So Leslie went off to start his Service with basic training, which apparently put a good few inches on his height, taking him to 6ft, and leaving him lean and sinewy, rather than just thin. Oh yes, they made a man of him before they killed him. It only took six weeks to make a man of him. It took eight years to kill him.
He was soon shipped out to the far east with the R.A.S.C. In Singapore, he contracted pneumonia, which soon turned to a fever, and he hadn’t the strength to get off his bunk, so a mate reported him sick. By the time the M.O. got to him, Leslie had T.B. He was invalided home in ’45.
In hospital for an operation to remove diseased lung tissue, the ligatures (gristly bits attaching lungs to rib cage) instead of being cut (the operation involves opening the rib cage, like a book) were pulled, and tore a hole in his good lung. This left him with a permanent hole in his left side, which had to be drained of pus, twice daily, every day, for the rest of his life. This is why, in photos, he seems to have a slovenly penchant for pyjama tops. But you can’t go by appearances. As fully front-opening shirts were very rare, at that time, the jarmies facilitated unbuttoning to allow him to get the laundry out of the way, so he could have free access to squeeze his chest with both his palms, and so ‘fill his cup’ which was wedged on his lap. Then the pad dressing had to be replaced, and bandaged on, tightly, to prevent leakage. Most times, he could manage it all by himself. Occasionally, when he was feeling particularly weak, he had to suffer the indignity of being helped. All this twice a day, every day. Evidently, the word ‘compensation’ had yet to enter the English language.
He spent as much time in hospital as out. In the ‘in’ periods, the family Sunday afternoons were always spent visiting him, either at Lodge Moor, or Crimicar Lane, which involved walking past a German P.O.W. camp with its barbed wire, and sullen faces. Visiting time was usually 2-4ish, and very regimented. The corridors would be packed solid with visitors waiting for the loud blast on the whistle, or the clang of the bell. Only then were they allowed to stream into the wards and start jockeying spare chairs around the beds. First, they would sort out vases for the weeks flowers, then show the loved ones this week’s treats- a jar of calves’ foot jelly a couple of duck eggs, 2oz. of boiled ham- then collar a friendly nurse to label them, and put them in the fridge for later. Food was provided, but there was ample scope for augmentation.
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| Soldier Boy |
At some time in every visit, without fail, word was passed that Matron was coming. As she hove into sight, all conversation ceased, she was held in such awe. She moved through the wards in a pool of silence, smiling benignly at all and sundry, not stopping, not speaking, merely blessing with her passage.
Julia always had a weakness for fortune-tellers, and used to cart Jane off to a certain Mrs. Armes, in Lincoln, of all places. Sometimes they would visit her, but most times, they would write, sending an article belonging to the person who’s fortune was sought- a scarf, hanky, ring, brooch, cuff-link, collar-stud- the merest thing. Jane was dubious, but because of her concern for Leslie, let herself be drawn in, hoping for good news. She didn’t get it.
I remember seeing pages and pages of Mrs. Armes’ tight, spidery writing. She certainly gave value for money in terms of quantity, at least, if not in terms of positive quality. The writing started level, at the top, but gradually drooped down the left margin, which hit the bottom of the page a good two inches before the right. This left a triangle to be filled, until the last line, which then consisted of one word, in the bottom right corner. I also remember that after so many assertions of a prophetic nature, either precise or obscure, there would occur particular phrases of an urging and encouraging nature, on the lines of ‘and this is a true thing I tell you’ or ‘and this you must remember’. What made them stick in my mind, was first, their regular inclusion, and second, their almost poignant urgency. Mrs. Armes told Jane ‘You will spend many sleepless nights at your son’s bedside, but it [his death] won’t happen then. It will be when you are not there’. Did that mean he would outlive her?
On one of his spells at home, he had been obliged to report to the Labour Exchange, for work. In a land fit for heroes, there’s no room for slackers. When he had explained his health and circumstances, they found him the ideal job- a postman- walking about in the bloody rain, hail, sleet, wind, and snow, all day. After about a month, he was back in hospital.
