Cobbled Streets and Penny Sweets--Happy Times and Hardship in Post-War Britain

by Yvonne Young

  That night I stayed with Mam; she was now being given drugs by syringe driver. Bob was also present and it got to around 9pm. Throughout, he kept wringing his hands and saying, ‘Why is it taking so long?’

  To which I answered, ‘It isn’t time yet.’

  A nurse came into the room to ask us how we were, to which Bob replied, ‘How long is it likely to take?’

  She sensitively asked him to step out into the corridor, where she would answer any of his questions, and informed him that hearing is one of the last senses to go and she didn’t want Mam to hear their discussion. Marie Curie staff were the best: even when Mam was completely out of it on morphine, they would talk to her gently, telling her what they were going to do.

  ‘We’re just changing the bedding now, Doreen, we’ll have to move you around a little bit.’

  The call that she had died came from Bob at around three o’clock in the morning. I got out of bed so as not to wake everyone, went downstairs and screamed and cried into a pillow. I needed this time alone. Afterwards, when I went back into bed, I don’t know if I was dreaming, it felt like a half-asleep and half-awake state, but it felt like she held my hand. Everything around me felt safe and warm.

  I went over to break the news to Dad. He bowed his head in customary fashion – he knew there were rules in social situations, ways to behave, and in this case, to offer sympathy. Then he said in a concerned voice, ‘Oh, I can see that you are sad. I went to Whitley Bay today and had a chicken dinner for £3.95 with a pot of tea.’ His observation of these rules lasted about half a second, then he informed me that he had written a letter to St Dunstans, a housing and nursing care establishment catering for blind ex-servicemen and women.

  ‘But, Dad, you are not blind.’

  ‘I know, but I told them I’m ex-army and served for five-and-a-half years in Germany. I asked if I could come and live there because I’m sick of looking after myself.’

  He handed me the brochure, which showed a serviceman sitting in a deckchair. Dad had drawn a hanky on his head with a knot tied in four corners. He had taken to blacking out the teeth of celebrities featured in TV magazines and drawing black glasses on their faces too.

  * * *

  Bob confided that he couldn’t face clearing the bungalow of Mam’s personal effects so I volunteered to do this and he suggested it was done when he was out. She had very little in the way of clothing, mostly old, worn things, and she had sent most of her money to these ‘students’ of religion who had often came to stay with her – she fed them and always sent donations, mostly to America. There was a new navy jacket which I tried on, but after the first time of wearing it, I felt like I was wearing her, if that makes sense. She seemed to be ever-present, so I gave it away.

  Among her possessions I found two records: ‘Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree’ and ‘Please Release Me’ by Engelbert Humperdinck. There was an old purse with some money inside, so I left it where it was. Also, a silver locket, which I had bought her with my first week’s wages, so I took that and a broken set of glass beads. The photos of our family would mean nothing to Bob, so I took those too. We gave a Sowerby ornamental glass bowl to my uncle John, Ellen was given some dressing-table glassware (these items were made by her brother Willy when he was a glassblower at the factory), her wedding hat went to my brother David and anything we thought Bob wouldn’t want went to charity shops. He was grateful for our help, but commented that the one thing which upset him most was when he discovered the purse. Bugger, I hadn’t meant to upset him!

  Mam’s friends were very caring people, they always had a kind word to say. They spoke about the trips out they shared together and how even when she was in pain, she still called in to the church to help with changing the flowers and cleaning the hall.

  The funeral was arranged by David and me. We cashed her policies to pay and Bob used a policy they had paid for together for the wake, which was to be held at the church hall they had frequented. On the day of the funeral the family arranged to meet at Mam’s house. It was here that I discovered that the pastor who was to take the service was an ex-police inspector. This became evident from the style of his preaching – all hell, fire and brimstone. As our family were in the front row, and none of us were churchgoers, we distinctly felt that his comments were directed at us – how we needed to repent, go to church and suchlike. I couldn’t help but think of what he himself might need to repent: why had he become a church leader? Could it be that in his past he had a few things on his conscience? Meanwhile, in reply to everything he uttered, the congregation all chanted phrases in unison, such as ‘Yeah, lord’, ‘Praise be’ and ‘Mercy be’.

