Uncle John Makes The News

Uncle John Makes The News

It was Uncle John's first visit back to England in 40 years, and I thought the local press might be interested in hearing how he felt about what he was seeing in modern Britain.  I got in touch with Suzi, a dear friend and journalist I have known for some years, and she was very keen to meet and interview him for her paper.

We arranged a date, and she came along with Roy, a photographer - it was a beautifully warm day and Uncle John sat in the garden in his shirtsleeves for the photo.

Uncle John's "pic in the paper"

He was thrilled that someone would take such an interest in his life, and what he had been doing whilst he was in Australia; equally, my friend found him fascinating to talk to, and felt she had a really good human-interest story for the paper. This is part of the article she wrote about him, under a big "Welcome Back John" headline:

"I am absolutely staggered by the changing face and pace of this country. When I left Britain, you never saw both sides of the road used for parking; it seems every household has a least one car now."  He added, "I'm also amazed at how supermarkets have changed so much in the UK, compared to the 1960s. The choice and range of fruit, vegetables and other produce is phenomenal. I suppose when you are living here you take it for granted, but the supermarkets certainly aren't as vast in Australia. The aisles are so beautifully wide - they certainly weren't like that when I left England."

Uncle John also talked about the weather, saying he was very appreciative of Britain's ever-changing weather. He said, "Sunshine all the time actually gets a bit boring, month after month."

In Brisbane, Uncle John admitted that he rarely goes out until after 4.00 p.m. - it is simply too hot, but everyone has air conditioning. He also said he was enjoying being able to take a shower for more than just a few minutes: "In Australia, no-one is allowed to take a shower for more than four minutes, because of water shortages."

One of the most striking differences, apart from the pace of life, was the layout of the two countries. "In England, most of the land is occupied, and there aren't really any no-go areas. In Australia, most of the towns and cities are dotted along the coastline; there are very few in the middle of the country, it's simply too hot being that far away from the sea."

During the month that Uncle John stayed with us, my point was proved time and time again; yes, England isn't as warm (or as very hot!) as Brisbane, but with modern central heating systems, it is easy to keep nice and warm here, even if the weather outside isn't!

Another positive aspect that impressed Uncle John, was the friendliness of all our neighbours.

I think because Australia is a young country (in more than one sense), the culture is more in favour of arranging to meet up with people for a "Barbie on the Beach," rather than throwing a party in your home. I suppose because houses in England are generally built rather more closely together than they are in Australia, and we live in closer proximity to "the folk next door," we have a chance to get to know them more easily. It is certainly true in our area, and Uncle John loved meeting everyone and enjoying their company; some of our neighbours are as well-travelled as he is, and they had many interesting experiences to share with him.

Uncle John's first trip home in 40 years was proving to be a great success.

Uncle John Settles In

Uncle John Settles In

It's surprising how quickly you can get used to having someone staying with you; Uncle John proved to be a very easy-going guest, and just as I remembered him to be in East Africa. Within a few days, we had settled into a really nice routine. It was a bonus that he really liked my cooking.

Right at the start, he said, "I will eat pretty much anything, but I'm not very keen on spaghetti. I will eat it if I have to, but I don't like it much."

I assured him he wouldn't get spaghetti from me; and for the whole month he was with us, he ate everything I put in front of him. Having some good home cooking meant he filled out, and looked 10 years younger.

Happily, he was also completely unfazed by being on what we (still) laughingly call "Alex Time."

I've worked on stage for so many years, and the cardinal sin of the theatre is to be late for a show, so I am always punctual for performances and appointments, but some things - like deciding when to go shopping - can be called "flexible," and end up on "Alex Time."

Being on "Alex Time" often means I have been distracted by something - maybe writing a piece to deadline, that perhaps I had truly believed would only take me 10 minutes to do, but by becoming so engrossed, meant thirty minutes passed by in what felt were only as many seconds!

I know "Alex Time" is a very annoying habit. It starts off with me saying something along the lines of, "O.k., I'll just get the vegetables prepared for dinner, and then we'll go shopping. We'll go in half an hour."  (Uncle John loved coming shopping with me; he would push the trolley round Tesco, racing up and down the aisles like a rocket, and generally being a marvellous help in getting everything done).