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| The Electric gramophone |
It was through Leslie that I was introduced to popular music, at an unusually early age. Having a lot of time on his hands, he had bought a gramophone, and started to collect records- American big bands, singers like Hoagy Carmichael, Ella, Al Jolson, Nellie Lutcher, Phil Harris, Tennessee Ernie, novelty groups like Spike Jones and his City Slickers, Red Ingle and the Un-natural seven, the Lemon Drop Kid. I can still smell the oily, gluey, imitation crocodile skin covered machine. I am still quite capable of bursting out with such gems as Hong Kong Blues, Two Dollar Pistol, My Mother’s Eyes, Minnie the Moocher, Nature Boy, if not kept strictly under control.
With time, I was allowed to put the records on, even change the steel needles. I even learned that trick of, when on your last needle, as an emergency measure, you turned the old needle just a quarter turn and re- set it, so it presented a fresh, sharp edge. But when he went back into hospital for the last time (though we didn’t know that) he took the gramophone with him. Perhaps somebody realised he was due all the comforts and pleasures he could get, besides, the nurses were quite partial to spending a precious few spare moments by his bed, listening to the music.
His closest friends were fellow patients, past or present. His one girlfriend was a nurse- Mary Bingley- ‘Bing’.
Leslie died in January ’52. Mary was with him. His parents had spent the previous night at his bedside. They had briefly gone home to wash and change, and were on their way back, arriving too late. Mrs. Armes was right, after all, but what did it matter?
The Undertaker, Jack Connah, was an old neighbour, and a family friend. He came to discuss the funeral arrangements, then eased into a friendly chat.
“I shan’t be doing many more, Charlie. I’m retirin’ soon.”
“Oh Jack!” exclaimed Jane. “I was ‘opin’ you’d see to us when the time comes?”
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Eckhardt; I’ll turn out to put you away, I promise” Notice again, it’s Charlie, but Mrs.Eckhardt. These folk never failed in their rigid code of respect. Jack did turn out to put Charlie away in 1958, but he had been put away, himself, before Jane had to settle for the Co-op, in 1975.
“Will you promise me something, Jack?” asked Jane. “Our Leslie- you won’t let him smell, will you?”
“No, no, he won’t smell, I promise you. Don’t worry”.
Jane’s concern was real enough, because, as was the custom, the coffin (or box, I should say- my family never used the word coffin. It was always a box. Perhaps they thought it less brutal, less funereal) however, the box was brought into the house on the day of the funeral, for an hour or two beforehand, for mourners to pay their last respects. And no, he didn’t smell. Jack Connah had done him proud. As the invoice says, the coffin was lined with swans down, and had a three tiered lid. What it doesn’t say is that as befitting a handsome 26yr old, Leslie was in a formal, evening dress shirt, with pleated front, wing collar, and white bow tie. The lower body and hands were covered by a panel of stiff, white pleats. By contrast, at 73 yrs, Charlie was shrouded in a soft, white satin, dressing gown style, with satin corded edging, and waist tie with tassels. He too came into the house for people to say their last goodbyes, which would explain why, when Charlie was about to stand before his maker, a little angel might well have bustled up and said ‘Hang on, Mate. Let's just wipe that lipstick off your forehead’.
Leslie was buried in City Road Cemetery. The January day was as wet and windy as any pessimist could have wished for. The high ground of City Road is surely among the most exposed, desolate, and depressing places in the City. Not for nothing is an adjacent ridge named ‘Sky Edge’. Sharrow Vale Cemetery is a picnic ground, by comparison.
Cousin Charles, son of Albert, was doing National Service in the R.A.F. at the time. As the priest gingerly reversed away from the open grave, over the wet clay, which had walked everywhere, despite the boards and grass mats, Charles stepped smartly forward, snapped to attention, and threw what must have been the finest salute of his life. I’m sure Charlie and Jane appreciated it, and must have been very proud of their oldest grandson.
Within less than half an hour, we were able to quit that dismal and grievous place, but I wasn’t done with it, on that miserable January afternoon, not by any means. It would take a good eighteen months of grieving to wash the last of that yellow clay from our shoes.
*
By way of respite from the misery of the cemetery, we will prevail on Leslie’s name to give us a link with another hospital of his patronage. City General was another, large, pre-war institution, where, in the early 60’s, I said goodbye to my appendix, which was of little consequence, and hello to Walter, a brave little soul, worthy of remembering. The wards were the multi-bed monsters, the central, dominant feature of each being a huge, back to back, open hearth (called a ‘Jumbo’) flanked by huge dining tables, which bore, down their centres, the accumulated floral offerings of the visitors, but still leaving plenty of room for the walking wounded to congregate around their perimeters for their meals.
