A Blue Folder
Recently, I was given a few things of my dad’s including a blue folder. This contains a wide range of stories which I think dad wrote when he did one or more creative writing courses. One of them is dated 1994 so perhaps that was the date of the first course. Another is dated 1998 which makes me think he may have taken a second course. Yet another is dated 2006 so perhaps he continued to write stories after the course. Some of them are pure fantasy but others are based on his real life experiences. These are the ones that interest me most as they provide some insights into my dad and his life. While I have quite a lot of things written by my mum, notably her diaries, I have almost nothing written by my dad.
The Stories
I have therefore reproduced here those stories which I think give insight into my dad and his life, particularly his childhood. I have copied them out and then included my reflections as to what the stories tell me about dad. Some of the stories have descriptive titles while other are simply titled Exercise No. X which presumably derives from the creative writing courses. In those cases, I have given the stories a descriptive title myself. The stories I have included are listed and briefly summarised here…
- A Little Blue Book – this story describes my dad’s memories of his father triggered by finding and opening one of my grandfather’s books.
- Wartime Pigs – this is my title for dad’s story simply titled Exercise No 13 in which dad recalls some of his memories of keeping pigs during the second world war.
- Haircut – this is my title for dad’s story simply titled Exercise No 12 in which dad recalls having his hair cut at the age of 12, so in 1944.
- Lillian – this is the title dad gave to this story but he also referred to it as Exercise No 1, an exercise in characterisation. He describes, in some detail, a woman he knew from his time when he was involved in the youth club of Bourne Methodist Church in Kirkby.
- Childhood Misdemeanours – this is my title for dad’s story simply titled Exercise No 4. I have only reproduced part of this story which imagines a man who had been involved in a car accident and who was facing judgement by his psyche at the point between earth, heaven and hell. The part I have included recounts three stories of things I presume my dad did in his childhood over which he still felt guilt.
- Champion of Essex – this is a short, untitled story which recounts how he played darts while helping behind the bar at Ilford Football Club.
A Little Blue Book
As part of my recent studies, I wanted to check on some medical procedure; what it was I can’t now recall. Anyway, my attention fell upon a little blue book which I had had for years. Well, it is blue under the inevitable brown paper cover – can you remember how we used to cover all our books to protect them so that we finished with a range of ‘brown paper books’ with nothing to distinguish them from each other except size and a title scrawled on the brown paper? So, brown paper CONCEALS a book with the illustrious title ‘British Red Cross Society Nursing Manual.’
The little blue book had been around me as long as I can remember. It belonged to my father and it had been passed to me soon after he died and, sad to say, had been neglected by me. It has been packed and unpacked; it has been stored in tea chests; it has been thrown in a corner of several garages and tucked up into more than one loft. It has watched my life pass by and, I suspect that, it has cried with me and laughed with me.
In short, it had been around waiting to divulge its knowledge to anyone who cared to open it. But, for me, and only me, it had been storing a wealth of remembrances. As I opened it on that day, out poured, apart from a slight smell of must, a whole flood of memories; some good, some bad. Out came the remembrance of the struggle (sometimes a battle, sometimes a war) between father and son to establish an acceptable compromise of a relationship – a relationship which, sadly, was not established until after my father’s death. It was not until then that I found out so much about him. I discovered that when his mother died his father put him in a workhouse. I learned that during the great depression he had become a tramp during which time he was a stable boy in the north of England, meeting and falling in love with the trainer’s daughter only to have her die two weeks before the wedding.
I had long known that my [father] had served in the first World War because my mother had often chided him with the words that even the army found him surplus to requirements; but now the pages of the little blue book GAVE UP his army Discharge Certificate. There were the words I had heard so many times “Surplus to Military Requirements” but now I have more understanding. In December 1918, a lot of soldiers were ‘surplus to requirements’ – it is always such at the end of a war; in modern terms we might say ‘redundant’. Healthy young men no longer required to kill and maim other healthy young men. Apparently, my father served in the Northumberland Fusiliers which, I think, had a company nicknamed the ‘Bantams’ and consisted of all small men and was almost annihilated at the Battle of the Somme that glorious defeat when brave men were sacrificed by being thrown against a blaze of artillery. My father was only 5ft and a half inch so was he at the battle of the Battle of the Somme and was he one of the few survivors? Perhaps I shall never know.