Whilst he waited for me, he would read the paper until the half hour was up, and then start wondering: where is Alex?

In the meantime, until the moment I had finished was I was doing, I had probably become blissfully oblivious of the time. I would then realise I was adrift by over an hour and tear back downstairs, feeling awful for keeping Uncle John waiting. In contrast, he was completely sanguine about it. He kept saying it was just so nice to be with us, and be part of the family, and he was happy to sit in the lounge or the garden and read, or fuss the cats.

He loves cats, but wasn't allowed a pet in the unit where he lived, so it was a treat to have an affectionate cat or two around the place. That was one really good subject that both he and Mum agreed on.

There were lots of other issues on which they clashed. When they got talking, and started to reminisce about the past, there were many things about which Mum was at loggerheads with Uncle John. It was a relief when he steered conversation back to the cats.

Uncle John Comes For A Holiday

Uncle John Comes For A Holiday

Mum's brother - my Uncle John - left England in 1969 with his wife Marguerite and son Johnny, to start a new life in Australia.

Bearing in mind that central heating in the 1960s wasn't as efficient as it is today, and that before they returned to England in 1961, Uncle John and his family had spent many years in East Africa, life in the UK must have felt pretty chilly.

My grandma, Alice Woods, and Uncle John
Dar-es-Salaam, 1950

The thought of going back to somewhere straddling the Tropic of Capricorn was probably an attractive proposition, and so in December 1969, they set sail from England, and landed in Australia in January, 1970.

In all the time they had lived in Australia, neither Uncle John, his wife Marguerite, nor their son Johnny, had ever made a return trip to see family in the UK, and it was clear they never would make the journey back home; so in 2001, we all went out on a holiday in Queensland - including Mum, who was nearly 82 at the time, and she thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was the first (and probably the only) time Mum visited Australia, but she can still remember aspects of the trip, that made a really good impression on her, like the day we went up to Kuranda by cable car, and down again by train!

In 2009, Mum was still fairly mobile - she had pain with her hip, and then with her knee, but she was still getting around, still using the low stool, (instead of a Zimmer frame), to help her. However, it was already 8 years since our holiday in Brisbane, and Mum was now nearly 90.

Apart from that one occasion, when a GP on a house call had chanced to see Mum getting out of the car and stomping off down the road, and had asked me, "How long has your mother been suffering from dementia?" nothing had ever been mentioned about any form of mental problem. However, Mum was beginning to display mood swings and unreasonable behaviour and arguments; if you were having a discussion, you couldn't disagree with something she said, without incurring her wrath.

On our weekly calls to Uncle John, and without going into too many details on the phone, I tried to give him some indication of Mum's health. We were very aware of time ticking on. Also, by then Uncle John had been widowed for 6 years; every time we spoke, we always said how much we would love to see him again, and how welcome he would be, if he ever decided to come back "home" for a holiday.

Something we said must have clicked for Uncle John, because he began to talk about how he "wouldn't mind" coming back to England again, to see how things had changed. We kept explaining, we had plenty of room for him to stay with us for as long as he liked; he would always be welcome, and we would love to have him with us.

At last, he made up his mind to make the long journey; we had many conversations on the phone, and he said, he would come in the summer.  I hoped he would stay for the whole of the summer season, but he said, "I'll come for a month - if that will be o.k?"

That was very o.k.  I understood he was a bit worried that perhaps our enthusiasm to have him visit might wane if he outstayed his welcome; but what Uncle John didn't remember, was that I remembered how good and kind he had been to Mum and me when we lived in East Africa, and what a terrific father figure he had always been for me. I was sure he hadn't changed over the years, and I was really looking forward to having him stay with us.

First, we had to sort the problem of Uncle John's passport having expired. It was quicker for me to obtain a copy of his birth certificate, and send it out to him, so that he could apply for a new passport; once he had that safely, the time flew and, before we knew it, Uncle John was in the air and on his way.

