This is what I know of this story. I’m writing it down because I wasn’t there, but I’m the only one left to remember the stories my sister told me and what snippets I picked up listening to the grown-ups, usually while sitting on the stairs after I had been sent to bed. My father never talked about the war to me, because I suppose by the time I came along he was sick of talking about it. His brother, who was a Japanese PoW for 5 years on the Burma Railway, never talked about it either, too traumatised.
Both my parents’ families lived in West Gorton in Manchester, the typical terraced houses with outside toilets, tin baths in front of the fire, a posser to do the washing, Ena Sharples pinnies and a surfeit of TB infections. A lot less glamorous than Coronation Street would have you believe. My mother was one of nine children, most of whom worked in the cotton mills, so poor they often went to work with no shoes on their feet. Her father was a wrong ‘un by all accounts, a child abuser, and a waster. My father on the other hand was rather posh, in Gorton terms, because he was one of only two children and my grandfather owned the corner shop. Posh is relative obviously. My paternal grandmother had TB and spent a lot of time in Baguley Sanatorium, which according to dad, was a charabanc trip out in those days, being in the middle of nowhere, until the largest council estate in Europe, Wythenshawe, was built around it.
Both my parents left school early, but my father in particular would, I have no doubt, have gone on to great things had he been allowed to continue his education, and if the war had not intervened in everyone’s life. He had his own jazz bands before and after the war and must have been very young to do that. He could learn to play any instrument in about a week, keyboards, guitar, saxophone, accordion, drums, vibes, you name it he could play it, and play it very well. He actually built my first electric guitar. He was also a painter and animator, an award winning amateur filmmaker, an electrician and a scientist. As long as it wasn’t anything domestic, he was your man. Seriously, the house I grew up in had terrifying wiring for someone who ended up working in a High Voltage lab at the University of Manchester.
My parents were married in St Marks Church, Gorton on October 7th 1939, a little sooner than originally planned, I think, because my father signed up to join the army as soon as he could. St Marks was, of course, the origin of my beloved Manchester City, so it’s a puzzle as to why my father became a United supporter. I can only assume, knowing dad was an archetypal working class Tory, that the vicar turned out to be a socialist or something equally inflammatory. The best man was dad’s best friend Arthur. He lived in Longsight with his parents and younger sister Joan. After the wedding, mum went to work in a munitions factory, and dad went off to war with the Royal Corps of Signals. On their first wedding anniversary, he wrote a beautiful letter to Arthur reminding him of the day, including how he kept the change after paying for the marriage certificate.
After being evacuated from Dunkirk following a three-day trek, mostly without boots, 4 days later, my father was sent to North Africa with the Western Desert Force. The WDF merged with other Commonwealth forces to become the Eighth Army in September 1941, and they famously went on to defeat Rommel at Alamein.
In September 1940, Manchester came under heavy bombardment from German bombers. The infamous Christmas Blitz was followed by several other raids which went on until May 1941 and killed nearly 700 people. Though not the worst hit city in the country, Manchester was very badly damaged. In one of the later raids, Arthur, then age 22, and his 13 year old sister Joan were killed.
My father, being in the African desert, did not hear about this tragedy for a while, and when he did, he was understandably devastated. He desperately wanted to reach out to his friends’ parents but obviously had no access to condolence cards, and had no writing materials. He went to his officers and begged for a pen and paper. He then made a tribute book for his friends, and I think it is beautiful. What really surprises me is the emotion that jumps out, because I never saw my father as a particularly sensitive or emotional man. He never refilled the post of best friend.
worst and most devastating election campaign I’ve ever seen. Normally you have to choose a party to vote for that isn’t perfect, but one that most closely reflects your values and principles. This year, there isn’t one, not a single party that even comes close to representing me.
What about how much health tourism costs us I hear you cry. Glad you asked. It depends what you mean by “health tourism”. It comes in many different guises. There are many people from all over the world who come here to access our world renowned medical specialties. These patients are used as an extra income source by the NHS. According to Monitor, the organisation that oversees NHS Trusts, in 2013/14 Foundation Trusts earned £389 million of their income from private patients, compared to £224 million in 2009/10. A lot of that is from overseas patients who want to access the best healthcare in the world. The increase is due to the lifting of the cap on private patient income introduced with the execrable Health and Social Care Bill, courtesy of the Coalition. Now you could, with a good deal of sympathy from me, argue that NHS hospitals shouldn’t be using our staff and facilities for private patients while we have waiting lists, even if it does generate income, but what you can’t argue is that this issue is a result of our membership of the EU.
frozenwarning 