  Bob gave me the engagement ring he had bought her. I gave it to my sister-in-law, Alison – the locket and the broken beads were enough for me. I gave Mam’s first wedding ring when she was married to our dad to my brother David.

  At the graveside, Bob decided to hold an impromptu service, oblivious to the fact that the gravediggers were leaning on their shovels and the funeral directors were due at another family home. He also gave a long speech about how he was chosen to be with Mam and his religion would save him, and that we should all be happy that she was going to a far better place. This went on for some considerable time. Luckily for Bob, the funeral director decided not to charge him extra.

  Meanwhile, back at the church hall, two of Mam’s friends spoke after the pastor’s speech. It was an immense comfort to me to hear of her favourite places, the things she liked to do and their memories of good times together. Afterwards, the pastor approached me and was angling for a glowing report on his sermon. I said that I had enjoyed hearing Mam’s friends offering words of comfort and was about to move off when out of the corner of my eye, I spied Dad. Oh, no! He listened to everything that was said and then piped up, ‘They said some nice things about Doreen, but did you know that she threw an ashtray at me, which cut my head?’

  I shot Dad a look and told him that this was not the place to talk of such things. But that didn’t deter him and he added, ‘Well, I was married to her for twenty-nine years and he was only married to her for three-and-a-half!’

  Mam’s friends had worked very hard in preparing the food: it was a cold November day and they served everyone with hot chicken and baked potatoes, lots of rice and other tasty things. I made the mistake of not sitting within elbow distance of Dad. During the partaking of the meal, I overheard him slagging off Willy, Mam’s brother, who had died two years before from cancer. Dad was informing one of the guests that Willy had never done a decent day’s work in his life and that he used to call him ‘idle swine’, to which he began singing ‘idle swine’ to the tune of ‘Edelweiss’ from The Sound of Music. Fortunately, the person’s mobile went off, bringing an end to that conversation.

  Our family left the hall and went to my brother’s flat to wind down. It had been a day and a half. Gavin went home. After a couple of hours, we received a phone call from him: he had tried to open a stiff garage door and badly cut his face. So, it was off to the A&E department at Newcastle General Hospital. Gavin was in one cubicle, having stitches in his face, and his girlfriend was in the one next door, having fainted at the sight. Roll on tomorrow!

  At least something was in our favour: Dad was in his element at his new flat. The bus route was still pleasing him, the neighbours so far were OK – although he didn’t speak to any of them, which is how he liked it. After a while he did pass the time of day with an elderly Chinese man called Mr Wu, an extremely well-mannered, friendly person. He placed a wonderful orange lily plant in the hallway of the block of flats. Dad was also presented with a portable television set – Mr Wu explained that he had won it at his club (he already had one so he didn’t need it), to which Dad replied, ‘It hasn’t been pinched, has it?’

  Poor Mr Wu was mortified.

  A week on, Dad decided that he didn’t need the TV either. He offered to sell it to me for £20. One week later, he rang to say he shouldn’t have sold it. Here w
as I assuming he was going to give me the money back, but no, he thought that he could have got more for it, had he sold it privately.

  Dad went to Whitley Bay again and this time he used his compass while travelling – ‘It changes to North when I turn the corner.’ He shopped at Marks & Spencer and saved all of the sticky labels, which he stuck to the tiles in his kitchen, ‘In case I run out of Sellotape.’ He went to the Metrocentre, the huge shopping centre in Gateshead, and sometimes wasn’t back when we called. Because everything in his world appeared to be rosy, it was a great surprise to receive a call from the warden, Muriel at Dad’s home, informing us that he had suffered an attack. Apparently, the neighbour downstairs had made a complaint regarding Dad’s habit of singing loudly at 6.30am. Banging his toothbrush against the sink and just about taking the bottom out of his cup whenever he stirred his tea were among other strange habits. This neighbour also complained about his feeding of the birds. Muriel explained that this woman was highly-strung – unfortunate for her to live downstairs from my dad. The conversation I had with the warden was embarrassing because I felt that she would think I was heartless as I explained to her about the ‘Cry wolf’ scenarios. However, she soon experienced this for herself when Dad pulled the emergency cord to ask for his shoelaces to be tied.