We drove to Heathrow to meet him, and I remember it seemed an interminable wait for him to emerge at the arrivals gate. I got quite concerned, and checked with the airline that his name was actually on the passenger list!

He must have been one of the last passengers off the plane but at last he came into view, pushing a trolley with his luggage on it; the eagle had landed!

He looked very spry, and as we all had a great hug, the years fell away; I was just so happy to see him. Back in the car, on the way home we talked non-stop. It was going to be a good month.

Mum's Second Foray into Print - A Liverpool Lass (Published in This England magazine).

A Liverpool Lass

This is Mum's second published article, which appeared in This England in 2008.

A LIVERPOOL LASS

by

PHYLLIS WHITWELL

When I was born in 1919, I already had an older brother, Austin, who was born in 1917. I was born on 28 October, which was my parents’ 3rd Wedding Anniversary - my dad always said I was a good anniversary present! and my younger brother, John, came along 3 and a half years later.

My brother John and I were very close and sometimes the two of us went to visit our mother’s father, whom we called (very formally!) “Grandad Thompson.” My mother’s family was quite well off;  her father was an engineer, and he rose to become Superintendent of distribution and supplies in the Water Department for Liverpool Corporation.  At the end of his career, he was responsible for the water supply for the whole of the city.   

Grandfather Wilson Silver Thompson

He had a large house in Mossley Hill in Liverpool; on one memorable occasion, when I was about eight years old, John and I went to visit him, and he gave us 2d - not tuppence each, but to share between us. 

I said to John, "Isn't it wonderful! We can buy some chocolate!" I still love chocolate to this day, and 2d in those days bought enough chocolate for the two of us. 

My younger brother was a dreadful worry to my mother, because food never bothered him.  Sometimes it seemed he could live on fresh air! After seeing his impatience to be off somewhere more exciting, having hardly touched his dinner, my mother would try using bribery as a last resort: “John, will you eat it for tuppence?”  Of course, John would say, “No!” My mum would try again. “Will you eat it for fourpence?”  “No,” said John, “but I’ll eat it for sixpence!” Of course, he knew it was all a game and soon he was off on some adventure.

He loved to go rowing on Sefton Park Lake, and I would go with him - because he was younger than I was, I think I was meant to look after him and make sure he did things properly! However, he was good at sports and we would often go out in a boat on the lake for hours.  One day, he made a mis-stroke with the oars, and one of the blades came up out of the water and hit me under the chin!   My mother had a lot to say about the bruise I went home with, but was a pure accident and he was soon forgiven.

John was also a great skater; one of my best memories of him as a lad is of him coming home, his skates tied at the laces and hanging round his neck, and whistling as he came up the road.

On one occasion, he was meant to go to Grandfather Thompson’s house in Mossley Hill and, as usual, John had become engrossed in what he was doing, and arrived back home over 2 hours late!  Our Grandfather was extremely cross, having imagined all sorts of terrible things that could have befallen him in the meantime. Although we had a lot more freedom in those days than most children have today, our parents and grandparents still worried about us.

My elder brother, Austin, was a very gifted musician.  He had started to play the violin when he was only four years old, and it was obvious he would go far.  He began learning with a quarter-sized violin, and then, as he got bigger, my dad got him a larger, half-sized instrument, and eventually he graduated to a full-sized violin.  I remember Austin tucking the violin under his chin, and practicing the “shake” which made the notes resonate and vibrate as he played them, sweeping up and down the strings with the bow. 

Austin practiced all the hours he could, sometimes 7 or 8 hours a day.  He was very determined, and it pleased my mother a great deal, as she had dreams of him becoming a concert violinist.  He certainly had all the promise of being able to achieve his ambition, but sadly fate had other ideas.  

When he was only 20, he fell ill whilst he was away from home in London; he developed pneumonia, and died.  There were not the effective medicines then, that are available today and it was a terrible time; somehow my younger brother, mum and dad and I all clung together and tried to make sense of the loss of such a wonderful young man.  In those days there was no suggestion of therapists coming along with advice or counselling; you just had to get on with things, and get over the sad times as best you could.    

