Standing from left:
George Absolom, Robert Absolom, family friend, Stanley Forrest, family friend

Front row, seated, from left:
Peggy Absolom, Norman Hardwick (family friend), Joan Absolom

Photo courtesy Robert Absolom ©
Click to enlarge

At first the company concentrated on making electric kettles and tumbler elements for hot drinks, which were in greater demand than luxury items.

George and Peggy's elder daughter, Joan, married Stanley Forrest, an engineer, and had a son, Stephen, who was born about 1952/3.

In 1952 next door neighbours George and Peggy Absolom and Reg and Eddie Juster decided to sell one of their houses and move into one house together. The buyers were to be the Monks, whose son Michael kindly provided much of my initial infomation on George Absolom. Originally the Monks were to buy number 52 (they were keen because George, in true innovative fashion, had turned the air-raid shelter into a swimming pool!) - but at some stage they changed their minds and sold Number 54 instead, for about £2,500. Number 52 was turned into 2 flats and Reg and Eddie moved into the first floor flat. The conservatory at the rear of 52 served as the office and the business in the garages continued.

Michael Monk, whose parents bought Number 54, writes,

"As a child I grew up with George and his wife Margaret (Peggy) as colourful neighbours. My parents used to make a little extra money as outworkers, assembling the clocks in the evenings. The machinery included presses and paint spraying, and a machine on which the heating elements for the kettles were wound.

"I remember an occasion when George was throwing half-crowns into the air and any I caught I could keep - I think I made about 17/6d that evening which was not inconsiderable in 1953/4! I also recall Peggy coming round to get my father to collect George from the pub." George's son Robert confirms that his father enjoyed socialising at the local pub.

Michael continues: "I'm sure I remember hearing my Father say that George felt very bitter that he had effectively been cheated out of his patent invention by Goblin who took his concept and made a few adjustments before patenting it themselves."

When I asked George's son Robert what his father's attitude was towards Goblin, his answer was unequivocal:

"Father felt that he had been robbed."

Tea makers were manufactured once again at Lansbury Drive in around 1954. The first models to appear were the Teaboy (left) and the Teaboy Junior. These were distributed through wholesalers.

The Teaboy has a Smiths Sectric Autocal clock/lamp in ivory finish. It is automatic and self starting, resets itself and needs no winding. Chromium plated teapot and 2 pint capacity kettle. The bodywork is aluminium with a 'special washable finish'. The price in 1954 was £13-3-0 (wholesale).

The advert shown left features in a 1954 catalogue.

This model also featured in a 1954 catalogue. The price in 1954 was £7-12-0 (listed as wholesale).

The Teaboy Junior has a Smiths Sectric New Callboy clock in ivory finish. It needs no winding. There is no lamp fitting but there is a socket at the rear for a lamp, radio or toaster to be attached. This is activated automatically when the alarm sounds. Chromium plated 2 pint capacity kettle. The bodywork is aluminium. Teapot not supplied.

Helpfully a date of August 1957 is scratched onto the base of the kettle on my example, which strikes me as a fairly reliable clue as to its age...!

At this time George's health was failing as he suffered from emphysema. He made the decision to transfer the company to his son's name (Robert W Absolom). George Absolom remained at hand and involved in the business until his death in February 1957.

"I started first as a full timer in the school summer hols, earning two bob an hour as I recall, then continued as a part-timer on Saturday mornings for a year, until I was deemed to be surplus to requirements. I can tell you quite a bit about that amazing operation that turned sheet metal and wood miraculously into the end-product. The amazing part was seeing the coppery-looking kettles going off to the platers, with solder and green corrosion ( the latter was supposed to be got rid of, which was well nigh imposssible). They came back all chrome-plated, which made it all worthwhile.

I have vivid recollections of half a dozen or so of the pressing and cutting operations, including the amazing lever set up in a deconsecrated church hall in Cranford. The job I liked most (the neighbours might disagree) was getting rid of the protective lacquer coating on the heating elements. This involved wiring them up in series, and flicking a switch, which sent a large current through them, producing billows of smoke. There was an extractor fan at the end of the garage where this job was done, that sent the nasty smoke into the back garden.

First I should say that I was just give particular jobs to do, and was never taken on the "grand tour". That was impossible anyway. It wasn't like a car assembly plant where you can follow things along a conveyor belt.  The jobs being done at any time would depend on who was in that particular day, and which stack needed moving on.  And certain jobs were done somewhere else. Soldering of the tops and sides of the kettle bodies was a case in point. I think it was done elsewhere, but still fairly local, in keeping with the 'cottage industry' nature of the operation .

As you came into the garage the first thing you saw in front of you was a press which as I recall vaguely cut some slots from a blank of metal. It was probably to make the end support cum housing  for the electrical element. Irrespective, the force came from yanking a vertical handle attached to a rotating horizontal arm, at each end of which sat two heavy steel balls. The balls sat on a short spike, in other words relying on gravity to hold them in place. Different jobs needed different sized balls, if you'll pardon the expression, (as you see, I'm not an engineer by profession, and am struggling to give a word picture).  That's why they were sitting there with very little to hold them in place - so one size of ball could easily be replaced by another. 

