My Mother’s War

As we’ve now got over the sadness of ANZAC Day I think I should talk about my mother’s experiences in the war, which were not quite so horrendous.

On 2nd September 1939, my mother returned to her family in Sheffield from a holiday she’d been taking on the Isle of Man.  She was nearly 19 and an only child.  My grandfather, who’d fought in the 1st World War, was very worried that war was imminent and wanted her at home, I think. 

On Sunday morning, 3rd September, she set off to the RAF office to see if there were any civilian admin. jobs available – she’d trained as a secretary.   They persuaded her to enlist and immediately sent her off for a medical.  She stripped and the MO was just about to do his examination when the entire place came to a stand-still to listen to Chamberlain’s address on the radio.  He declared that as Germany had failed to meet the ultimatum given to them, Britain had been at war with Germany since 11.00am. 

In all the commotion in the offices, her medical was skipped and she signed on the bottom line.  If she’d had a medical, she wouldn’t have got in.  She’s only just over 4′11″, well below their minimum height requirement, and subsequently had to have her uniforms made for her.  They didn’t even have shoes and gloves small enough. 

This also may mean that she was the first person in Britain to join up during the war.  We’ll never know that.  I do know that if she hadn’t enlisted, it’s highly unlikely she would have met my father.

She was in Sheffield during all the bombing and I know that’s had a life-long effect on her.  But she met my father, who came from London and was training there for a while, and decided to wangle herself a posting to India when he went out there.  She worked for Louis Mountbatten in Delhi and was then posted to Sri Lanka (then Ceylon, of course) where she spent the rest of the war, except for a short break to India to marry my father in St Mark’s Cathedral in Bangalore.  My father had more leave than my mother had, so he had a longer honeymoon!   In November 1945, they travelled back together by boat to England – we still have the correspondence between Commanding Officers giving them permission to do so.  I’ve been to St Mark’s and seen the registry entry, which was thrilling. 

My mother’s now nearly 88 and she also only talks really about the good times – except for a few stories she’s told us lately about the Sheffield Blitz.  She’s very specifically asked us NOT to put the Union flag on her coffin as she feels she doesn’t really deserve it.  Her time in Sri Lanka wasn’t arduous – plenty of fresh food, no fighting etc – and she feels that her family in England suffered far more than she did. 

 

 

“As Those That Are Left Grow Old”

Today is ANZAC Day here – when we commemorate the lives of all Australian and New Zealand forces who died in our service.  And the words that are used here, as in England, always send a shiver down my spine. 

“They shall not grow old, as those that are left grow old”.

My father was one of those who was able to grow old and I know he appreciated how lucky he was (because it was luck) that he was able to have a family – children/grandchildren/great-grandchildren – when so many of his friends died as very young men.

My father was born in 1921 and joined the Army in I think 1937 (and added two years to his age to help him get in!).  He ended up with thousands of others being bombed on a beach in Dunkirk , waiting for the boats to take them all back to England.  

Then he volunteered for the first group of Commandos to be trained on an island off Scotland, and was then sent to Syria (where he was taken prisoner for a while with a lot of Australians – but that’s another story).

Then again he volunteered to go to Hong Kong, to swim at night (he was a champion swimmer) over to mainland China (I think to recruit mercenaries).

And then off he went to India, where he joined the Chin Hill Battalion, Burma Regiment, got his commission, and spent the rest of the war in Burma and India. 

At the end of the war, he was 24 years old.  And they say young people nowadays have to grow up so quickly.  He stayed in the Army for another 6 or 7 years. 

ANZAC Day moves me more than similar ceremonies in England because so much of the English ones concentrate on the war against Germany.  Those men (and of course, women: my mother was an RAF Sergeant in Sri Lanka) who were in the Far East fighting the war against Japan called themselves The Forgotten Army.  But so many ANZACS were fighting in those areas that it’s probably the main focus of attention of the survivors in Australia.

