Part 3
Until I was ten I never knew my father, except for fleeting glimpses on his occasional visits home, which I was too young to remember. For me he was a mysterious person who lived in far-away places with exciting names such as Arizona and Mexico. I remember being told with appropriate solemnity that he was in San Francisco at the time of the disastrous earthquake in 1906, and this for me, placed him in a somewhat superior, almost unreal, class by himself. This indeed was true fame!
One day mother broke what to us children was the strange news that father had joined the Salvation Army, and my first reaction was to ask if he would have to go to war! Mother explained that it wasn’t that kind of army, and I was left wondering what other kind of army there could be. How my mother managed to bring up a large family, acting in the difficult dual capacity of both father and mother to four boys, a girl of two and a baby in arms, dependent on a more or less regular remittance from the other side of the world, I was too young to realise. But she did, and her control of her family was firm, kindly and wise. We were taught to fear God, honour the king, respect our elders, be honest, never use bad language, and to call the doctor sir.
One side of Heeley Road consisted of a seemingly endless row of terraced houses, all joined in monotonous uniformity, broken occasionally by separating passages called ‘entries’, each providing a back entrance. On the other side of the road ran the railway, running to Bournville, beyond which was unknown territory to me. And this to me was my little world; the stereotyped little houses with their depressing uniform consistency, and the railway, the mysteries of which were concealed from me behind a high board fence. The trains I could hear but couldn’t see restricted me to listening to the pompous chuff-chuff-chuffing of the steam engines, followed by the clack-clack-clacking of the wagon buffers as they vociferated one after another until every wagon had endorsed the fact that the train was stopping. When the engine restarted I would count the chuffs before they burst into what sounded to me like ‘there-I’ve-done-it, there-I’ve-done-it, there-I’ve-done-it, now-we’re-off, now-we’re off’ and then I would listen with excited anticipation as the engine wheels made their final spin round at terrific speed before gripping the rails, as if celebrating achievement.
At Bournville I had an aunt and uncle with a lovely family of six girls. Occasionally I walked there to visit them, on the way contrasting the lovely landscaped garden estate with the drab monotony in bricks and mortar where we lived. My visits to Bournville were always a great treat to me, not only because of the superior neighbourhood, but because my aunt made lovely fruit cake and my uncle grew beautiful roses. He also played the bass violin in the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. I always returned home with a bunch of roses for my mother. My six cousins were all beautiful girls who made a great fuss of me, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
My uncle never wasted effort on needless words, but what he did say was always pleasant and usually said with a smile. I loved his dialect, and when I would find him in the garden with his roses, he would look up, smile and say “Tha ‘ast come to see thee cousins, ah reckon”. Then with a sly smile, “Bist thee want some of ‘er cake?”.