My mother was always kept very busy; apart from the daily cooking and baking, she also had a regular schedule of washing, ironing and mending. In the scullery, there was a large “dolly tub,” and mum would heat the water for the washing every Monday, get all the clothes into the tub and whirl them around using the “dolly” - a large wooden paddle, that I think must have provided the inspiration for the central paddle in the old twin-tub washing machines!  It was hard work, doing it all by hand, and when all the clothes and linen had been rinsed, it had to go out on the line to dry - not easy if it was a rainy Washday Monday!  We also had a mangle, a device with two rollers that squeezed the water out of the clothes as you pushed them through, turning a handle on the side at the same time.  Mum was always saying, “Be careful, don’t get your fingers trapped in the mangle!” Then the clothes had to be ironed and folded neatly before they could be put away in the airing cupboard.  

When my brothers and I used to complain about having to go to bed early - especially on long summer evenings, when it was still light at 9.00 o’clock - my mum would send us off upstairs with the words, “When you’re all in bed, that’s when the mending basket comes out, and I have to get on with that!” She was also very good at knitting socks and had learned how to “turn the heel” as a young child.  When my grand-daughter, Wendy, was born in 1973, my mum was 79 years old. She was still knitting and provided a plentiful supply of tiny socks for her great-grand-daughter!

When we were young children, every January, my brothers and I would go with our dad to our local toy shop, to pick out the present each of us would like for the following Christmas.  It seemed such a long time to wait until December!  and of course, you always knew what you would get. However, it helped to balance the budget for my parents, because the toys would be put away for us, and then my dad would pay a penny, or tuppence a week, for each toy, until everything was paid for; and it meant no-one got into debt buying Christmas presents that they couldn’t afford.

My mother was also very lucky with the local shop raffle for a Christmas turkey; for two years running, she picked No. 26 as the ticket she wanted, and both years, that was the number that came up!  The dinner tasted all the nicer for having come as an extra bonus in that way.   With no television, we enjoyed reading, and conversations round the fire; we used to listen to the radio, and enjoyed the Light Programme and the Home Programme - far better entertainment than non-stop t.v., for encouraging the imagination! 

My mother, Alice, in 1914

My father, John Woods, in 1914

Highs And Lows With The Hoist

Highs And Lows With The Hoist

'Twas on a Friday morning
The hoist engineer came to call;
He checked it out to make quite sure
That everything was cool.
And so it was; until he saw
The date was overdue.
He said, "This needs to be replaced -
We'll order one that's new!"

(With apologies to Flanders and Swann)


Until September last year, when the carers began to hoist Mum on a regular basis, it had been rarely used. Standing in the corner, its two feet splayed out like a bird's legs, it was there "just in case." If Mum felt weak, or could not manage to stand up and do the "twiddle" manoeuvre to get her from bed to glider, or glider to chair, the hoist was always fully charged and ready to use, to facilitate moving her.

It has been serviced regularly, and we have never had any qualms about using it; Mum, of course, was not (and is still not) keen on being lifted in the sling, but she is getting used to it.

After the service check on the Friday morning, the engineer explained the hoist was just over four and a half years old, and therefore "out of time." It was still safe to use, but a new one would be delivered on Monday morning.

When the carers arrived at lunch time, they proceeded to get Mum up. At first, the hoist worked perfectly, but then it suddenly threw a wobbly; however hard the control buttons were pressed, the machine would not operate the "up" instruction, to lift Mum from the glider so she could be seated in her chair.

Fortunately, the hoist then remained in the "down" position, so at least Mum was not left swinging like a chandelier attached to the ceiling, or clinging on to a malfunctioning ski lift, half way up a mountain!

In fact, I understand a hoist will always return to the down position, but that still left us in a quandary: how to extricate Mum from the hoist. We managed it by dint of taking her weight evenly between us, and lifting her on to the chair.