The certificate was addressed to my father at the Salvation Army Hostel in Marylebone (London), so it implies that, after the tragedy of losing his fiancée so close to the wedding, he tramped down to London. I knew that he knew parts of London like the back of his hand and was well-acquainted with some of the markets but now I realise that he was getting casual work where he could. What was going on in his mind and what he was suffering, I can only guess.
Yes I now know, understand and appreciate my father after his death and partly through the little blue book. I trust that he now understands me better. It’s strange what things can set off a whole string of memories.
My Reflections
Understanding the Story
I am not sure I fully understood this story initially. I was a bit confused by the digression into wrapping all books in brown paper! So much so, I was not initially sure if the blue book in question was the “British Red Cross Society Nursing Manual‘ or if this was just an example of the kind of book dad had previously covered with brown paper. However, I am pretty sure it was the former. This would explain why the book could divulge its knowledge to anyone but the memories triggered of my grandfather were unique to my father. It also seems that tucked inside the book was my grandfather’s army discharge certificate. Sadly, both book and certificate have since been lost.
British Red Cross Society Nursing Manual
There was a blue book by this title. Indeed, there appear to have been two related manuals. Number 1 covered first aid while number 2 referred to nursing. I assume dad was referring to the latter. According to dad, it had been grandad’s book. I am not sure why grandad had a book of this nature. I know that, when dad did his national service, he worked as some kind of medical orderly in the RAF, see Chapter 80. Could grandad have worked in a similar capacity? Based on the version I have, a reprinted fifth edition, the book was first published in 1912.
Memories of Grandad
Workhouse
I remember that dad told me that grandad had been in the workhouse, and this was given as a reason why he was reluctant to go into the hospital, possibly Mansfield Community Hospital, a former workhouse, later in life, see Chapter 58. However, I was not aware that his father had put him into the workhouse when his mother died. Grandad’s father was Frederick Lewis Drew, and his mother was Mary Anne Drew née Nolan. It is true that grandad’s mother, who died on 3 September 1915, predeceased grandad’s father, who died in 1921. So, the story is plausible. Grandad was born on 16 May 1900 so, at the time of his mother’s death, he was 15.
Tramp During the Great Depression
Again, I was aware, based on what dad told me, that grandad had been a tramp and had travelled around the country. I was not really sure when this had been. I found evidence of grandad living in Kirkby until 1924 and from 1931. So, I assume his experience of being a tramp was some time between 1924 and 1931. The Great Depression started in the late twenties. So, the timescale fits together.
A Stable Boy in the North of England
I don’t think I knew that grandad had been a stable boy. However, I think dad had told me that he had been involved with bookmakers and knew their form of communication called tic-tac. I wonder if this is linked to when he was a stable boy.
Engaged but Fiancée Died
According to dad, grandad was engaged to the trainer’s daughter but she died two weeks before the wedding. I have a vague memory of being told this but I don’t know any detail. Without a name or place location, it is very difficult to confirm or get more details.
Service in World War 1
Like dad, I think I had known that grandad had been in the armed forces during the first world war but I did not know any details. According to dad, he found grandad’s discharge certificate in this blue book. He thought he had served in the Northumberland Fusiliers, possibly in the ‘Bantams‘ and possibly at the Battle of the Somme.
I did find a Charles Drew who served in the Northumberland Fusiliers, soldier number 83314, but he died of wounds in 1918 so, clearly, this is not grandad. I also found another Charles Drew who was in the Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment) but this was a different regiment. I have found any number of Charles Drews who served in the first world war but no others in the Northumberland Fusiliers.
I assume the discharge certificate that dad saw identified the Northumberland Fusiliers. If that is the case, I really can’t explain why I have failed to find his military records. Grandad could well have been in a ‘bantam’ company or battalion as his height fell within that specified, that is 5′ to 5’3″. Without knowing when grandad joined up, it is not possible to know if he could have been at the Battle of The Somme. At the time of that battle, he would only have been 16. So, he would have been below the supposed minimum age for recruitment. However, it is well-known that many boys below that age did enlist.