Last year, I was looking at the Burma Star Association’s website, where children and grandchildren of Burma Star holders were looking for information about their relatives.  And I think they ALL said the same thing – “He never talked about it”.  Well, my father never talked about it either, except to tell us any funny stories (I suppose you have to get your humour where you can find it in those situations!).  He carried all the dreadful parts to his grave, 7 years ago.   My mother wore his dress medals and we put the Union flag on his coffin.

Would it be really schmaltzy of me to finish by saying:  “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we shall remember him”?

This is, after all, the wonderful man I’ve told you about before who kept for all those years the scarf I knitted for him when I was 5, all wrapped up in tissue paper in his sock drawer. 

 

 

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Thank You, Mr Postman!

The winners of my Blogiversary Competition have received their prizes and seem really pleased.  It’s not easy buying gifts for people you only know through their blogs, although I have briefly met Lynne.  But I think I got it about right.

Lynne was sent 50g of Mollydale pure silk (bright pink!), as she mentioned on her blog that she’d never knitted with silk, a Terry’s Dark Chocolate Orange (because it’s English, I love them and I presume everyone else does as well!), and a Pompom maker ( just because it seemed appropriate).  All in one of those fancy gift boxes you can buy, but this one had a handle so will make a good receptacle for something or other.  Unfortunately Lynne won’t be knitting for a while as she has shoulder problems but I hope she enjoys the silk when she can eventually use it.

I sent Petunia in the USA a ball of Rubi & Lana 2ply pure wool (because that’s our knitting group, and also she listens to Sticks & String and had heard of the shop from David Reidy), a 50g ball of Kaalund Classic 2 pure wool (because it’s Australian and lovely), a bar of chocolate with raisins soaked in Australian wine (sounded good but I’ve never tried it), and some koala and kangaroo pencils, together with a couple of iron-on Australian flag badges for her 2 year old grandsons who live with her.  Again, all in a fancy gift box.  Petunia has pictures up on her blog but I think she must have eaten the chocolate before she got the camera out!

And they each received one of those wonderful cards that Jejune makes. 

I couldn’t forget my sister, Judith, as she puts loads of comments here but I specifically excluded her from the competition.  So I sent her some Bendigo wool as a “Thank You” and to stop her constant moaning about being discriminated against.

I’m glad everyone seems happy with my choices.  Watch this space this time next year!

 

Summit or Nowt **

**  A title only comprehensible to someone from Yorkshire (or, at least, the North of England).

Well, the 2020 Summit has finished and the papers are tearing it apart today.  1000 people were invited to Canberra (incidentally, at their own expense) to gather some “big ideas” for this country to take us through to the year 2020.  Not the “short-termism” that typically afflicts most Governments, and the Australian one particularly so, as they have only a 3 year term.

Each group of 100 had to come up with at least one Big Idea, and one idea that would cost little or nothing.  I was particularly interested in those -  is it because I’m mean, or because I’m an accountant, or just because we all say “Why doesn’t the Government do such and such”?  Well, I do anyway.

Tim Costello, who’s head of World Vision and seems a thoroughly decent bloke, said that his group (Environment) came up with so many no-cost or low-cost ideas “we could get rid of the Treasury”.   I’m sure I’m not alone in wishing that he’d been consulted many moons ago and then maybe we wouldn’t have had to suffer his incredibly ghastly brother, Peter, who was Treasurer for 11 years before the Howard Government was kicked out in November.  I’ve often wandered what sort of talk takes place over the Christmas dinner when the Costello family gathers together.

I haven’t worked my way through most of the suggestions so far but some of the low/no cost ones seem eminently sensible to me.  Allow people to pay off their HECS debts (the money they have to contribute to their university education) through voluntary work (at present it’s deducted from their salaries, as a tax).  Ensure that every child leaves school with a First Aid certificate.  A simple St John Ambulance course in basic life-saving skills would probably take about 2 afternoons out of a school year. 

And I hope some of the Big Ideas aren’t just going to be put back in their box and not brought out until the next Talk Fest.   

World Youth Day Update:  (Sorry, I’m not going to let this one go!).

