a bag. Inside the paper bag was a pair of sturdy, brown shoes.

“Try them on, lad.”

I slipped off my rotting shoes and slid into them. The fit was far from perfect, but they felt warm and durable.

“They are fine.”

“Good, I remember what it was like in the trenches when my boots became worn. Terrible business.”

 My mouth opened to thank him, but before I spoke, Dawson interrupted me.

“Not a word to anyone.”

My maths teacher turned his head downwards to his desk and fumbled into his top pocket. Dawson pulled out his snuff box and repeated the ritual of inhaling the snuff.

Thanks for reading and supporting my substack. Your support keeps me housed and also allows me to preserve the legacy of Harry Leslie Smith. Your subscriptions are so important to my personal survival because like so many others who struggle to keep afloat, my survival is a precarious daily undertaking. The fight to keep going was made worse- thanks to getting cancer along with lung disease and other co- morbidities which makes life more difficult to combat in these cost of living crisis times. So if you can join with a paid subscription which is just 3.50 a month or a yearly subscription or a gift subscription. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. Take Care, John