Grandad’s Discharge Certificate
Dad noted that the discharge certificate was addressed to grandad at the Salvation Army Hostel in Marylebone in London. He then concludes that this was after his fiancée had died. But, I don’t see how those timelines work. The death of his fiancée was during the Great Depression so presumably 1929 or 1930. I am sure grandad must have got his discharge certificate well before that. Presumably, he spent some time in London after the end of the war before returning to Kirkby. It is quite possible he was looking for casual work as suggested by dad.
Salvation Army Hostel in Marylebone
I m not exactly sure of the details of this but the Salvation Army did have a night shelter/hostel in Lisson Street in Marylebone.
Exercise No 13: “Wartime Pigs“
I know that I’ve told you that, during the war, we kept chickens and rabbits. But, did I tell you that we kept pigs as well? Well we did, which meant that, for part of the war, we had plenty of bacon whilst most people endured bacon rationing. I say for part of the war because we had to give up our ‘bacon ration’ in order to get coupons to buy the meal with which to feed the pigs. So, when we first started keeping pigs, we had no bacon. To the mind of a 10 year old boy like me it seemed as though it was forever but I suppose that, in fact, it was about a year.
My mother, who was kind-hearted to a fault, used to give some of the bacon to various people, a practice with which I totally disagreed. I don’t remember anyone giving us any when we had none and I don’t remember any volunteers rushing to help feed the pigs or do other ‘nice’ jobs like ‘swilling out’
In fact, it was even difficult [to] persuade people to save their potato peelings to feed the pigs and, if they did, they didn’t deliver them but left me to collect them.
Now, in our family, we had that easy democracy where we could always express our disagreements and then go and do as mother told us. So, I might disagree with my mother giving our bacon to somebody else but I would never dare disobey her command.
Such a command came one day in February (I think 1943). Mother, having cut a massive pound of bacon, told me to take it to Mr Tomkin who lived a few doors up from us.
Being a February, there was snow on the ground and there was a bitterly cold wind. My father called it a communist wind because ‘it comes straight from Siberia’. My mother said it was a lazy wind, too lazy to go round you so it goes straight through.
I don’t know whether you’ve seen snow in a coal mining area. It comes down all fluffy and new and lies on the ground like a wondrous white carpet, for a few minutes until the coal dust overlays it with its mantle of grime. It had snowed early that morning but by the time I woke up and looked out of the window the night shift had trudged its weary dirty trail, homeward through the snow.
It must be difficult, for those who have never seen it, to imagine a trail of miners coming home in their ‘dirt’ with signs of their sweated labour still engulfing them. But, this was the time before the pit head baths so, having spent 8 hours underground hewing or hauling coal they had to wait until they got home to have a wash. I say a wash because most of the houses didn’t have a bath and those that did probably didn’t have hot running water.
So it was with some reluctance that I trudged my way to Tomkin’s house making an occasional detour into a front garden to find some pristine (undefiled) snow with which to make a snowball.
As I’ve already told you, the houses were those semi-detached miners’ houses that were separated only by a small ‘entry’ which was just big enough to drive a car down, not that miners had a car in those days. Being a small boy and not special company I was expected to go round the back despite the fact that I had to struggle to open the big black gate, well it seemed big to me then.
I used all my strength, opened the gate and stepped into the ‘yard’ and stopped in my tracks at the scene which I beheld. Mr Tomkin stood there ‘in all his glory’ whistling away merrily whilst the wind whipped through his nether regions.
The scene I stumbled on was Mr Tomkin’s daily bath. He would stand in his tin bath whilst Mrs Tomkin poured buckets of cold water over him and scrubbed his back with what seemed to be a scrubbing brush pausing only to ‘scrape’ the dirt from some of the many ‘blue scars’ on his back. I stood with open mouth watching this big man (and he was big in every way) being unceremoniously cleaned by his wife.
Suddenly, he caught sight of me still holding the open gate and he shouted “Shut that gate it’s ‘blidy’ draughty!”
