Grandpa
“I look like an old man, don’t I?” asked the Communist as he trudged over to our house in the heat from his home at the bottom of the garden. True enough, he did, but then, as I cheerily pointed out, at eighty-two, he’s entitled.
Emily, of course, takes it for granted that grandparents live at the bottom of the garden. Mine didn’t: one set lived in Leeds, the others in Barrow-in-Furness. My mother’s father, the Barrow-in-Furness one, died when I was eighteen months old and it was him, Richard Bleasdale – always known as Dick - I’ve been thinking about particularly today, for some reason.
He met my grandmother, Charlotte – always known as Lottie - Parkinson when he was twenty-four and she was fifteen and they were together ever after. Nowadays I expect he would have been frowned upon as a near-paedophile: but the First World War sent him away to the trenches for several years, and by the time he returned she was old enough to marry.
He never spoke of his experiences in the Great War, apparently: but he was a machine-gunner at the time when a machine-gunner’s life expectancy was about fifteen minutes, so the horrors he must have witnessed in the trenches will have been many.
Years later, after my grandmother died, we found all the letters he sent to her during the war, and many years later I typed them all up.
Dramatic! Exciting! Chilling! - - they are none of those things, partly because the censor would never have allowed it, partly because I think he was trying to protect my later-to-be-grandmother from the grim truth, and partly because he was a gentle, polite man with a gentle, polite style of writing.
Last Monday night we went to the range, and were allowed to fire 15 rounds each out of a machine gun. They kick up a frightful din and seem deadly little weapons.
On Wednesday we went for a route march, full pack, but only about 8 miles. Rain fell heavily all the way, spoiling a pleasant walk.
This is about as exciting as it gets:
9th Novr: 1917
Had a longish day yesterday. Some of us were roused at 4.30 a.m. to take some material up the line. At night we were out till 11.0 p.m. Needless to say, I did not require any rocking to sleep.
On Wednesday night we were bringing some material from a distance. Fritz must have seen us on the move, as suddenly a shrapnel shell burst near us, which was quickly followed by two more. The sheeting we were carrying offered almost complete protection, and we escaped with 3 men slightly hurt.
Life is much of a sameness here, Saturday and Sunday being no different to the rest of the week, and I often forget what day of the week it is.
I don’t think anyone got killed in any of his letters throughout the war. My grandmother was not the kind to discuss emotions, and I don’t expect she ever asked him about it afterwards, sensing that he didn’t want to talk about it.
He lived a pleasant, ordered life on his return, working as a clerk in the Town Hall – where I expect his small, neat writing proved very useful – had two children, my mother Joan and her brother Richard - and became very deaf in his later years.
He once sent me a postcard with a cartoonish picture of a monkey on it, and I was delighted: I remember quite clearly its arrival. The astonishing thing is that he died when I was eighteen months old, and yet I remember three things about him with great clarity: the postcard: posing for a photograph with him: and his death.
I remember the journey to Barrow for the funeral, the grief and stress and tension of it all. My mother says that it was having to look after me that kept her going, for she was devoted to her father.
His body was – I think – in a coffin in the next room in the family house in Barrow. My mother suddenly disappeared while we were there and I asked where she was. It was explained to me that she had gone to see him. I remember not being able to understand why she would want to see him, since he was dead.
I was an early talker (yes, yes, I know, I know, make your joke here, those who know me) and maybe this helped to set the memories in my mind. I have never underestimated the understanding of small children, and I think this incident is why.
Perhaps his letters should be published one day, for they make fascinating reading in their very omissions. “Letters to Lottie” is what I have always called them, but “A Very Polite War” would be a good alternative. Polite, but not lacking in feeling.
Well, dearest little woman in the world, I’ll conclude by sending you all my love, many hugs, and heaps of kisses.
Ever your loving sweetheart,
Dick.
P.S. I’ll slip round to see you as soon as I return to Barrow.
Emily, of course, takes it for granted that grandparents live at the bottom of the garden. Mine didn’t: one set lived in Leeds, the others in Barrow-in-Furness. My mother’s father, the Barrow-in-Furness one, died when I was eighteen months old and it was him, Richard Bleasdale – always known as Dick - I’ve been thinking about particularly today, for some reason.
He met my grandmother, Charlotte – always known as Lottie - Parkinson when he was twenty-four and she was fifteen and they were together ever after. Nowadays I expect he would have been frowned upon as a near-paedophile: but the First World War sent him away to the trenches for several years, and by the time he returned she was old enough to marry.
He never spoke of his experiences in the Great War, apparently: but he was a machine-gunner at the time when a machine-gunner’s life expectancy was about fifteen minutes, so the horrors he must have witnessed in the trenches will have been many.
Years later, after my grandmother died, we found all the letters he sent to her during the war, and many years later I typed them all up.
Dramatic! Exciting! Chilling! - - they are none of those things, partly because the censor would never have allowed it, partly because I think he was trying to protect my later-to-be-grandmother from the grim truth, and partly because he was a gentle, polite man with a gentle, polite style of writing.
Last Monday night we went to the range, and were allowed to fire 15 rounds each out of a machine gun. They kick up a frightful din and seem deadly little weapons.
On Wednesday we went for a route march, full pack, but only about 8 miles. Rain fell heavily all the way, spoiling a pleasant walk.
This is about as exciting as it gets:
9th Novr: 1917
Had a longish day yesterday. Some of us were roused at 4.30 a.m. to take some material up the line. At night we were out till 11.0 p.m. Needless to say, I did not require any rocking to sleep.
On Wednesday night we were bringing some material from a distance. Fritz must have seen us on the move, as suddenly a shrapnel shell burst near us, which was quickly followed by two more. The sheeting we were carrying offered almost complete protection, and we escaped with 3 men slightly hurt.
Life is much of a sameness here, Saturday and Sunday being no different to the rest of the week, and I often forget what day of the week it is.
I don’t think anyone got killed in any of his letters throughout the war. My grandmother was not the kind to discuss emotions, and I don’t expect she ever asked him about it afterwards, sensing that he didn’t want to talk about it.
He lived a pleasant, ordered life on his return, working as a clerk in the Town Hall – where I expect his small, neat writing proved very useful – had two children, my mother Joan and her brother Richard - and became very deaf in his later years.
He once sent me a postcard with a cartoonish picture of a monkey on it, and I was delighted: I remember quite clearly its arrival. The astonishing thing is that he died when I was eighteen months old, and yet I remember three things about him with great clarity: the postcard: posing for a photograph with him: and his death.
I remember the journey to Barrow for the funeral, the grief and stress and tension of it all. My mother says that it was having to look after me that kept her going, for she was devoted to her father.
His body was – I think – in a coffin in the next room in the family house in Barrow. My mother suddenly disappeared while we were there and I asked where she was. It was explained to me that she had gone to see him. I remember not being able to understand why she would want to see him, since he was dead.
I was an early talker (yes, yes, I know, I know, make your joke here, those who know me) and maybe this helped to set the memories in my mind. I have never underestimated the understanding of small children, and I think this incident is why.
Perhaps his letters should be published one day, for they make fascinating reading in their very omissions. “Letters to Lottie” is what I have always called them, but “A Very Polite War” would be a good alternative. Polite, but not lacking in feeling.
Well, dearest little woman in the world, I’ll conclude by sending you all my love, many hugs, and heaps of kisses.
Ever your loving sweetheart,
Dick.
P.S. I’ll slip round to see you as soon as I return to Barrow.
posted by Daphne at 7:03 pm
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