It took two to operate this machine, one seated the other standing. I was standing, and the two of us were deep into pop music.  John Leyton was playing on the radio (Johnny, remember me …..).  God knows how it happened but as the arm whipped round, one of those balls came off its spike, narrowly missed my co-worker ( whose name I've long since forgotten) and crashed to the ground.  Safety at work in those days was largely a matter of self-preservation. I never recall seeing a factory inspector.

The boss (Robert Absolom) was just feet away. He always did the final adjustments to the spring base of finished teasmades, for which he had a stack of ancient pennies).  He was none too pleased by this incident, needless to say, and  reprimanded us for talking too much, instead of concentrating on the job in hand. I remember him as a calm and dignified chap, who always radiated quiet confidence.

I always remember his answer to the new recruit when asked to explain what a fuse was.  He said "Tell me, have you ever heard the expression that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link?"  He hardly needed to say another word. As someone who's done a fair amount of teaching in his time, I've always remembered that as a fine example of economy in words!"

"The distinctive feature of the kettles we made were the grip on the cap. It was made from a cylinder of  black ebonite ( hard vulcanised rubber). I used to be puzzled by tea makers that came back for repair. The grip, instead of being black, was often shiny yellow brown, as if it were made from resin or amber. I did a web search and found that it's a characteristic of ebonite to turn brown when exposed to light!

Each lid had to make a perfect air and steam-tight fit. The only relief for pressure was through the pin-hole vent. ( Science bit: otherwise there would be insufficient  build up of  pressure to drive water out the kettle when it came to the boil.)

Because of manufacturing variation we had to match up lids to kettles, which was both time-consuming and unhygienic. Yes, unhygienic, because no kettle was allowed to leave the workshop without someone (usually me!) having done the blow test. This involved screwing a lid on, blocking off the vent with a finger and blowing down the spout. If, as often happened, the lid was not airtight, one had to try another, and another, and another,  until one found a fit. After a while one ended up with a heap of lids that didn't seem to fit any kettles. I had a name for them, which I won't mention here. Let's call them 'orphans'. The foreman - a formidable guy who could not only bend 6 inch nails, but, as a pièce de résistance, then straighten them out again - would start to get agitated when there were too many orphans cluttering up my bench. He would then insist that each new batch of kettles be tested with orphans first, which led to much futile huffing and puffing, not to say profaning on my part. Desperate situations call for desperate remedies. Each day on my way home I passed a bit of waste land. Whilst orphan kettle lids did not possess quite the aerodynamic properties of  frisbees, I developed a technique for getting them into the yonder long grass.

To begin with, I dispatched them at a rate of one per day, maximum. No one seemed to notice that the heap of orphans was no longer getting bigger. You can probably guess how this story ends. With time I began to get over-confident, and  was ridding myself of the critters in two and threes. My sins finally found me out. Nail-bender  took me round to the conservatory (sorry, office) where I was told that, sadly, my services were no longer required.  No reason was given, and I knew better than to ask.

Postscript:  Future archaeologists excavating in Hayes End may one day decide that between the Iron Age and the late 20th century Plastics Age came a brief flowering of an Ebonite Era."

"More and more memories are coming back. What helped to keep them alive was the fact that I did some secondary school teaching in the 90s, and for some weeks had my teasmade on the bench. When the kids got bored and restless with the new fangled National Curriculum, I'd fill the kettle, switch in on, give out a worksheet, and assemble them at the front as it came up to the boil.

The physical principles that come into play when it boils are amazing.  I used to ask them why there's a small pinhole vent in the screw cap lid, and why it must not be too big!  And why was the spout below rather than above the water level in the kettle ? That got the buggers thinking! The head of department used to look somewhat askance when Berry did his teasmade thing, but I had the last laugh. That same year a question came up on the GCSE combined science paper on - guess what - the teasmade?  Perhaps I should have kept a copy: a vital part of our national heritage gone to waste!"

Robert continued to run the business at number 52, but his stepmother Peggy was in favour of closing the business to clear the estate debts and leave the house unencumbered. The Monks may have added to the pressure as they intended to sell Number 54 on Mr Monk's retirement.

Robert was very much against closing the business, and calling upon solicitors and accountants to back his claim, he carried on trading, successfully clearing the debts and starting to make a profit. His son was born in 1960.

One morning around 1961 or 1962 Robert was met at the door by his foreman, who had been suborned by his stepmother Peggy and refused entry. This was supported by a solicitor's letter and confirmation that the bank had been instructed accordingly.

After this Robert Absolom pursued a career in sales and had no further involvement with the family or tea makers.

Click here to continue the story of Teesmade Engineering as it became Teeboy Engineering Ltd.