It was to be a happy union. ‘Bertie’ Pollitt was kindly, non-ambitious and frequently could be found at the back of a reception at which he was a major figure, talking to the least important members of the group. He liked an easy life, always had a pipe in his mouth, played a medium to good game of golf, fished with patience but little success, loved long walks, and short expletives. “Goddammit’ Hilda” I remember well, uttered in moments of frustration. Which might give a false impression, for in fact I recall only one time when my parents hurt one another, a hurt which was soon healed. Nor was my Father a practical man, but he was patient, and another of his sayings that I remember well was, “kindness always pays”, as he pushed his spectacles to his forehead and meticulously approached the mending of a household object. He was a totally reliable and honest Englishman. 

His interests ranged from gardening to musical comedies at the Liverpool or London theatres. His reading included the latest P.G. Wodehouse to Churchill’s History of the English Speaking People. He played bridge and I can vouch for it that week after week he would pick up a Yarborough, but his patience remained intact for, after all, ladies would be present. He was courtly and charming to ladies and devotedly loyal to his wife whom he had loved and waited for until she agreed to marry him. He liked his two ‘Gin and Its’ before lunch and could at times return from a reception slightly the worse for wear, so my mother reported. I never knew him tipsy myself, but he was no saint and was known at his regular church attendance for going to sleep the moment the sermon began. He always maintained that he had “heard everything the fellah said”

I have happy memories of our home in Dunriding Lane. Of the annual visit of the seller of beautifully embroidered place mats and dinner napkins, handmade in Madeira. Of muffin men. Of watching the lighting of the street lights by the gas-lighters on winter evenings. Of wonderful family Christmases and the anticipation of the carol singers who filled our hall and enjoyed mince pies and hot drinks around our great Christmas tree, and then Graham and Helen would arrive from Worcester. Christmas had started! 

Of New Year’s Eves at which the same uncles sang their songs from the music halls of the Edwardian era, songs which had double entendres and allusions which always brought the same delighted laughs from the adults, especially the aunts. One in particular was quite a lengthy saga concerning a piece of seaweed, sung by Uncle Harold. Now that I am older, the adjective for those times is definitely ‘risqué’. The words of a shorter song come to mind, and I can see my two uncles, Edwin and Ernest singing together: 

And of course, this underlined the Northern and particularly Griffin, respect for money. Viewed as a necessity of life, to be used carefully. New Year’s Eve followed the same anticipated routine, for at the stroke of midnight Uncle Harold would knock on the door and be ushered in carrying a lump of coal. Drinks were poured and the New Year toasted. For the next generation, now in their teens, more revelries lay ahead as together we visited the homes of the Griffin clan and their friends, until, at about four in the morning, and usually at the same house we were served bacon and eggs before walking home to sleep. 

Memory shows the streets to be empty, as singing we walked from house to house to wish the occupants a Happy New Year. If there was an occasional car, it doesn’t show up in my memory. Other memories are of WW2 bombing of Liverpool and St Helens during a nine day blitz aimed at knocking out the Liverpool docks and the nearby Pilkington Glass factory in St Helens which was thought to be making parts for Spitfire fighter planes, Our cellar, reinforced with pit props, frequently became the town’s nerve centre, for my father was in charge of the town’s civil defence. He and members of his staff took calls of houses and streets demolished, casualties and fatalities. Many families in our street sheltered regularly in our cellars each night for safety. As the bombs fell the house shook, dust fell down on our heads. I was frightened and felt sorry for the German children who were probably just as frightened in their country. Grownups were mad, I thought. 

I became a life-long pacifist. My childhood memories of my Father are being taken fishing, and on the edge of cold windswept northern dams being allowed to put the worm on the hook and waiting patiently for results. And returning home quietly and being told to “go and change quickly before your mother sees that you’re wet”. A conspiracy of comrades which sowed the seed of my lifelong love of fly fishing. 

I remember too, the visits with my Father to the ‘Bear’s Paw’ in Liverpool and sharing a plate of oysters. For him there was a glass of stout, for me a glass of lemonade–lemonade which was poured from a bottle, in those splendid days when at the bottom of each bottle lay a marble encased in a hollow of green glass. I was with him when he died in his home in Durban. My Mother and I had returned from the beach where I swam, to find Daddy distressed and unable to speak. I called a doctor, my mother sat in the sitting room crying that she was to become a widow; I returned to my Father who was helpless and anxious, and trying to make him comfortable, I held his hands and told him to breathe slowly which soothed him. Before the doctor arrived my Father gave me such a look of love, and gently passed away. For many nights my mother slept alone in his bed.