Apparently, the body of Pier Giorgio Frassati is to be brought to Sydney for WYD.  He died in 1925.  I can’t bring a bar of chocolate into the country, or a wooden trinket from Bali, and I have to have my shoes disinfected by airport staff if I’ve so much as walked through a field overseas, but we can bring in the corpse of a man who’s been dead for over 80 years.   

**  Translation:   It means “something or nothing”. 

100 Posts

This is the 100th post I’ve made to this blog – not a great number for a year’s blogging but I’m not in a competition. I blog when I want to blog.

So I’m going to give you a real treat:   I’m not going to say anything!

Just give you a really lovely and funny video.

The Continuing Saga of World Youth Day

Why does the Road Traffic Authority feel it necessary to produce billboards all over this city giving us a countdown to World Youth Day?

Is it:

a)   So that we can all make arrangements to get out of town, or

b)   So that we can ensure our rosaries are polished in time for the festivities?

I particularly like the suggestion of a reader in the Sydney Morning Herald last week that someone should organise a world Atheists Day to be held at Vatican City.  But it was assumed that the Vatican wouldn’t be as generous in their funding of this shindig as the NSW and Federal Government have been with World Youth Day.

Friends and I were discussing whether the Chaser would do an APEC-style stunt while the fun was on in Sydney but it was agreed that they probably couldn’t do anything funnier than the real thing.  The latest announcement, incidentally, is that a few hundred Portaloos are to be brought into service to act as confessionals.  Priest and confessor sharing one Portaloo?  Or two Portaloos side by side with a hole drilled between them?  I await the release of further details on this one.

And, to revert to a post I made a couple of weeks ago, why does World Youth DAY last 6 days?

 

 

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Another Reunion

Following on from the story of meeting up with a very old friend after many years, I remembered that I have another story of contacting someone from my past.  In this case, my very dim and distant past.

I was born in a military hospital in the days when fathers didn’t have a great deal of involvement in the birthing process.  Popped in to see wife when she’d washed, changed her nightdress and combed her hair.  Got a quick glimpse of new baby.

The day after I was born, my father returned to renew my acquaintance but was adamant that the baby my mother was breastfeeding wasn’t the same one he’d been introduced to a day earlier.  And he was right.  The baby was a boy and the grandson of a Field-Marshall!  A swap was surreptitiously made, in fear of Court Martial probably, and off I went home with the correct set of parents.

As a child, I was told by my father (tongue firmly in cheek, I promise you) that he hadn’t had to have me – he could have had a nice little boy called Mark.

Fast forward many years to the Gulf War in 1991.  I was watching television footage of a BBC correspondent interviewing British officers in Saudi Arabia when I noticed that, according to the name displayed at the bottom of the screen, the man being interviewed was my “bosom pal”.  I can’t remember what he looked like as I was transfixed by the name.  But for some reason I decided to write to him and tell him the story (which I was sure he wouldn’t have heard before).  I received a lovely reply.  Yes, he was definitely the same man (born on same day in same hospital as me) and No, he had no idea that one of his first meals had been at my mother’s breast – he was quite sure his mother wasn’t aware of this either!

It doesn’t seem to have done him any harm.  He went on to become a very senior officer and diplomat, retiring about 3 years ago in the rank of Colonel. 

My father would have been proud of him!

    

Reuniting with Friends. . . Courtesy of Friends Reunited

I was reminded reading Lien’s blog today that I’ve never told you the lovely story of my experience with Friends Reunited. 

I went to loads of schools  -  my parents moved a lot  -  and picked up and lost friends on a yearly basis.  I can’t even remember the names of some of my ‘bestest’ friends from my school days, except for one – Suzanne.  We were at school together when I was 13 in 1963 (the same school attended by Justin Hayward that I talked about a few weeks ago), and we were inseparable.  Until my parents upped sticks again and that was the last I saw of her.

In 2001, I heard about Friends Reunited, an English website for tracking school friends.  So I joined with the specific hope of finding Sue.  But she wasn’t there.  About 6 months later, I got an email from her.  She’d just joined, found me and voila!

