Remembrance

I am devoting April 2022 to my father, with two pieces I wrote about some of his escapades when he was a youngster. He passed away in 1983, and I still miss him greatly. Writing these recollections of his life has been a good way for me to remember him, and I hope you will find them entertaining. I have changed family names to give them all anonymity, and I am posting this on what would have been his 110th birthday.

The featured photograph is of a Great Yarmouth bus from my father’s childhood days.

Also available to listen to on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/6JMU5cuYuFuXveTWwRbfiy?si=2367fc74a85c41d4

REMEMBRANCE

Not a day passes when I don’t think of my father, sometimes with sadness and the feeling of emptiness his passing in 1983 left behind but often with amusement as he was quite a character with a great sense of humour, and there are so many tales from his life to recall and laugh about.

He was born on 10^th April 1912 – the day the Titanic set sail, so an historic though not fortuitous date. In those days it was customary to name babies after someone in the family, and as Dad was the eighth of nine children, seven of them boys, I think my grandparents must have been running out of relatives’ names as so many were called after each other there was only a limited number! However, his mother eventually suggested naming their newest son after his uncle William.

From an early age Dad was always up to something. In those carefree days, life in the small coastal town of Great Yarmouth was considered quite safe for children. Everyone knew everyone else, and in the summer months the children descended on to the beach which, aside from the sand, boasted a number of amusements such as Punch and Judy. In addition there was a Lost Children’s Tent where Dad found himself on a number of occasions as he had wandered off. All the family was well-known to the local people, and he was frequently returned home by some kind person, if he wasn’t claimed by an older brother or sister.

As he grew up, he became fascinated by the Saturday market in the town centre and loved to hear the patter of the stallholders – an interest he never lost even as an adult. On one occasion his mother gave him sixpence and sent him shopping. With the money in his pocket, he soon found his way to the market and joined a throng of people who seemed enthralled by someone claiming to be The Man They Couldn’t Hang. In fact, he was not only declaring this but was also prepared to reveal why – for a sum of money. The showman’s hat went round the crowd several times and pennies were thrown in, but the amount hadn’t reached the target set, with another six pence needed to reveal the truth. Although the hat did its circuit a few more times, the six pence were not forthcoming. Nevertheless the crowd remained while the entertainer whipped up quite a stir of excitement and insisted that without the final six pence his tale would remain a secret. As the hat set off on its travels again, extreme curiosity got the better of Dad and he threw in his mother’s sixpence, eager to find out why this was the man they couldn’t hang. The audience didn’t have long to wait. With the expected sum of money safely in his hat, the showman in his broad Norfolk accent built up the atmosphere further by saying “And now I’ll tell you why I’m the man they couldn’t hang.” There was a pause followed by “Cause I ain’t done nothing!” To say the least, Dad was somewhat disappointed by this information and then had to face his mother when he went home with neither her shopping nor the sixpence. It is fortunate that my grandmother had a tremendous sense of humour, and wasn’t hard up for a sixpence or two, and when she heard the saga she stood in the kitchen and laughed. Whether the shopping was ever purchased that Saturday morning I don’t know, but even as a child Dad wondered how anyone could get away with charging for such blatant effrontery. This story perhaps followed on from the case of John “Babbacombe” Lee who was found guilty of the murder of his employer but survived three hanging attempts in 1885. As a result, his punishment was commuted to life imprisonment. He became known as “the man they couldn’t hang”.

My Dad was always active, if not swinging on the washing line (which once resulted in him falling off and cutting his head open), he was climbing somewhere – including the occasion up the drainpipe on the side of the house, clinging to elder brother John’s back. Unfortunately, the drainpipe started to come away and they both fell to the ground, John on top of Dad who bore the brunt of the fall and his older brother’s weight.

My grandmother, of Irish parentage, was a Catholic and all the children were brought up in her religion, with the approval of my grandfather. It was customary from the age of seven to go to confession, and Dad was sent to their parish church for this purpose one Saturday morning. I think he must have protested, as his mother said something along the lines of “You’re such a naughty boy, if there’s anything naughty to do then you’ll do it, so off you go now.” Despite this, he was just a normal boy – into everything but not evil or even intentionally causing any trouble, more high-spirited really. He arrived at the church and began to wonder what sins he could confess. Thinking of his mother’s words, he imagined it would take too long to tell the priest of all his wrongdoings (not that he could think of many), so he decided on a shortcut. He went into the confessional box and declared that he had broken all 10 Commandments. The priest was obviously both amused and taken aback by this from a child of about eight and started asking him some questions:

“Have you told any lies?”

“No, Father”

“Have you stolen anything?”

“No, Father” 

“Have you killed anyone?” 

“No, Father”

“Well, tell me this then – have you run off with your neighbour’s wife?” 

“No, Father”

“In that case, you say a prayer, go home, be a good boy and do what your mummy and daddy tell you.”

At the age of 11, my father was sent to boarding school in Hertfordshire, travelling by train in the care of one of his older brothers Charles. For Dad this was exciting as he had been looking forward to the new experience of living away from home. However, on arrival, Charles, who was 14, decided he wanted to leave school, so turned round and, taking Dad with him, went back home, to the astonishment and anger of their parents. Dad was returned to the school the next day and, after much argument and persuasion, Charles was allowed to start work in the family business instead of continuing his education.

Three years later Dad, with brothers George and John, was sent to a boarding school in Saint Malo in Northern France. The idea was for the boys to learn French, which was the universal business language in those days. Dad had no interest in learning French and for the first term understood next to nothing. As he had no one but George and John to speak English with, it couldn’t have been much fun. Just before the Christmas holidays, the whole school was taken to the circus, and in a lull between acts the boy next to him began talking to Dad who was at a loss to know what he was saying. Out of the blue, the teacher sitting behind him tapped him on the shoulder and in perfect English, though with a French accent, said “He is asking where you are going for your holidays.” Dad was then able to answer his companion with “En Angleterre” but was amazed that this teacher could speak English as he had never spoken a word of it to him before – or after – that outing to the circus.

After this Dad slowly began to understand and speak more and more French. However, he made no attempt at the accent, partly in protest at being sent over there and partly because he found he was a playground novelty. Having spent two years at the school, he had got to know Saint Malo well and often talked about walking along the town’s famous ramparts. At the age of 16, after returning home, he started an apprenticeship in mechanical engineering which paved the way for his working life. However, he never lost touch with his French fluency, using it in France and Belgium during the war and later on in more social circumstances. About a year after we had moved to London from Dad’s hometown, a Frenchman called François moved in two doors away, with his English wife. François was born in France but had grown up in New York and later in London and spoke English and French with equal ease. However, he had a number of French friends and relatives who would visit from time to time, and as he and Dad were great pals, François would ask him to go in and have a chat to them all. Dad used to say it would take him a few minutes to get into the swing of the language again but he was welcomed by all the French visitors, who found it amusing that he had such a strong English accent yet was so fluent in French, even using colloquial schoolboy expressions which they hadn’t heard for years! Dad himself was conscious of sounding unmistakeably English and in later life said he used to dream he was back in France and would be constantly apologising for his English accent!

Needless to say, there are plenty more tales from Dad’s life, but they will have to be the subject of another instalment – or two.

© Chasqui Penguin, 2022

Twitter: @ChasquiPenguin

The picture below is of Saint Malo, Brittany, France with the ramparts in the foreground.