Wednesday, 19 February 2020
Monday, 17 February 2020
The Ferry Between Southampton and East Cowes
My
Grandad
My grandad was my mother's father. He was born in the South Shields, Cullercoats area of Newcastle. He was a merchant seaman, then a marine in the First World War. After the war ended there was a very big recession in Newcastle and not very much work so he went to London. I am not very sure of his history around this time but I do know that he met my Grandmother on Exeter bridge and she was immediately attracted to him because of his sailor's uniform. He was very tall and handsome she later said.
Cullercoats Beach
They
married at the Parish Church of St Thomas in Exeter, and went to London and lived in a series of rented
accommodations while Grandad worked at sea. Then my mother was
born, and later on her two brothers: and when she was still small the
Second World War started. She was sent down to Exeter to live with
her Aunt Rose, my Grandmother's sister, and Grandad joined the marines again.
My grandmother then worked in an ammunition factory while the two
boys went to a Government nursery.
He must have been one of the first drafts of troops to go to the Continent for I know he was involved in the Dunkirk evacuation. He had collected some trinkets in France for my mother and had to leave most of them on the beach when trying to escape under a rain of Nazi bullets. He did manage to wade out with his rifle and rucksack containing some rosaries and French coins with holes in. I have them now after my mother passed them to me when she died. He escaped safely but was returned to the Continent as a marine during the D Day landing of 1944. He must have been very brave and I try to imagine what it was like for him and his colleagues during those times.
On the beach at Dunkirk
He must have been one of the first drafts of troops to go to the Continent for I know he was involved in the Dunkirk evacuation. He had collected some trinkets in France for my mother and had to leave most of them on the beach when trying to escape under a rain of Nazi bullets. He did manage to wade out with his rifle and rucksack containing some rosaries and French coins with holes in. I have them now after my mother passed them to me when she died. He escaped safely but was returned to the Continent as a marine during the D Day landing of 1944. He must have been very brave and I try to imagine what it was like for him and his colleagues during those times.
On the beach at Dunkirk
When
he returned at the end of the war he wanted to spend more time with
his re-united family so left his maritime life behind, but there was
very little work for returning heroes. He got a job as a decorator
attracting a company house which had a low rent and a secure tenancy, and
he and my grandmother lived in this house until their respective
deaths. The job was not without its' own dangers as he once fell off
the scaffolding when decorating the top of a stairwell and lost some
of his fingers.
I
first remember him when I was around two years old, standing high
above me on the front door step holding out a beautiful black-haired
doll in a grand box for me. He died when I was eight because of stomach
cancer and I was not allowed to go to the funeral. In the Navy they gave
everyone a daily ration of rum (grog) which was very strong. He got
addicted to this and carried on drinking it when he left. We think
this caused his cancer. I remember standing close him when he was
lying on his settee in his pyjamas, and he vomited blood into a bowl,
which shocked and frightened me. He was very thin and had stopped
eating. The last I saw of him was him lying in bed down the distant
end of a hospital in London. Because I was a child they wouldn't let
me in. He waved feebly and I waved back and that was it. I never saw him alive again.
In
the early '70's my friend and I played at holding our own seance one
wet Saturday afternoon. I was very honest and didn't influence the
pointer in any way, and my friend didn't know the person at all so
she couldn't have been playing tricks, but when we asked “was
anyone there?” and “who are you?” the pointer spelled out
the name “Ted Pat”. I told my mother what had happened and she
said that “Ted” was my grandfather's nick name, and that “Pat”
was a shortened version of his surname. Now – that is spooky. Was
he really there for me; watching over me?
I
am now much older but recently thought of him again. I was sailing
on a high deck of a ferry between Southampton and West Cowes and had
a wide, open view over the Solent. The day was bright and blowy and the weather
oscillated between vivid, blinding sunshine and dark purple rain
clouds. The sea was choppy and blueish grey and I fell into a reverie thinking about him.
Suddenly
a large, strongly coloured rainbow appeared next to the boat, rising
from the sea on one side, arching right next to the boat and falling
to the sea on the other side. I saw it in its' entirety, all the
solid, definite colours of the spectrum floating in the sky,
contrasting against the dark gunmetal grey of the clouds and framed
by the brightness of the sun. Was he still spiritually with me and communicating with me? I like to think so. Some other passengers got their
cameras out, but I think my mind has taken its' own photo which I
will remember forever. In my world there is always a rainbow when someone dies if you look hard enough. I think Grandad's rainbow came very late.