My Reflections
This story gives some insights into my father’s life as a child in a mining community during the second world war. I did know that his family had kept pigs but I was not aware of the details of what this meant in terms of bacon ration etc. nor that it was actively encouraged by the government. It is interesting that dad saw grandma’s actions as selfless and kind-hearted but surely grandma’s generosity was likely to be reciprocated even if dad did not see it.
I am not sure if “Tomkin” was the man’s real name. I have not found anyone by that name in Kirkby in the 1939 Register. It is possible dad changed the name. I have not yet come across any Tomkins in the diaries. I imagine he was similar to many miners at that time. I was aware that people largely bathed in tin baths but I thought this would usually be in the living room with water warmed for that purpose. But, perhaps it was necessary to do it outside to get rid of the amount of dirt involved. I wonder how common such outdoor baths were particularly in winter.
Exercise No 12: “Haircut“
So, I was twelve and still in short trousers. It was no consolation that all the boys of my generation were kept in short trousers until they were 14. Well not quite all, there was that Jamie Leach who was put into long trousers on his twelfth birthday and didn’t he think he was something, a cut above the rest of us. But then, his whole family were a bit peculiar with strange ideas, ‘bleeding Liberals’ my father called them.”
Oh how I hated Jamie Leach and short trousers. But, there was one thing I hated even more, having my hair cut. Out of the blue, my mother would decide that it was time that my hair was cut. Protests that it was only 3 months since I had the last hair cut would be useless, it was always futile to argue with my mother when she had made her mind up.
I don’t know why but my mother always made the haircut decision on a Saturday. Didn’t she know that Harry Weedup’s would be ‘chock bang full’ on Saturday and he didn’t like cutting kids hair on a Saturday? He’d just take it out on me by using his knuckles to move my head to allow him to plough a furrow through my hair and all the time he’d moan about having to waste time cutting kids’ hair for sixpence when he had real customers waiting? Funny, if he felt strongly about it why didn’t he complain to my mother. He had plenty of chance when she was serving his beer, my mother was barmaid at the Miners Welfare. I never did understand it but, then, there were lots of things I didn’t understand at twelve.
Oh I haven’t told you, Harry Weedup was the barber. Well, he wasn’t a proper barber, just a miner who had been injured in the pit and did barbering to help out with his disability pay. My mother said that he was work shy and just ‘swinging the lead’. I didn’t understand that either.
Harry, or Mr Weedup as I had to call him then, lived in a miner’s house and used the front room as his salon. Come to think about it, I didn’t know that word when I was twelve so I should say his Barber’s Shop.
So, on one Saturday morning, my mother made the dreaded decision, ‘time to have your hair cut’. My protests merely brought out the reply that school started on Monday. I never did understand why it was alright to have long hair at the end of school term but not at the beginning. She, that is my mother, would make the haircut decision for all sorts of reasons. I had to have a haircut for a wedding or a funeral or even because I was going on holiday – now I thought that holidays were about doing what you wanted to but not with my mother. On one occasion, she actually told me that I had to have my hair cut because ‘the cat’s had kittens’ and we didn’t have a cat. It took me years to work that one out.
I walked moodily, without enthusiasm, to Harry Weedup’s. I’ve often wondered whether that’s how the condemned man feels on the way to the gallows. Eventually, I got there and pushed the door open to be met by a rush of cigarette smoke, stale body odours and a babble of voices. I took my place with the men on one of two long home-made benches but no-one seemed to notice me so I sat quietly looking at the floor.
The floor had, at one time, been covered with brown lino but now it was in patches held down by hundreds of tin tacks. In the middle was the chair, a battered old armchair type with an adjustable bar down the back which had a leather cushion on top for those wanting a shave.
Actually, that was the one consolation about going to have my hair cut, I might get to see Harry shave a man. On this particular Saturday, I was lucky, there were several men wanting to have a shave. I had become quite familiar with the routine. The man would put his head well back on the leather cushion and Harry would start working a lather brush into the huge gaping mouth at the front of the shaving mug until he had created a lather. Then Harry, with precise circular motions, would ‘lather up’ his victim, sorry customer. In my fantasy, I thought of Harry as Sweeney Todd. Yes, I’d heard of him.”
