The white sweat-cloth around the neck had a use other than the one suggested by the name. The loose end of the cloth was regularly dipped in the pint pot of beer kept on hand, and then stuffed in the mouth, as a drip feed to combat dehydration.
A steelworker who didn’t like beer was like a weight lifter in a swimming pool And of course these men who worked hard, played hard, usually on licensed premises.
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| At the Devil’s Cauldron |
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| The Draft Board |
But Joseph’s blood brothers were his fishing pals, Taggy and Georgie Wade. There was an older man, considerably older, who palled up with the fishing crowd, just for company. He didn’t fish; he rarely went on the fishing trips, and when he did he was content to sit and watch the others, but he loved to spend evenings with them, in the pub, just listening to them yarning, and gently letting off steam. They were all obviously very fond of the old feller because, for a number of years after he died, a boozing session would often end with them climbing over the cemetery wall to give the old boy a drink- a bottle of beer poured on his grave, all in accordance with his last wishes. This went on until the war sucked them up, and spat them out all over Europe. When it was over, not enough of them came back to revive old habits, and things weren’t the same.
My strongest memory of Albert is of his rare visits to see his parents. Florrie was the archetypal, affable auntie. Albert would hardly speak. Jane would cook them both a ‘fry-up’ tea. It was invariably a Saturday visit, and Saturday tea was always another breakfast. There would be a real plateful for the prodigal son, who would sit down, rattle his cutlery about, poking the food around his plate, a little. Suddenly, he would drop his knife and fork, saying ‘I can’t eat this’. Then he would dig Florrie in the ribs, poor, long suffering Florrie, who was really enjoying her meal. The master would nod at the clock, and with a curt ‘Come on. They’re open. See yer again. Tarra’, he would be on his way, leaving Florrie to extricate herself from the meal, the table, her in-laws’ embarrassed disappointment at their own son’s behaviour. She would then trail after her lord and master to the nearest pub where Albert was on first name terms with the landlord. We wouldn’t see him for another six months. If you were to put Albert down anywhere in the north of England, I swear he would not only know the name and brewery of the pub round the next corner, but he would be acquainted with the landlord, as well.
When we were told that he was dying of cancer, in hospital, and that we were all going to visit him, I decided to do him one last favour, not that he deserved it. I refused to go. When I got flak, I asked if he knew he was dying. Oh, no! He hasn’t a clue. Florrie thought it best not to tell him. He’d only whittle.
“Right”, I said “If I go to see him, I might as well carry a big placard saying ‘You’re Dying’ because he knows I wouldn’t be there, otherwise” So I didn’t go, but it wasn’t appreciated by the family. They thought I should have gone and gawped at a dying man, while I had the chance to pay my respects. I couldn’t see where the respect would be in that.
*
My first memory of Joseph is of his coming home after demob. I was told ‘your Uncle Joe will be here in a minute. Go and look for him at the bottom of the passage’, and I did. After a while, this soldier approached. He seemed to be 12ft tall, with boots the size of coal buckets, and the kit bag on his shoulder was so far from the ground, I expected to see clouds round it. He marched right up to me, then stopped, obviously knowing who I was. I stood my ground, mutely looking up. Then he gave that sharp little nod, with neither sound nor smile, just that idiosyncratic greeting peculiar to him all his life.
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| Home is the Hero |
Eventually, after a spell in hospital, he was released too soon, with no transport. He probably refused it; home wasn’t far. So he was discharged, after dark, to walk home in the snow. He did arrive home safely, but too weak, too frail, too worn out. He barely lasted a week.
Joseph’s death, the circumstances, the manner, the cause, the root cause, all fuel one of the great rages in me. He deserved more- more time, more care, more consideration. He didn’t get it. He risked his life for his country, not just in a moment, but constantly, over a period of years, then his country neglected him, because he no longer mattered. He wasn’t needed anymore. Just another case of ‘Tommy this, and Tommy that, and Tommy get out of the way’, but its ‘Thank you Mr Atkins’,
when the bands begin to play. I always think that Kipling should have said ‘when the guns begin to play’ Never mind. He did alright for himself without my help. Joseph would have said ‘He should have stuck to the cakes’.
I do have one other memory of Joseph. Its not the last, but its one I prefer to leave him with, for the moment. In his carefree single days between demob and marriage, on at least two Christmases (in fact that’s probably how many there were- just two) after a very convivial evening around the pubs, he rolled into the yard, very quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, then stood under the gas lamp which hung over the passageway, by our door, to sing in his light tenor voice, in the wee small hours, the carol ‘Silent Night’ in his fluent, British Tommy’s strangulated German- ‘Shteeeeeler Nachkt, Heeeeiliger Nachkt….’
A few window sashes were quietly raised, like quizzical eyebrows, but how can you castigate a bloke for singing Silent Night on Christmas Eve, even if it is turned two in the morning? And he had a good voice, by all accounts.