| On the 10th of March 1946 my father died at the age of 64 in Winchester at St Paul's Hill Hospital after contracting flu. Well, that's what I thought. Anyway, on the Wednesday before, he had an appointment to see a specialist at Portsmouth Hospital. He always thought that the operation he'd had in 1936 could put things right. The cancer in his tongue had spread to his larynx and this, and other parts of his throat, had been removed at that time. This left him with the misery of not being able to eat properly, and all I ever saw him eat was bread and milk and porridge, and of course, not able to talk. That meant that as I was the only one left at home, my other two bothers being in the Navy, I would have to accompany him each time he went out so that I could translate for him, and that got me into lots of trouble on many occasions. For instance; seeing the doctors at Portsmouth Hospital. Having translated for them what he had said, only to get the usual answer back, which was Just who do you think you are talking to boy?. After all, to be fair, I was only 16, and small at that. But whatever they said to me I knew they would have to come back to me for a translation. In most cases this broke me up badly. After they had looked at him, they took me to one side to tell me that he was lucky that he had lived this long, and that there wasn t any possibility of improvement. What had been done in 1936 was all that could be done. I put off telling him what they had said as long as possible, until we were back in the train going back home, and alone. He was very upset and remained quiet for the rest of the journey home. At home he went straight to bed. I now realise it wasn t flu; it was shock.
Later that day Mr Lunt, his solicitor friend, came to see Dad and decided to get his doctor out to him. I didn t realise he was that ill. They both told me he would be better off in hospital and that they would arrange it. After they had left I did what I could for him, giving him warm milk mixed with a raw egg, and all the blankets I could find to keep him warm.
In the morning (Thursday) he looked a little better, and told me to go to work, and that he was much better and would be alright. I gave him some food and warm milk and asked again if it was still alright for me to go to work. He said yes, and so I did. In a way I was pleased to go, but I wasn t ever to see him again.
When I came home from work he had already been taken into Winchester Hospital. Mr Lunt came round to see me later that evening and told me he was comfortable. I went to work again on Friday and Saturday morning. On Sunday I made some sandwiches for my journey to cycle over to Winchester to see Dad. Then came a knock at the door, and a telegram telling me my old Dad had died that morning.
Being a Sunday morning, I felt I couldn t go to see Mr Lunt, who was organist of the local Congregational church where my Dad was caretaker, so I decided, instead to go and see the Registrar of Births and Deaths in King George s Ave, which was quite near to North Road, where we lived at No 7. He was very helpful and got onto the police, who got in touch with H.M.S. Leydean to signal to my brother Bill s ship H.M.S. Linnet, a minelayer in Scotland, to request that he be given leave to come home. He arrived that night.
All that day, until Bill arrived, I felt a little lost, and cried for a while. Perhaps I was sorry for myself, but I couldn t ever say this before until now, and that is, that I was glad that Dad was dead. Perhaps I was relieved for him, and perhaps for myself.
Now the journey I had been going to make on Sunday to Winchester had to be made on Monday to obtain my Dad s death certificate. We rode the 28 miles to Winchester hospital, only to arrive too late by half an hour. We went back to Petersfield empty handed and well knackered. On the Tuesday we tried the train instead, and were more successful.
Our other brother, Roy, was unable to attend the funeral, as at this time he was being detained at His Majesty s pleasure in Wakefield prison for GBH. After the funeral Bill rejoined his ship back in Scotland, and I must say I was quite pleased to see him go, as he was next door to being useless. All he seemed to want to do was to get drunk, or close to it. He couldn t make any decisions other than asking me if I should keep the home going until he came out of the Navy, whenever that might be, so when he got married he would have a home to bring his wife to. Maybe?
At the age of 16 I inherited a small rented terraced house, for which, of course, I received no money or help from my dear brothers. I was, at that time, working at Elsted near Midhurst, which was an 8 mile cycle ride away from Petersfield 6 days a week. I also had to look after 6 hens and 2 allotments.
Roy was released back into the Navy, much to my surprise, and he and Bill came home on leave to North Road. Then I started to find thins missing from the home. I soon realised that this was how they were getting their beer money, which went into the pubs and eventually into the home most of it was deposited on the floors! You can imagine I wasn t much amused, particularly when they didn t clean it up, or if they did, not properly.
On one occasion, Bill had bought a loaf of bread. Roy came in and started to cut himself a slice but Bill reminded him that he wasn t entitled to it. After all he hadn t paid anything towards it, or come to that, towards anything else. Roy did what he did best and went into a rage chasing Bill all over the house with the bread knife. I opened the back door, letting Bill pass through, shutting the door behind him and barring the door against Roy. He started to threaten me with the knife. Perhaps because I was shouting at him and standing up to him that he stopped. He turned around and left the house. As far as I can remember he never returned. I was told later that he had deserted from the Navy and was also wanted by the police. I wasn t to see Roy again until some 20 years later.
However, before Roy disappeared, he was good enough to empty my Post Office savings account for me, which I must say I didn t know I had. Dad must have been putting the money I earned into the Post Office Savings Bank for me. It wasn t why I gave it to him. I thought I was helping him. This must have been the money I had earned before I left school.
Submitted by Bert
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