I became more interested when Harry reached for the leather ‘strop’ and, nonchalantly, picked up his ‘cut throat’ razor. With a deft flick of his wrist, he exposed the long blade and, with long strokes, flashed the blade up and down the ‘strop’. It seemed to me that everyone in the room was watching with hypnotised stare as that blade went ‘zip, zap – zip, zap’ against the leather ‘strop’. All this took a couple of minutes, then Harry reached for a small square of paper and, to show his expertise, sliced a small corner off the paper to demonstrate the razor’s sharpness to all and sundry. He placed the paper on the man’s shoulder and, with quick practised strokes, proceeded to cleave a path through the lather down the side of the man’s face wiping the razor on the bit of paper after each stroke.
I watched with bated breath as Harry stroked the razor up the man’s outstretched throat towards his chin. I saw the man’s ‘Adam’s Apple’ slide up and down as he swallowed. I felt sure that, one day, Harry would slice right through it but he never did, well not whilst I was there.
Finally, he splashed some liquid on the man’s face, handed him a towel, removed the covering from round the man’s neck and, with a flourish, flicked the chair with the cloth saying “That’ll be one and tuppence – next!”
Eventually, it was my turn and I approached the chair. Harry made some remark about my size and made a big thing about getting a stool to put on the chair for me to sit on. I felt so humiliated!
All the time, Harry was taking part in the general discussion. I could hear what the men were saying but I didn’t understand the conversation. Judging by the laughter, some of it must have been spicy. Sometimes, Harry would join in the laughter so much that he would forget to use the clippers properly and it felt as if he was yanking my hair out by the roots. Occasionally, one of the men would say “Watch what you’re saying, remember the kid in the chair.”
When I got home, I could smell home-baked bread. My mother always baked on a Saturday. Dad had already had his dinner and was sitting in his armchair near the window reading his paper. As soon as I sat down, my mother, in a clean ‘pinner’, reached for the loaf of fresh baked bread and, clutching it to her chest, proceeded to cut a couple of doorsteps.
I remembered some of the conversation in the barbers and thought it might interest Mam & Dad. “Dad, what do they mean when they say that a woman’s got a fancy man?” Dad had a fit of coughing, looked at Mam and hid behind his paper. My mother glared and said “Where did you hear that?” “At Mr Weedup’s Mr X from number X was in for a shave and when he left somebody said “You know his ‘missus’, well they reckon that she’s got a ‘fancy man’ who calls when X’s on afternoons’ and ‘she sees him alrayt’”
I could see my father’s paper shaking and it was obvious that he was trying to suppress his laughter so I added “Ar, and one of the others said that he was welcome to her as she’s got a face like the back end of a tram smash. Everybody laughed and one fellow said ‘Well you don’t look on mantelpiece when you’re poking the fire’.
At that my father doubled up in a convulsion of laughter. My mother grabbed the loaf to her chest again and sawed off another doorstep, slapped some jam on it and thrust it at me saying “We’ll have none of that ‘barber’s talk here me lad.” Dad interrupted saying, “Now mother what he don’t know won’t hurt him, let him go and play.”
As I went out of the door, I heard them both go into peels of laughter and dad said, “Bloody hell, what do you reckon – ‘you don’t look on the mantelpiece…’ He was unable to finish because he let out another peel of uncontrollable laughter.
I still couldn’t understand what it was all about and I thought “Aren’t grown-ups funny?” I haven’t changed that opinion in fifty years.
My Reflections
During the War
This would have still been during the second world war if my father’s memories are accurate. He notes that he was twelve. He was born in 1932 which would date this to 1944. At the end, he noted that his opinion hadn’t changed in fifty years which would date the writing of this story to 1994.
Real Identities?
I have not identified Jamie Leach, and could not initially identify Harry Weedup, so I was beginning to wonder if the names were made up! However, in writing about the woman who allegedly had a ‘fancy man’, dad uses the husband’s first and last name and gives the number he lived at. With those, I think I have identified the person in question. However, I have chosen to protect those identifying features by just using “X” given how derogatory the comments made were!