However, that wasn't going to solve the problem for the other calls the carers would be making later that evening. We rang the company who provided the hoist, and were given the emergency out of hours number. The response was quite impressive;  a technician arrived at 7.30, and found the problem lay with the remote controller. We would need a new one and clearly this could not wait until Monday. The technician said he had another three calls to make, after which he would go back to the depot, collect the new controller, and bring it to us; it would take him about three hours before he could get back, but we were quite happy to agree to that. In the event, he returned at 11.20, plugged in the new controller, and made sure it worked. It had a much more positive response when the buttons were pressed, and the hoist was ready for action once more. We were very impressed by the service and, in spite of having had a very long day (and evening), the young man was still smiling - and still had another call to get to!

Mum's First Foray Into Print - (Published in Best of British magazine)

Mum's First Foray Into Print

The first article Mum wrote, originally entitled "Working Life," was published in 2007, in Best of British. It was shortened slightly to fit the space available, but I have found this original text that Mum sent to the editor.

LOOKING AFTER THE PENNIES

by
PHYLLIS WHITWELL

Phyllis, aged 18

I was born in 1919, in Liverpool and, like many little girls, my dream working life was to be a dancer, and maybe enjoy some success, if not as a prima ballerina, then at least in the corps de ballet in a good, reputable company. I was trained in ballet and tap but alas, after a bout of rheumatic fever at the age of 7, which left me with what was in those days called "a weak heart," this was not to be.  

Instead, my parents were told that a nice, sedentary job would be best for me; so in 1937, when I had passed all my matric. exams and I was ready to find a job, my father saw an advertisement for staff at the local Midland Bank and went in to ask about it for me. He saw the Manager and was told there was a clerical vacancy for a "suitable young lady, aged 18 or over, with a good head for figures."  

I was given an appointment to see the bank manager and on the agreed date, presented myself for interview.  I was dressed in an elegant costume and blouse and, feeling somewhat nervous, was ushered in to see the great man.

He made me feel at ease, and invited me to sit down, and then followed questions about arithmetic, maths and English; I must have done well, because he then asked me, what sort of salary I expected.

I thought for a moment and, not wanting to sell myself short, I said, "Twelve shillings and sixpence a week, please sir!"- 62 1/2 p in current money!

Well, the bank manager looked flabbergasted!  He spluttered and coughed and nearly fell backwards off his chair.  When he had recovered a little, he asked me how old I was.  I told him I was eighteen and after a few more moments, he harrumphed a bit and said I could start at the bank the next week  - at a salary of 12/6 a week.

I could hardly believe it!  I had got a job, at a good salary, and I rushed home to tell my mother and father all about it.

As soon as I got in, I told them everything that had happened, and of course they were delighted for me, until I got to the part about asking for the enormous sum of twelve shillings a sixpence a week!  

Unbeknown to me, my father had agreed with the bank manager, that if I was suitable for the job, my salary should be only seven and six  (37 1/2 pence) per week, and my father insisted I go straight back to the bank and tell the manager I'd made a mistake, and would be happy to accept the lower sum.

Very reluctantly, I did as I was told.  There was a short wait until the manager was free and once again, I was ushered in to his office.  I told him what my father had said, and that I should have asked for only 7/6 a week.  

"Young lady," the manager said, "If you're not worth 12/6 a week, you won't be worth 7/6.  You were right to set your sights high.  Your salary will be 12/6 a week, as arranged!"

With that, I flew home, and my father felt that as I had gone back to volunteer for the lower salary, honour was satisfied.

The following Monday, I started work at the bank, and the first thing I had to do was sit in a little office and familiarise myself with customers' signatures - there were no pin numbers or automated telling machines then!   There was such a personal touch to banking, with the managers knowing all their customers and understanding their needs. I suppose the downside was if a customer and manager did not have a rapport, then it could prove difficult for that customer to obtain a loan or overdraft!  but I think the impersonal way we bank now does also leave a lot to be desired.

I worked my way up through the ranks and left as a teller.  My fiancé had managed to get a few days' leave and we got married in 1941; he then had to return to his unit and was sent to Kos, where he was captured and held as a prisoner of war in Germany for over three years. After the war ended, my husband got home and we settled down in Cheadle Hulme in Derbyshire; my daughter was born in Buxton in 1946.  After a dreadfully cold winter in 1946/47, we decided to go abroad and see what life was like in a warmer country.  