Monday, 10 February 2020
The Severn Bridge
They
were going on a camping holiday from Norwich in the east of the
Country to Port Eynon on the Gower Coast in Wales in the west of the
Country which is a very long way. This meant they had to, in his
words
get up and leave very early in order to beat the heavy traffic
What this really meant was that the car had to be loaded up with camping gear on a daily basis according to a strict timetable and inventory all through the proceeding week. Tent, cooking stove, provisions, sleeping bags, ground sheet, matches and other paraphernalia were checked, rechecked, discussed, packed then taken out of the boot again, repacked in a different order, then taken out again to check that it really was all there, repacked yet again and crossed off a very long list; the procedure was endless.
So on the previous evening to departure they had to have their evening meal much earlier than usual, washing up done, then a final check of the car boot carried out to make sure, absolutely sure, that all the camping gear really was in the car boot and that definitely nothing had been forgotten. Because you never know, he said, we might forget something that would spoil the whole holiday. Yes we might. Or we could just not worry about it, and actually just try to relax and enjoy ourselves without all this panicking.
Then it meant that they had to go to bed VERY VERY early, around 9pm and set the alarm for 2.30am
because we have to leave around 3am to miss the heavy lorries on the M25 and the morning commuter traffic then we can go much faster
So in the cold, black, damp, dark morning the alarm rang jarringly loudly and rose them from a deep sleep and they dragged themselves out of bed, rushed round with a little breakfast and hit the open road at 3am to make sure that they really would miss all this predicted traffic congestion; it was so important to do this. It was damp and cold and not much fun at all. The windscreen kept misting up, so he drove along while trying to clean it with his elbow sleeve, and a police car stopped them on the A11 coming out of Norwich. They were checked over by a very polite policeman who wanted to know if he had been out late on the razzle in Norwich, driving home early in the morning and have you been drinking at all Sir? which was causing you to drive erratically, Sir?
No Officer, I was just cleaning my windscreen so that I could see while driving
The policeman could see that he was sober, so let him go on the understanding that he wanted to clean his windscreen again he needed to pull over, perhaps finding a lay-by to do it in which would be much safer?
So the journey continued in the small hours along those beautifully un-congested roads and the travellers felt tired and weary from the early start, eyes strained and sore by the darkness which was slowly melting into daylight. They joined the M11, then the M25, swinging round to drive west, then even further west along the M4. He was now tired; very tired. The early start had hit him, and the traffic was so congested here it was very thick and slow. It was mid-morning and he had to stop at a service centre for a rest. They were both tired now and the early start had not really helped to speed their journey. It's always like this, why don't you learn from beforehand and stop being so pig headed and domineering? You always think that you are in charge and that you know best. I am so tired. They drank some strong coffee and ate carbs at the service centre. This helped a little. So onwards, past Swindon, past Chippenham and on towards the Severn Bridge, the portal from England to Wales, the movement from the known to the unknown, the transmission from sovereignty to chaos, the fading of beds into sleeping bags, the experiencing of camping stoves from ovens, the run into cold from warm.
Then the signpost appeared: The Severn Bridge; 1 mile. It was close, the crossing was nearly there, Wales was on the horizon; and her anxieties grew....she hoped he knew what he was doing. They drove up to the start of the run into the toll machines for the bridge; you had to pay, it wasn't free as it is now. But which desk to use? There were hundreds of the damn things under neon lights, spreading out like the lanes of a satanic skittle alley, one taking cash and one taking cards, one for fully paid up members and one not for fully paid up members, one for big lorries and one for small lorries, one for posh cars and one for clapped out cars, one for red cars and one for blue cars ....... the possibilities were endless. And they all had queues.
Where do I go? Get your purse out, we need to pay, I hadn't planned this...
He was panicking and didn't know what to do, where to go, which lane to go down, there were cars behind, cars in front and cars to the side, and so his diabetes dip kicked in. His blood sugar had gone wild from exhaustion after the early start and a long drive he couldn't cope with. And because the their relationship was relatively new and her sense of self esteem hadn't risen in this new power struggle,she felt insecure and compliant, so she willingly took her purse from her bag and placed it on her lap ready to pay. But he panicked even more....
I don't know which lane to go in, I'm not sure what to do, I have these cars behind me....oh just get out and ask someone can't you?
Confusion and fear grabbed her and in the paternalistic domination of the relationship she got out of the car and frantically looked around for help. There was none, only threatening and intimidating drivers growling behind the safety of their windscreens at her, alone and vulnerable on the windy tarmac. He begged her to get back in and she gladly did so, it was just all too much. In a panic he diverted over to the end booth which was open with no cars queuing, and accelerated through to the other side without paying, passing through to the calm of the M4 on the other side in the direction of Newport. Not a word was said. For a few miles she thought it over and revealed to him that they had just illegally driven through the gate for pre-paid users of the Severn Bridge without paying or having a pre-payment ticket; a gate they should not have used. And then a greater horror dawned on her to discover that her purse was no longer in her bag – it was no longer anywhere, not on her lap, the foot well, under the seat; it must be still on the tarmac on the Severn Bridge falling off her when she got out of the car. And the world suddenly became blacker and sombre and her bowels turned to ice. What have you done? I am a civil servant, a Crown Court Clerk, this will cost me at least my job, maybe a conviction, it will be on videotape, wanting the control when you have messed it up so badly.....