Barbers
I was a little surprised that I could not identify Harry Weedup given that people do like to reminisce about barbers and hairdressers. For example, in 2023, Derek Taylor talked on the Kirkby Living Memory Facebook Group about his experience of going to the barber in the sixties saying, “Most of my friends used a barber on Kingsway known locally as one eyed Jack. All his customers had one thing in common a fringe that ran at an angle across their forehead down toward their right eyebrow. One memorable summers day in the summer a bunch of lads went on a day trip to Skegness. On the sea front in the funfair we all stood at a stall trying to win a prize. The man looked down at a group of lads with strange lob sided hair and said I bet I know where you all come from. No I bet you don’t mister came the reply. Kirkby in Ashsfield he said. We were famous.“
In the comments, this particular barber was identified as Jack Ainsworth. My other grandfather used to go to him, see Chapter 68. Other barbers were mentioned including Stan or Harry Beardsley, Jim Vardy, Mad Mick, Bill and Bernard Horsley and Geoff Whetton. However, there was no mention of Harry Weedup.
So, I asked specifically about him in the group. I am grateful to Barry Walker for explaining that “Mr Weedop lived towards the bottom of Mary Street on the left hand side. We lived on Mary St and went to him. It was a bog standard short back and sides in his front room. As I grew older I begged my mam and dad to let me go to Whettons cos he did the new trend ‘square neck’!“
Harry Weedop
It seems that my dad slightly misspelled the surname and the correct spelling was Weedop. Armed with this information, I identified a Harold Weedop who was born in Mansfield in 1903. In 1911, he was living in Chatsworth Street Sutton with father John, mother Ann and siblings John William, Gershon and Hilda. Both John and John William were platelayers. In 1921, he was living in the same house and was working as a coal miner (haulage) below ground. He married Eletia Beard in 1931 and, in 1939, they were living in Sutton with their two children Iris and Henry. I have not found anything which links him directly to being the barber but, given the unusual surname, it seems likely he was the same person. It seems he died in 1976.
Miners’ Welfare
I knew my grandmother had worked as a barmaid and I may have known that it was at the Miners’ Welfare/Institute. The Miners’ Institute in East Kirkby was built in 1922. It was located on Low Moor Road between Alexandra Street and Edward Street. So, it was close to where my dad lived with his family in Alexandra Street.
It was demolished in 2010 and the land is currently unused. There are a number of discussion threads about the Miners’ Institute on the Kirkby Living Memory Facebook Group. Also, there are photographs of the building in the books “Kirkby & District: A Second Selection” by Frank Ashley, Sylvia Sinfield and Gerald Lee (p42) and “Kirkby-in-Ashfield and Annesley on Old Picture Postcards” by David Ottewell (inside front cover).
Lillian
I only met Lillian twice and yet she has left an impression that has stayed with me all these years. What was it about her that was so memorable? I had known of Lillian for as long as I can remember. Every birthday and every Christmas, I had a card from Lillian. We all did. I said ‘a card’ but, actually, it was just a hand-written note, on rather cheap paper, which said ‘Happy Birthday’ or whatever and signed simply ‘Lillian with love in Jesus’. There wasn’t a wedding, a funeral, a birth or any other event, happy or sad, which didn’t bring forth a little note, signed, as always, ‘Lillian with love in Jesus’.
I was fourteen before I went to see Lillian. Yes! I went to see her. You see she never came out. She was housebound! She had been struck down by some disease, or other, when she was twelve. I never knew what the disease was. I just knew, from my mother, that it was ‘a bit nasty and painful’. I didn’t plan to go to see her. It was just that the leader of the youth club thought that, as it was Lillian’s birthday, it would be nice for some of ‘the young people’ to visit her and I was one of the chosen few!
So, there I was, about to see, for the first time, someone whom I had known about all my life. Someone whose kindness, and concern for others, was a byword in the area in which I lived. I wondered what she would be like but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see! As we entered the small bedroom, I saw a frail old lady, and yet Lillian was but twenty-six.