At sea, on the way to East Africa, 1947

We sailed on the Empress of Scotland for East Africa and landed in Dar-es-Salaam. It was a completely different way of life, of course, and the sunshine and easy pace of life was a tonic after all the difficulties experienced post-war in England, with continuing shortages and rationing, but being in the tropics meant the heat was relentless, all year long.

With Alexandra in Dar-es-Salaam, 1948

Sometimes it would be so hot you could almost fry an egg on a slate in the sun. We always made sure we were covered up and protected from getting sunburn. Working and school hours were mostly organised so that people could start early in the cool of the morning, and have a siesta during the fiercest heat of the day; and then we worked on longer in the afternoon, when it had cooled down again.  

There was no air conditioning when we first went out to East Africa, just large electric "punkah" fans suspended from the ceiling that would turn lazily round and round, moving the warm air about a little.

For some years I continued to work in East Africa, first in Dar-es-Salaam in Tanganyika (now Tanzania), Uganda (Kampala), Kenya (Nairobi), and I have enough tales of my experiences there, to fill a book!  

I always worked in accountancy; it was an interesting career, and all started by that first interview with the bank manager at our local branch.

Nowadays, people have to complete long application forms, provide detailed CVs, and undergo psychometric and aptitude tests;  but even with these modern interviewing "tools,"  I wonder if companies get people any better qualified or suited to their posts as I obviously was, all those years ago?!

Even after I had officially retired, at the age of 66, I still felt active and energetic enough to see if there was something I could do in accountancy to keep my skills up to date.  For a further 18 months I worked in Fenchurch Street, and thoroughly enjoyed going up to the City every day.  It was exciting being at the centre of things and it gave me a real buzz to think I was working with the "whiz kids" in high finance! However, now my pleasure is spending a lot of time with my 11 year old great-grandson, Al Wilde.  I am so proud of him, because even though he is so young, he is also an author, and had his first book published this year; but he always has time to escort me whenever we go out for tea!

Mum Puts Pen To Paper

Mum Puts Pen To Paper

Having been an accountant all her working life, Mum's forte was always figures, and not words. She could write a good letter, and generally keep in touch with people, but producing longer pieces of work never really crossed her mind - until one day, about eleven years ago, she suddenly announced she wanted to write about how she got her first job at the Midland Bank.

"If you write it," I said, "I'll type it all up for you."

I didn't think any more about it. In the past, very occasionally Mum would announce she would like to write about her life experiences, but she had never really got around to it, so when she actually produced a really lovely piece, reminiscing about starting work in Liverpool in 1937, it was a wonderful surprise.

As I'd promised, I typed it up for her, and said I thought she should submit it to a magazine, to see if it could reach a wider audience. Mum didn't think anything would come of it, but went along with the idea. I told her she might not hear anything for weeks or even months, but to our surprise and delight, after quite a short time, she had a reply from the Editor, accepting the article.

She was so thrilled to see her story in print - and even more delighted when a few weeks later, a cheque arrived in the post for her!

She then began to think about writing more about her life and she wrote a few paragraphs every week. We all encouraged her; when she had completed a couple of chapters, she gave it to us to read, and said she wanted to call it, "A Liverpool Lass."

I was pretty sure that title had already been used by another author, and explained she might have to think of another one, but in the meantime, we produced a mock up of how her book could look, if it was picked up by a publisher, and went to printed.

The local press ran a story about Mum and her dream of writing her autobiography, which inspired her to keep writing for a while longer. Unfortunately, it was about this time that her memory began to play tricks, and she started repeating over and over again, all the different places she had worked, with no cohesive structure or narrative. It all became so jumbled, until even I couldn't work out what she wanted to say, or where she was in her head, and presently the idea of writing more chapters faded away. I was so sorry about it; even now, there are things I would love to verify with her, but her memories can be so confused, nothing is reliable anymore.

Mum with "A Liverpool Lass"

I thought it might be nice to include Mum's first article, Looking After the Pennies, so that will be coming up next!