They drove on a few miles and decided to report in to Newport Police Station to try to put right at least some of this sorry mess. The clerk at the police desk phoned through to the general office at the Severn Bridge on their behalf and received instruction that they were return to the Severn Bridge Main Office for the pleasure of meeting
The Chief Controller
in person. It was a very serious and sobering moment. What did meeting the Chief Controller mean? So they returned along the M4 to the Severn Bridge to re-enter the reception area with the offices and parked nearby. She was shaking and very nervous and worried about a potential prosecution for not paying the toll, and wanted her purse back with its cash and credit cards. Did they have it or was it lost? They went through the main entrance into a small office with a reception desk, and various men placed in desks behind it. On explaining the reasons for their arrival they were told by a medium sized man with a Welsh accent that the Chief Controller was expecting them. They took a scared gulp as in strided the Chief Controller himself, a large Welshman man that loomed over this small couple, red faced and officially uniformed, with short greyish black hair parted to one side. He was as tall as they were short.
He wasn't pleased with them and asked for £11.20 in toll fees that they owed him, once for the time they had not paid, and again for the journey out again. This was handed over via his card with meekness and servitude. Then The Chief Controller produced her purse from his pocket which he held up for all to see before handing it over with a superior ceremony. How he had got it was a mystery, it must have been picked up on camera or by sight, and then retrieved by security. She never knew as he never said, and she was too scared to ask. He then took a snort and told them that all bridge users must pay the toll, turned his back and left through a side door.
They looked at each other through a mist of quiet fear to make the subdued journey on the M4 through to the Gower Coast where they pitched their tent on a beautiful cliff top with a vista over the blue sparkling sea and the blue sky peppered with little white clouds. And he lay on the air bed and slept for a long time. You stupid man wanting to have all these managerial and organisation timetables, and forgetting that your own body just cannot cope any more because of your diabetes which you refuse to acknowledge. And I feel totally, totally sorry for you.
get up and leave very early in order to beat the heavy traffic
What this really meant was that the car had to be loaded up with camping gear on a daily basis according to a strict timetable and inventory all through the proceeding week. Tent, cooking stove, provisions, sleeping bags, ground sheet, matches and other paraphernalia were checked, rechecked, discussed, packed then taken out of the boot again, repacked in a different order, then taken out again to check that it really was all there, repacked yet again and crossed off a very long list; the procedure was endless.
So on the previous evening to departure they had to have their evening meal much earlier than usual, washing up done, then a final check of the car boot carried out to make sure, absolutely sure, that all the camping gear really was in the car boot and that definitely nothing had been forgotten. Because you never know, he said, we might forget something that would spoil the whole holiday. Yes we might. Or we could just not worry about it, and actually just try to relax and enjoy ourselves without all this panicking.
Then it meant that they had to go to bed VERY VERY early, around 9pm and set the alarm for 2.30am
because we have to leave around 3am to miss the heavy lorries on the M25 and the morning commuter traffic then we can go much faster
So in the cold, black, damp, dark morning the alarm rang jarringly loudly and rose them from a deep sleep and they dragged themselves out of bed, rushed round with a little breakfast and hit the open road at 3am to make sure that they really would miss all this predicted traffic congestion; it was so important to do this. It was damp and cold and not much fun at all. The windscreen kept misting up, so he drove along while trying to clean it with his elbow sleeve, and a police car stopped them on the A11 coming out of Norwich. They were checked over by a very polite policeman who wanted to know if he had been out late on the razzle in Norwich, driving home early in the morning and have you been drinking at all Sir? which was causing you to drive erratically, Sir?
No Officer, I was just cleaning my windscreen so that I could see while driving
The policeman could see that he was sober, so let him go on the understanding that he wanted to clean his windscreen again he needed to pull over, perhaps finding a lay-by to do it in which would be much safer?
So the journey continued in the small hours along those beautifully un-congested roads and the travellers felt tired and weary from the early start, eyes strained and sore by the darkness which was slowly melting into daylight. They joined the M11, then the M25, swinging round to drive west, then even further west along the M4. He was now tired; very tired. The early start had hit him, and the traffic was so congested here it was very thick and slow. It was mid-morning and he had to stop at a service centre for a rest. They were both tired now and the early start had not really helped to speed their journey. It's always like this, why don't you learn from beforehand and stop being so pig headed and domineering? You always think that you are in charge and that you know best. I am so tired. They drank some strong coffee and ate carbs at the service centre. This helped a little. So onwards, past Swindon, past Chippenham and on towards the Severn Bridge, the portal from England to Wales, the movement from the known to the unknown, the transmission from sovereignty to chaos, the fading of beds into sleeping bags, the experiencing of camping stoves from ovens, the run into cold from warm.
