Memories of a hard working man who just did his best for his family, his bosses and himself.......

 

Twenty years ago this year (Nov 6th 2005) my Dad died. He had been unwell for a number of years with breathing and mobility problems and, I think, he was simply “worn out”. As each year passes I know (and my lovely wife, Pat, often reminds me of this!) I grow more like him both in appearance and outlook – the latter a thing I am pleased about; if I can be remembered as half the man my Dad was I’ll settle for that.

He had worked hard all his life. Never had a day out of work and always as a lorry driver. He was born in Tottenham, London but his family moved when he was a child to Cheshunt in Hertfordshire and from the day he left school at 14 he worked with his father and 3 brothers driving lorries from the market gardens and farms of Hertfordshire carrying fresh produce -vegetables, fruit, flowers etc. to Covent Garden Market in central London. This meant an early start – 3 am, six days a week – so that the fresh produce was in London by early morning. When war came he joined the RAF and drove heavy vehicles across Europe and then India (see picture below). It was while he was in the RAF that he met my Mother who was working in war time London as a nurse (Dad was brought to the hospital where she worked suffering from a broken wrist). They married in Uxbridge just before D Day in 1944 (see picture below) just before Dad went as part of the invading force into France. Then, after being demobbed in 1946 and when he returned from India at the end of the war he moved to Preston my mother's home town. She had moved back to Preston when she was pregnant with me and in April 1945, just as the war was ending I came along - Dad was still in India. When they set up home in Preston Dad worked as a lorry driver for a number of haulage companies in the area but settled in 1950 at English Electric – a big employer in the town - where he stayed for the rest of his working life. After he retired and Mum and Dad had moved out of Preston to the village of Garstang, about 10 miles north of Preston he worked part time driving a van for a local timber business and then for several years behind the counter at the local petrol station - he loved that job, chatting to all the locals and the old villagers who came in for their petrol etc.

In all those years I only remember him having time off work on two occasions; in the late 1950s when he fell from his lorry and sustained hip damage and mid1960s when he contracted shingles. Like many at the time he worked a five and half day week from 7 in the morning until 5 at night – and sometimes longer when the need arose. Each Thursday (if he was not on a long distance journey to Southampton or London and so away from home) he would bring home his unopened wage packet and give it to my mother. Every night before he went to bed he would wash and shave. We had no bathroom and no hot water so this was a practical step to save problems in the morning when everyone else was wanting to use the one sink and one tap in the house. And when he left the house at half past six each morning his green overalls would be clean and smart, his tie neatly knotted and his work boots shining. Each morning when he got to work the first job (if he was not away from home) was to hose down his lorry so that, too, started the day clean and bright. He took a pride in his job and his appearance.

The picture on the left shows my Dad standing with his work colleagues at the side of a lorry with part of a Canberra bomber fuselage on it is how I remember him going to work when I was a child. He stands next to the small man (Little George he was called!) at the left hand end of the front row. The lorry was his and he would drive it that day as part of the 1952 Preston Guild procession where the town's industry was celebrated. Each Sunday evening he would stand at the ironing board in our little kitchen and iron several pairs of clean green English Electric overalls – ready for the coming week. When I got to the age of about 10 it was my job each Saturday morning to take the family washing and my Dad's dirty overalls to the newly opened laundrette on Ribbleton Lane. We didn't have a washing machine or hot water so the coming of the laundrette was a godsend for families like ours. I hated having to do this- I dreaded my pals seeing me with the bags of washing - but looking back it was right and proper - and in the long run was one of the things that gave me a valuable perspective on the important things of life. Having ironed his overalls Dad would sit in his armchair, the little black and white TV on in the corner and as my Mother and I watched Sunday Night at the London Palladium, he would fill in his “log sheets” the daily record of his lorry trips - destinations, mileages, times etc - from the previous week ready to hand in to his boss on Monday morning. Even as a young child I would look at his lovely cursive handwriting and wonder if I would ever be able to write so neatly; now I look at the handwriting and use of English of so many today and shake my head - partly in sadness and partly in anger at the carelessness and lack of shame of so many today.

As an ex- teacher I wonder what has gone wrong? My dad left school at 14, had no academic qualifications, didn't know much about Shakespeare or algebra but he wrote beautifully and used written English correctly. I wonder what is wrong with people today who write gibberish on FB posts, completely lacking in correct use of English, full of poor spelling, lacking any rational argument and too often interspersed with foul expletives. In 4O years teaching I've never worked in a school where basic skills (including multiplication tables!) were not taught daily yet still today millions seem unable to grasp these basics. Don't tell me it's dyslexia or autism or ADHD or poor teaching or the fault of the school. In one or two cases it might be so, but for the overwhelming majority these are merely excuses because so many today can't be bothered to take care, take a pride in themselves, in their use of English and in how they present themselves to the world; they are not shamed by what should shame them.

Dad would never have claimed to be well learned or a gentleman but he was full of a quiet wisdom and a gentle man; I don’t think I ever heard him raise his voice or be aggressive in any manner. The pride he took in his appearance and in the way he did his job was something he retained to the end of his life. It gave him, an ordinary, unknown, uncelebrated lorry driver, a simple but precious personal, professional and honourable dignity. It was the measure of the man unlike today when "success" or "standing in the world" is equated by how much one can earn and what sort of a person you are counts for so little. In today's world millionaires like Elon Musk, Donald Trump, and Jeremy Clarkson are referred to as "alpha males" - and we are supposed to be impressed by that. Mmmmm! Sorry, in that context "alpha male" simply means boorish, crass, selfish, solipsistic and a host of other negative adjectives and adverbs; if we are talking "alpha males" we'll start with my Dad and thousands of others like him: hard working, honest, dignified, caring, responsible for their own actions and the common good of others.

Even in the final months and years of his life when he was very much confined to home and I would drive up to Lancashire each weekend to mow his lawns, do any little jobs, go shopping for him etc. he would always be prepared and ready – shaved, tie on, shoes shining. Partly, I think, this was because he had always done it but also, I believe, because he did it for me – it had a hidden message saying “I’m alright, Tony, you need not worry about me, look I can still take care of myself”. And it worked; I knew that the time to really worry about Dad was when he was not up and smartly turned out. Even on the morning that he died 20 years ago today it was so. He had not been well over the weekend and we drove to Lancashire early on Monday morning to see him and do a little shopping for him. Sadly, half way there, we received a phone call from his neighbour to say that he had found Dad dead sitting on his bed. When we arrived an hour later it was as Dad’s neighbour had told us: Dad was dressed, shaved and with his shoes on lying on his bed. He had obviously got up that morning to welcome us but having got washed, shaved and dressed had sat on his bed and simply passed away. When I looked down at him that morning I knew it was how how would have liked to go – smart, clean shaven, well prepared, ready for the day. Now, at 80 years of age I can understand that completely.

My Dad would, I know, be saddened, maybe angry, at today’s world where so many seem to take little pride in how they look, in how they do their job and in their everyday life. He would be distressed when he read in his paper about the behaviour of many and our modern society where so many consider themselves victims, the world against them, their mental health problems, life’s unfairness and the like. He would, as I increasingly do, have no truck with younger people who say they haven't got time or the money to do this or that when what they really mean is they prefer to make other (more selfish?) choices in how they live their life or spend their money. Dad wasn’t anything special – just a hard working man who did his best for his family, his bosses and perhaps for himself. But he was, above all, a role model, someone to look up to and, as I get a little closer to the age that my Dad was when he died, I increasingly find myself wanting to be remembered as someone like him.