At the time of my sojourn, their still survived the quaint tradition of the ad hoc, early morning tea run. Before the advent of contract catering, with its dependence on cost effectiveness and portion control, the hospital would provide the makin’s and the means for an early risers’ tea trolley service, to be staffed by suitably mobile volunteer patients. As I sat in my hospital bed to pen this episode (final score- two tin hips, two tin shoulders) I was aware of the contrast between today’s high speed hospital procedures, and yesteryear, when even illness was more laid back ( no criticism here-modern technology has increased the scope of healing, so multiplied the load) but a typical exchange over the locker might have been-
“Seen ‘im, Sid?”
“Aye. More tests. Else blood. Still no wiser, ‘im”.
The dialogue could develop along quite Pinteresque lines, but best not be too quick to smile because, occasionally, the man behind the words is dying, quietly, in his own time, his latent death, a well preserved souvenir of some exotic paradise such as Kenya, or Korea, or Cyprus, or Aden, or perhaps merely a retirement gift from the coal industry. So Sid’s residence is extended, thus qualifying him for the a.m. tea brigade, and when Sid’s moved on? Well, blow me, young Carl’s volunteered, and so on.
And that’s how I met Walter. He’s the one we’ve really come to see, remember? I’ll never forget Walter, not from my first sight of him, to his last goodbye to me, when I left.
A 70 odd yr old widower, he had contracted testicular cancer, and had made the supreme sacrifice- in duplicate. The consultant had chosen one of those Sunday afternoon, Matron’s state visits, to quietly confide to Walter, behind the privacy of closed bed-curtains, that his sacrifices had been in vain. More was required. The consultant then left, for a late round of golf, mayhap, and a nurse drew back the curtains. A few seconds later, the dozen or so visitors (none his) within earsight of this bemused looking, little old man, were asking themselves, inwardly; ‘Did he just say what I think he said?’ What I heard him say, clearly, from my bed opposite, was-
“He’s had me Barcelonas, now he wants me cherry”.
At less than four feet tall, of ample girth, with a full head of unruly, white curls, he lacked only the whiskers and pointy hat to model for garden gnomes. On the dawn tea trolley mission, he was Reuters, Lyons Corner House, and Toc H, all in one. At 6 a.m., he could tell you the news headlines, the weather forecast, Spiv’s Tips for the day’s racing, and the latest on the poor old gent in trap one. That’s the bed by the door- if they peg it during the night, it’s easier to get them out unbeknownst to the other brethren. Saves upsetting them.
Walter always wore the same dressing gown, a venerable garment, indeed. Originally, it had been much taller than its current occupier, who had contrived to wear and fray the hem and sleeves down to a more bespoke-looking size. The belt had ceased to figure, in the ensemble, years ago, so leaving the gown to fall completely open, and this is how we came to get the full ‘Walter’ effect.
Now the N.H.S. has never been found wanting, in the slightest particular, when it comes to bandages, dressings supports, appliances and the like, in fact some are triumphs of art, engineering and design. So imagine the sight of Walter’s nether regions (adequately and proprietarily clad, it must be said) festooned with what appeared to be clumps of gory rags, handfuls of bloody scraps, bloodstained cast-offs from a WW1 field dressing station, all displaying a collection of blood samples of every shade, hue and degree of maturity, from fresh scarlet, through crusty brown, to cheesy green. This sartorial state of affairs seemed to go completely undetected, much less addressed. Where ever, whenever, in presence of whoever, Walter appeared thus. I fear you must steel yourself for one further refinement.
Bear in mind that the strict regime of the hospital decreed that, from the entry of the first visitor to the departure of the last, only two modes of presentation were acceptable from the patients. The ambulant must be fully dressed, and sitting in a bedside chair; the incapacitated must be in bed, in pyjamas, and fully covered. So why does my mind recall the regular vision of a ward of full beds and clear, empty floor space, with visitors surging through the doors, to be faced by a bemused, beaming Walter, with full frontal gore effect in plain view, while he stands with the back of his gown hiked up, to facilitate his rear aspect being roasted at the Jumbo.