Eulogy for Father-in-Law

     Harold George Darwent Carter was born on Nov. 7th, 1916 in Brimington, Derbyshire. The oldest in a family of one girl and three boys, he was to out-live them all. His father, Harold Snr, was a railway worker, and an avid socialist. “You name the committee, my father was on it”, the son was often heard to say, in later life, the implication being that the father had time for anyone but his own family.
     Father and son never got on, and as the boy grew in stature and intellect, and as he came to formulate his own opinions and ambitions, the arguments often ended in blows.
     Young Harold was devoted to his mother and to his maternal grandmother- Grandma Darwent (and this is where we get the name, Darwent) and in return, he was the apple of the old lady’s eye. Even so, knowing he had to get away from his father, and to avoid an inevitable fate on the railway, he left home and became a barber, as they were simply known then, working in a barbers’ shop in nearby Sheffield, until the war came, whereupon he enlisted in the Coldstream Guards, for the duration.
     We don’t know what prompted this choice but it was a happy one, because he soon landed on his feet, merrily cutting hair in Purbright Camp. He loved the routine, the security, the drill, the food- everything about army life suited him. He was well settled. Until out on a pass one evening he met Queenie, and the world tilted. At the end of the evening, he daringly plucked a brooch from her coat, saying-
     “I’ll hang on to this to make sure you turn up next week”.
     “And what do I have to give you to make sure you turn up?” she asked.
     “Twenty Players”, he replied.
     Well- an inexpensive brooch and a packet of fags. Fates of kings have been settled for less. They were in love from that moment, and still are, I have no doubt.
     So they were married on June 30th 1941, and after a couple of years of shuffling and shifting accommodation, not having been able to secure married quarters, April 1943 found Queenie living with her mother and giving birth to their first child, Christine.
     Later in the following year, Harold transferred to the Guards Armoured Division, and spent the next six months filling note books on how to cure any ailment suffered by a Sherman tank, and even receiving some brief instruction on how to drive one, which was enough to get him his civilian driving license. In his later, driving years, whenever he had an altercation with other road users, the family always joked- ‘he learned to drive in a tank and he still drives one’.
     He shipped out to Bonn in 1945, just in time to take over a German barber’s shop in the Divisional college building, for the service of the Regiment, the day after the previous occupant vacated the premises. Perhaps the Guards feared his razor less than his tank driving.
     We know that he was becoming increasingly disenchanted with army life, simply because there seemed no hope of ever securing married quarters. The family was everything to him. His early life had taught him by omission, and he was determined that his family would be a solid, positive unit, living, working and loving together, and if the second love of his life, the Coldstream Guards, wouldn’t work to that end, then they must part.
     So in 1946, having served out the duration and more, he secured his discharge, and that same year found them in Starbeck. With a lot of belt tightening, a scary mortgage, and faith in themselves and in their God, they bought an existing, vacant barbers’ shop with living accommodation, and so began the saga of Harold George Darwent Carter, Gentlemen’s Hairdresser. The following March, albeit a little bit late, or much too early for Christmas, a sweet little fairy alighted on the Carter tree- Valerie was born, and the family was at full strength.
     Of course we must remember that although this is Harold’s story, it wasn’t all hairdressing. Queenie qualified as a surgical chiropodist, and for many years, worked by day in a shoe shop,
And during the evening, as a chiropodist, in a little cubicle, off the hairdressing salon. Harold loudly acknowledged the fact that, particularly in the early years, he could not have survived without Queenie’s help. But this was the family working together, being together. As soon as the girls’ fingers could cope, they got the job of putting the buttons back in his starched smocks fresh back from the laundry. To Harold, this was what a true family should be- all pulling together for the good of the family- and worshipping together, too. Harold was always an active member of the church. He served many years as a sidesman, many years as a bell-ringer, a long term member of the Men’s Society.
     The togetherness of the Carter family didn’t prevent Harold from enjoying his pint. Even when the girls were quite small, most Wednesday and Sunday evenings would find them, weather  permitting, walking through the Valley Gardens, or the Pinewoods, and always culminating in a pint of bitter, a glass of shandy, and two bottles of pop.
     When the girls grew up and left home, first Christine getting married, then Valerie going to college, just when you might expect Queenie and Harold to start slowing down a bit, they bought a motor scooter, a Lambretta, travelling the countryside, day trips and holidays, complete with a pannier full of black poodle. The furthest recorded strike was Devon, but the most favoured was the Ledbury area, in Worcestershire, which they loved. Harold had fond, childhood memories of his maternal grandparents being in gentlemen’s service in this area, a fact of which he was touchingly proud.
     Eventually the scooter was replaced by a motorcar, and they did become a bit more sedate. Harold even had an allotment for a few years. By now they had their usual circle of friends, their usual watering holes- Working Men’s and Conservative Clubs. Queenie and Harold were settled and content, God-fearing, happy and fulfilled, with two lovely daughters, and thanks to Christine,  two fine grandsons.
     And you will find it strange, but that is where I want to leave them. This is the Queenie and Harold I want you to keep in your hearts, today. The frail contents of this casket are simply a garment which Harold no longer needs.
     We don’t need to dwell on illness, sadness, loss and grief. Yes, these things come into our lives; we need no reminders of that. We need to remind ourselves that these things don’t last. The things that last are the times, experiences and love shared.
     The grandfather- great grandfather now- the father, the friend, the comrade, the barber, the neighbour- the Harold Carter you knew, and Queenie, because they were always inseparable, and never more so than today- let them stay with you in your hearts, and you need never lose them.