I was a bit nervous about meeting up with her the first time as I may not like her very much, or she may not like me.  But I loved her.  And she seemed to like me as a couple of years after I moved out to Oz, she came to stay and last year she re-married, so I went to the wedding in England. 

I’ve thought about her often this week because of my previous post about weddings.  Sue’s wedding was the last one I went to and it was wonderful.  Just how I think a wedding should be.  A service that obviously meant a lot to them, old friends and family, delightful hospitality, not a whiff of ostentation.  it was the best wedding I’ve been to for years but because Sue is so incredibly modest, I don’t think she believes me.  And she’ll probably be very embarrassed if she reads this! 

I’m so glad I found her and it was probably a risky thing to do as it could have worked out so differently.  Our lives had gone in completely different directions but she was still the same ‘bestest’ friend I had at school.  Funnily enough I received an email from her this morning so I’ll now go straight off and reply to it so we don’t lose touch for another 38 years.

 

Till Debt Us Do Part

In the course of reading a story today about a woman whose marriage lasted 3 months, I noticed it was mentioned in passing that the wedding cost $30,000. 

THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS!

And the people involved belonged to what Kevin Rudd and Julia Gillard are always referring to as “Australian Working Families”. 

The debt of course is lasting longer than the marriage.

When did a wedding change from becoming a fairly small family and close friends affair, with a drink, something to eat and a glass of champagne for the toast, held at a local hotel or at the bride’s parents’ house, to a Hollywood-style, no expense spared shindig?   And why is this new-style wedding called a “traditional wedding”?   I think it’s a tradition that goes all the way back to the 1980’s.

If you’ve ever read the great Victorian novels (that is the British Empire era, NOT the Australian state), the weddings were low-key affairs.  The “English Working Families” put on their best frocks, bought a barrel of beer if they could afford it, and gathered at the pub or in a house.  The wealthy bought new clothing, opened a bottle of sherry and a bottle or two of champagne.  Mr Darcy was fabulous wealthy according to Pride and Prejudice but Elizabeth Bennett had to make do with a quick trip over to the church, followed by a nibble and a champagne toast chez Mr and Mrs Bennett.

The problem I find attending these weddings is that we’re expected to play the role of “audience” at a theatrically-choreographed occasion instead of being treated as guests at a social function. 

And, cynic that I am, I wonder if any research has been done on the correlation (if any) between the length of marriage and the amount spent on the wedding.  All the couples involved in the most lavish weddings I’ve attended are now divorced. 

The wedding, I believe, became much more important than the marriage. 

My Coffee Lifestyle

Yes, I’m English. 

No, I don’t drink tea.

Some people find those two statements totally incompatible, particularly for some reason Americans, who think we all swill pints of tea daily (they must have met my mother).  But I don’t even like the smell of tea..

However, I LOVE coffee.  So when I first came to Sydney, I was pleased to see there’s a coffee festival held in The Rocks each year.  I don’t drink alcohol but have accompanied David on trips to the wine-producing areas of Australia so thought it was my turn.  We could taste all sorts of coffee  from all over the world.  Heaven for me.

There was also an amazing array of domestic coffee-making machines on show, most of which left me speechless.  They cost THOUSANDS!   For the family kitchen. 

If we’d had the money to buy one without taking out a second mortgage, we’d have had to do extensive work to increase the size of our kitchen in order to accommodate it.  $8000 for a good cup of coffee each morning.  It would be cheaper to hire a taxi to go to your favourite cafe every day to fetch you a cup.  We’ve managed to survive with a machine that cost about $70 and I bought that one a few years ago as a bit of a treat.  Hardly a necessity, but a nice luxury item if you like coffee as much as I do.

I was given a leaflet the other day for a training course I could attend for about $150 to learn to make a good cup of coffee in my home.  Use their machines or take my own (although some people would have to hire a commercial vehicle to transport one of these $8000 ones, I would imagine).   

You must all by now know my hatred of the word “lifestyle”.

I think this sums it up.