  Muriel told me of the mad panic when he pulled the cord, shouting for the doctor. She contacted the doctor, but when he arrived, Dad kept him waiting for fifteen minutes. The doctor alerted Muriel because he could not gain access to the flat. A spare key was obtained from the office and when they rushed in, they discovered Dad quite happily drinking a cup of tea.

  ‘Mr Luscombe, why didn’t you answer the door?’ said Muriel.

  ‘Because I was eating my cornflakes,’ he announced calmly.

  His card was now well and truly marked.

  * * *

  After each subsequent customary hospital visiting routine we again settled him down, told him to stay put for a couple of days to recover, but no, he was off to Whitley Bay on the Metro the very next day. As we had always predicted, he cried wolf once too often. I was called from work to his flat, but on expecting much of the same, I was confronted by Dad being helped into a wheelchair. His vision on one side was impaired, he couldn’t walk and looked completely out of it. At the hospital a young doctor carefully removed his jumper to reveal one of his T-shirts bought from a charity shop. It displayed two Bulldogs shagging and read ‘Hot Dog Relish’.

  We were told that Dad had suffered a mini stroke. The medication he was on caused hallucinations, which to him ranged from coffins, bodies being dragged along the floor by nurses, the blood pressure machine spying on him and twelve glasses of water coming towards him. When a nurse came to give him his tablets, he said, ‘Oh, there are twelve of you, they’re all big! You’re big, aren’t you?’

  When the nurse left, he told us that a party of student doctors had surrounded his bed to ask questions.

  ‘They asked me who was the Prime Minister and I told them, Tony Clair.’

  We soon discovered that he lost his temper when we couldn’t get the drift of his conversation.

  ‘They gave me one of those yellow things.’

  Blank looks. ‘You know, man. Not round, oval, you put them in your tea.’

  ‘Lemon.’

  ‘That’s right, melon! No, it was a banana.’

  He continued to speak loudly about cringingly embarrassing subjects and to discuss everyone’s business in a very inappropriate manner.

  ‘That man over there’s an alcoholic and he’s a diabetic; I don’t know what the darkie’s in for. That bloke over there pees on the floor in the toilet. You can’t see the darkie when all of his visitors come because there are so many of them around the bed.’

  What he didn’t realise was that all of that family were there because that man was loved. His family fed him, offered him drinks, adjusted his pillow, combed his hair and only left when the nurses gave the signal.

  Nobody else wanted to be there with Dad – my brother had given up and my two sons came just occasionally (Paul would have visited more often, but he was living in Cambridge). One small consolation was to observe the patient in the next bed to Dad. When his son came in, he said loudly, ‘It’s murder in here, all the noisy sods!’

  His son cringed and nipped the bridge of his nose in pure embarrassment. So, I wasn’t the only one! The nurse informed me that Dad’s blood pressure was high and that he would not be discharged until it was back to normal. She added that he had been getting out of bed, going for brisk walks up and down the corridor and doing star jumps in the lounge against the advice of the staff. My husband David and I tried to convince him that he would not be going home unless he did as he was told. However, on our next visit, we were informed by the staff nurse that he had fallen and cut his head, which required stitches after one of his jumps went wrong. All we heard from him was that he was trying to keep fit. No amount of persuasion to relax was taken in and so he remained in hospital for longer than he would have liked.

  * * *

  I arrived at visiting time one day to find Dad highly agitated by a poor patient on his ward who was finding it extremely difficult to breathe and was obviously also in a great deal of pain.

  ‘I’m f*****g sick of him making all this noise!’

  ‘Dad, do not swear in here, where people are genuinely ill! If you did as you were asked by the nurses, you could go home – this poor man hasn’t a choice.’

  ‘He kept me awake all f***ing night!’

  ‘Dad, if you continue to be abusive, I’m going to walk out.’