Then the signpost appeared: The Severn Bridge; 1 mile. It was close, the crossing was nearly there, Wales was on the horizon; and her anxieties grew....she hoped he knew what he was doing. They drove up to the start of the run into the toll machines for the bridge; you had to pay, it wasn't free as it is now. But which desk to use? There were hundreds of the damn things under neon lights, spreading out like the lanes of a satanic skittle alley, one taking cash and one taking cards, one for fully paid up members and one not for fully paid up members, one for big lorries and one for small lorries, one for posh cars and one for clapped out cars, one for red cars and one for blue cars ....... the possibilities were endless. And they all had queues.
Where do I go? Get your purse out, we need to pay, I hadn't planned this...
He was panicking and didn't know what to do, where to go, which lane to go down, there were cars behind, cars in front and cars to the side, and so his diabetes dip kicked in. His blood sugar had gone wild from exhaustion after the early start and a long drive he couldn't cope with. And because the their relationship was relatively new and her sense of self esteem hadn't risen in this new power struggle,she felt insecure and compliant, so she willingly took her purse from her bag and placed it on her lap ready to pay. But he panicked even more....
I don't know which lane to go in, I'm not sure what to do, I have these cars behind me....oh just get out and ask someone can't you?
Confusion and fear grabbed her and in the paternalistic domination of the relationship she got out of the car and frantically looked around for help. There was none, only threatening and intimidating drivers growling behind the safety of their windscreens at her, alone and vulnerable on the windy tarmac. He begged her to get back in and she gladly did so, it was just all too much. In a panic he diverted over to the end booth which was open with no cars queuing, and accelerated through to the other side without paying, passing through to the calm of the M4 on the other side in the direction of Newport. Not a word was said. For a few miles she thought it over and revealed to him that they had just illegally driven through the gate for pre-paid users of the Severn Bridge without paying or having a pre-payment ticket; a gate they should not have used. And then a greater horror dawned on her to discover that her purse was no longer in her bag – it was no longer anywhere, not on her lap, the foot well, under the seat; it must be still on the tarmac on the Severn Bridge falling off her when she got out of the car. And the world suddenly became blacker and sombre and her bowels turned to ice. What have you done? I am a civil servant, a Crown Court Clerk, this will cost me at least my job, maybe a conviction, it will be on videotape, wanting the control when you have messed it up so badly.....
They drove on a few miles and decided to report in to Newport Police Station to try to put right at least some of this sorry mess. The clerk at the police desk phoned through to the general office at the Severn Bridge on their behalf and received instruction that they were return to the Severn Bridge Main Office for the pleasure of meeting
The Chief Controller
in person. It was a very serious and sobering moment. What did meeting the Chief Controller mean? So they returned along the M4 to the Severn Bridge to re-enter the reception area with the offices and parked nearby. She was shaking and very nervous and worried about a potential prosecution for not paying the toll, and wanted her purse back with its cash and credit cards. Did they have it or was it lost? They went through the main entrance into a small office with a reception desk, and various men placed in desks behind it. On explaining the reasons for their arrival they were told by a medium sized man with a Welsh accent that the Chief Controller was expecting them. They took a scared gulp as in strided the Chief Controller himself, a large Welshman man that loomed over this small couple, red faced and officially uniformed, with short greyish black hair parted to one side. He was as tall as they were short.
He wasn't pleased with them and asked for £11.20 in toll fees that they owed him, once for the time they had not paid, and again for the journey out again. This was handed over via his card with meekness and servitude. Then The Chief Controller produced her purse from his pocket which he held up for all to see before handing it over with a superior ceremony. How he had got it was a mystery, it must have been picked up on camera or by sight, and then retrieved by security. She never knew as he never said, and she was too scared to ask. He then took a snort and told them that all bridge users must pay the toll, turned his back and left through a side door.
They looked at each other through a mist of quiet fear to make the subdued journey on the M4 through to the Gower Coast where they pitched their tent on a beautiful cliff top with a vista over the blue sparkling sea and the blue sky peppered with little white clouds. And he lay on the air bed and slept for a long time. You stupid man wanting to have all these managerial and organisation timetables, and forgetting that your own body just cannot cope any more because of your diabetes which you refuse to acknowledge. And I feel totally, totally sorry for you.
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