As she held her frail hand in greeting, her incredibly white face broke into a smile, the most radiant smile I have ever seen, so warm so friendly and inviting. It was like looking into heaven. Lillian’s weak voice crackled, ‘How kind of you to give up your time to come to see me.’ A timeworn greeting but, with Lillian, you knew that she meant it with every fibre of her decimated body.
She was like ‘a child at Christmas’ opening the small gift we had brought and thanks flowed from her lips and, I felt, from her heart. She seemed to have scant regard for the actual gift. She was more concerned that each one of us had lemonade and our piece of cake, and always that smile.
Then she started with her questions, “How is your grandmother Freddie?” “How is your music coming on Mary?” She seemed to know each one of us by name, but how could she? The questions flowed. Sometimes, a look of concern replaced the smile but it soon came back more radiant than ever.
At last, she had found out all that she wanted to know from us, for the moment, and she said, in that quiet voice of hers, ‘Now, will you give me the best birthday present of all and sing my favourite hymn?’ We had been warned. In fact, we had been rehearsed. So, we sang with some confidence, ‘Jesus loves me, this I know.’ As we sang, Lillian’s smile seemed to fill the room but I swear that I saw tears in her eyes. That was the only time that I, or anyone I know of, saw Lillian cry although my mother told me that there would be many private tears that only God knew about.
It was 2 or 3 years before I saw Lillian again. This time, it was a private visit. I wanted to thank her for the many times that a little note had come to help me through a difficult time in my studies or just before a vital exam. Lillian seemed to know when I needed her!
The greeting was as warm and sincere as before but I thought how tired she looked. The frail hands reached out to me and – oh that smile! The talk and the questions were all about me and any questions about her were brushed off with ‘Jesus is with me and all is well’. Suddenly, Lillian said ‘I know you can sing so will you please sing my favourite hymn?’ I didn’t need to be told what it was. So, I started ‘Jesus loves me, this I know.’ I saw no tears this time, perhaps because my own eyes were so full. To this day, I don’t know how I got through that hymn, perhaps it was that wonderful smile!
I arranged to see Lillian again, on the day before my eighteenth birthday but, just as I was ready to go, my mother came in with the news that Lillian had passed away peacefully in her sleep.
Next day was my birthday and IT came. Just a hand-written note on rather cheap paper and it said, “Happy Birthday, Lillian with love in Jesus.”
Reflections
I was able to identify that these events took place between 1946, when dad turned 14, and 1950, when he turned 18. I knew that dad was involved with a church youth club. In fact, it was the youth club of Bourne Methodist Church and it was where mum and dad met, see Chapter 57. However, I have not identified who Lillian was. I thought I might as I knew that she died on or just before 16 June 1950, the day before dad’s 18th birthday. However, so far, all my searches have drawn blanks.
Exercise No 4: “Childhood Misdemeanours“
In this writing exercise, the tutor gave the class the start of a story which they had to complete. The story starts “Where am I? What am I doing here? Why is it so dark? My back aches, my head is spinning and I must have the biggest thirst of all time. And what is that digging into my spine? It feels like a sack of something, coal perhaps, or even rocks. Luckily, I’ve still got my shoes on, so I can at least walk to the wall and find the door. But supposing it’s a trap door in the ceiling and I can’t find it. Perhaps there’s a great well in the middle of the floor, like in ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’. Perhaps it would be best to stay put and call for help: but I can’t stay here until I die. I’ll start crawling in a straight line, so here goes…”
Dad took this story in quite a different direction from the horror fiction of being tortured as perhaps implied by the reference to Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “The Pit and the Pendulum“. Rather, dad considered that the storyteller had died and was being judged by their own psyche at a place between earth, heaven and hell. The story involves taking objects from a bag and describing them to the judges. It is this part that interests me and goes as follows…
“Please pick up the first object.”
I’ll just put out my hands and see what happens. Here goes. It’s a doll!
“Please tell us what you have and what you remember about it.”
“It’s a doll and the next one is a basket.”
“Please put the basket back for the moment and tell us about the doll and, remember, you can hide nothing from us.”
“The doll belonged to my sister but it got broken and my father threw it away.”
“Now, let’s start again and let’s have the truth and all of the truth. Tell us how the doll got broken and why.”