  ‘Well, I’m f***ing sick of him!’

  I stood up and made my way towards the door. My husband David was unsure what to do – he looked from me to Dad, and eventually got up to go too, having explained to him why I had left. When I glanced back on my way out there was not one flicker of concern on his face. I informed the nurse that I would not be visiting again until Dad was discharged and asked her if she would tell him. I was beginning to feel very stressed by all of this – being called from work, having to visit and keeping his home as well as my own. None of this I would have objected to, had he taken good medical advice and been more sympathetic of others.

  * * *

  Once more we picked him up from hospital, stocked his fridge and made sure that the tablets were sorted into the week planner. He turned to me and said, ‘You LEFT me in the hospital!’

  I flew into a temper and asked him why he thought that was, but he had no recollection of his behaviour, so I launched into an attack, hopelessly attempting to make him understand.

  ‘OK, imagine you’re sitting on the bus with a nice little old lady from next door and I get on the bus and come out with, “I’m f***ing sick of my boss, she’s a f***ing s***faced b*****d!” How would you feel then, hmmn?’

  No reaction from him, but David’s mouth fell open and he was speechless. If we were ever thinking of inviting Dad to live with us, all thoughts were dispelled after my husband invited him to go on holiday with us that year. We booked a cottage on the Downalong in St Ives, Cornwall. There were three bedrooms so we also asked my brother David and his wife Alison.

  Dad bought himself a new watch with an expandable strap. He didn’t like the design, so he stretched it across the door handle to make it slacker.

  ‘Dad, you could leave that watch there until hell freezes over and it still won’t alter the size! That’s what expandable watches do. It will go straight back to its original size when you remove it from the door handle, man,’ I told him.

  But he ignored this and left it where it was.

  He also collected clocks and had fifteen altogether. One of them, his latest, was a digital speaking affair in the design of a crash helmet.

  ‘What’s it saying “Peema Pema” all the time?’

  I set it to alarm and it spoke in an American accent.

  ‘Dad, it’s saying 6pm.’

  He told me that when he was a kid, they w
ere too poor to afford a clock and each day, he was sent to the downstairs neighbour to ask the time – he hated doing it.

  ‘Bugger to hell! When are you lots going to get your own clock?’

  It was a ten-hour journey and I was beginning to be aware that all was not going to be well when Dad commented on the appearance of his fellow passengers.

  ‘Look at the kite [stomach] on him!’ – regarding a stout gentleman who passed his seat. He showed annoyance when anyone came to sit in the seat near him. Alison spent the rest of the journey with her coat over her head.

  David paid for the taxi to the cottage, we dumped our cases, then called to a local Spar to fill up the fridge. Inside the shop we split up to forage and returned to the checkout with our food. David and Alison took chicken, peppers, cream, peppercorns, rice, pasta, bottles of wine, toiletries, etc. David and I bought bacon, eggs, sausages, cakes, cheese, biscuits, milk, sugar, etc. Dad turned up with a packet each of Jaffa Cakes and Hobnobs.

  Back at the cottage, we chose our rooms. David and Alison had the queen-sized room, we moved into the king-sized and Dad settled into the twin bedroom at the back of the building. That evening, we took him out for a meal. Alison ordered lobster, David and I had steak and my brother David chose fish. Dad ordered a starter and proceeded to eat our vegetables!

  The next day, David and Alison confided that they had had a restless night – the bed was too small for the two of them. They asked Dad if he would swap his twin room. Grudgingly, he agreed. They were pleased with the move, but Dad complained the next day that he had got used to his own room and didn’t like their room. Alison agreed to move back that evening, but when they were out, Dad shifted all of their possessions out and his own back in. They were annoyed: why couldn’t he have waited until their return?

  That evening, we decided to go to a lovely restaurant called the Blue Fish. The food was delicious, but again, Dad ordered a starter and helped himself to our food. Two Frenchwomen were enjoying a meal nearby and Dad announced, ‘What a stink of garlic!’ He embarrassed my brother by returning what was left in his glass to the empty bottle of 7 Up, then placed the bottle in his pocket.