Some Keepsakes and Consequences

     In 1953, out of the blue, Betty received John’s medals; the general service medals- War Medal and Defence Medal, and the campaign medals- Africa Star with 8th Army Bar, Italy Star, France and Germany Star. His personal effects had been returned much earlier. There were ‘his’ binoculars, which were army property, and a driver doesn’t use them. He sees out via a crude periscope, looking through a slit, which is above his eye level. Stray bullets often find their way through this slit, and shatter the top prism of his periscope, which is why he keeps a box of replacements, handy.  There was ‘his’ cigarette case, not the handsome leather one with the solid gold corners, which Betty had given him, but a shabby piece of junk which Betty had never seen before, plus a soiled handkerchief.
      Oh, and you remember the weepy bit at the end of the ‘Dambusters’ film, when Richard Todd declines the offer of a drink, because he has “some letters” to write? Well, you’ve seen the letters Betty got. One came when John was first posted missing, and the other, a month later, to confirm his death. The Colonel Marriette signature is, in fact, a rubber stamp. Personal touch, or what? I bet Richard Todd didn’t know.
     The King put in his two penn’orth as well, bless him. We received what described itself as a scroll. I understand a scroll to be an individual, hand-crafted item, inscribed and illuminated, by hand. This was mass-produced, machine printed; even the inset name was machine printed. It is what I would call a poster. It is roughly A3 size, the top half being taken up by the Royal Coat of Arms, in glorious colour. Then the text follows-

 This scroll commemorates

Trooper J R Smalley RTR

Held in honour as one who served

King and Country in the world war of

1939-1945

and gave his life to save mankind 

from tyranny.

May his sacrifice help to bring the 

Peace and Freedom

 For which he died.

     That’s it, except for the compliment-type slip which informed us that ‘This scroll is sent by command of the King’. It would have been more helpful if he had commanded another five bob on the war widows’ pension. Even two bob would have been only a penny short of my school dinners for the week. What did it cost to design, print and post the King’s precious poster? I’m sure it was a noble idea when it left the King’s lips, but by the time it had got through bureaucracy and accounts, it had become a bit of a joke, in questionable taste. As it was, what Betty received was the temptation to blow a week’s pension on having the damned thing framed, a temptation which I’m pleased to say she resisted.
     I have his medals, ‘his’ binoculars, which still have sand in them, though it’s more likely to be Blackpool, ’49, rather than Alamein,’42. I have some photos, the video with Gracie Fields, some memories- whether true or manufactured is impossible to determine, now. There were some things Betty insisted that I remembered, and I believed her to please her.
     And now the great rage, not for myself, although sometimes I could weep for the little boy who just happened to grow up to be me; a little boy who is just another of my long dead ancestors, just another little person I can observe through the holes in the pages of the photograph album, without them knowing that I’m looking. No, the rage is for Betty, for the way she was treated by society, by the system, the authorities, her family, even her parents.

My Inheritance

      When I was about 10, a bunch of kids were playing football, in the street. I was standing at the kerb, watching, but not involved, not interested. The ball went into Mr. Ukin’s garden. He shot out, raving, and refusing to give back the ball. He was almost incoherent as he issued a stream of vague aggression. He caught sight of me, standing at the back of the bunch. Now I had never had any altercation with him whatsoever. I had never given him the slightest cause to even remember my name, much less complain. On seeing me, he scuttled half way towards me, raising his fist, then stopped and yelled at me-
     “And thee! I shan’t fuck about wi’ thee, tha knows!”
     And in a flash, I did know. If he were to strike any of the others, any and every one of them was able to call on a father quite adequate to the job of tearing Ukin’s head off and stuffing it up his arse, and the nasty little runt was well aware of it, but with me, he knew he was safe. I wasn’t scared. I just felt sickened, and very angry.

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     On first enlisting, John had insured himself, naming his mother as beneficiary. He hadn’t thought to change it, when he got married, so when Betty tried to seek out the money (for me, of course, not for herself) she was told that the money had been given to Old Somerset’s first wife (Nora’s ex was long dead by this time) to set her up with a boarding house, in Blackpool!
     The final item on the Smalley clan is of Nora- my Grandma Smalley. She died a few weeks after being admitted to Sheffield’s mental hospital at Middlewood. While there, this formidable old woman, this harridan who had done so much hurt to those I loved, this selfish, greedy, conniving, devious old harpy had only two visitors- Betty and me.

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