“Alright. So I did it! And now can I pick up the basket?”
“Not yet. Tell us what you did to the doll and why.”
“My sister told lies about me to my dad and got me into trouble, so I executed her doll”
“Good. Now you can pick up the next object but it will help all of us if you tell us all that you can remember about each object you pick up.”
“The basket. I remember that basket, it was the one my mother gave me to go shopping with and I, well, I stole some peas from the shop and slipped them into the basket.”
“Good. Please continue.”
“Two bottles next. I remember them. They’re the ones that old Mrs Bostock used to give us to take to the “beer-off” to get filled every Saturday. We used to drink some and top the bottles up with water. We overdid it one night and she complained to the owner about the beer, so we stopped doing that.”
The story continues in that vein until the final object, a beer glass. It seems that the storywriter has been involved in a motor accident after having had another drink despite the remonstrations of his friend. The judges go to consider their verdict and he wakes up in hospital.
My Reflections
Dad had two sisters, well half-sisters as they were children of my grandmother’s first marriage. Eva was 12 years older than my dad having been born in 1920. Joyce was born in 1923 so she was nine years older than dad. If the story about the doll is true, I guess it belonged to one of them.
The story of the basket does not contain any identifying information for the shop. However, it does show that perhaps dad was sent on errands, such as going to the shop or delivering bacon, from a young age.
Concerning the final story, I think Mrs Bostock was probably a real person. I have encountered a number of Bostocks in the diaries including Margaret Bostock who was a good friend of mum’s and who married Robert Ollerenshaw, see Chapter 62. The term ‘beer-off‘ was widely used in Kirkby to describe an off-licence. It was common at that time to be able to take bottles or other similar receptacles to ‘beer-offs’ to have them filled with beer, sherry etc.
“Champion of Essex”
I am one of those people, and there are a lot of us, who like playing almost any game but are not very good at them. Take darts. When I was a young man, my mother, my sister and her husband were all passable pub darts players but when they needed to make up a four they always asked my father not me. Now, when I tell you that, due to industrial accidents, my father was almost blind and probably couldn’t see the dart board, not even with his ‘long distance’ glasses, it gives you some idea of what the others thought of my dart playing.
Many years later, I was working in the city, London that is, and, on Saturday and Sunday, I used to help out behind the bar at Ilford Football Club. Sunday morning was the time when customers would come in for a pint or two and a game of darts. One morning, quite early on, there was only one darts player in and, after having had several practices by himself, he asked me to play. Now, was he being kind or was he fed up of playing by himself? I can’t remember his name for sure but I think his surname was Brown. My memory tells me that he was Champion of Essex, or something like that, and ranked higher than Bobby George, you’ll know of him. After explaining what a bad player I was, I agreed to play him. As we were playing, the club started to fill up so, by the time we finished, there were several good darts players watching. To everybody’s surprise I won. Don’t tell me that it was a fluke because I’m not listening! He want to play another game so that I could always say that I had beaten the Champion of Essex but he hadn’t beaten me. Does that make me Champion of Essex?”
“If you meet me in a pub, don’t ask me to play darts because I won’t. I want to remain Champion of Essex. Well, champion of something anyway!!”
My Reflections
I can identify with dad in terms of liking all games but not being very good at any! I am not sure dad was quite as bad at darts as he made out. I recall playing him quite often at various pubs and he usually won, see Chapter 122.
I realise that these details are almost given as asides but I was not aware that my grandfather was virtually blind and that this was as a result of industrial accidents. I wonder if dad was exaggerating for dramatic effect. I think I might have known this if it was really true. I knew, for example, that grandad suffered a lot of respiratory problems as a result of working as a miner and smoking. He died in March 1970 when I was nine, see Chapter 100.
In 1974 and 1975, dad was working in London and living in Newbury Park, near Ilford, see Chapters 99 and 114. I recall that, while he was there, he was quite involved in Ilford football club particularly on the social side, for example, helping out behind the bar as he described, see Chapter 123.
Bobby George is a well-known TV presenter and former darts player. While I don’t know exactly who dad played, it is possible that it was Tony Brown who was another prominent darts player of that era.
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