PHILIP, Retired Police Officer
Philip’s father, Harry, died of a heart attack, leaving behind three young sons. Years later Philip helped a teenager come to terms with his own mother’s death.
In one week I will reach my 62 birthday, but I remember the day my father died as if it was yesterday. It was 3 days before I turned 12. My younger brothers were 10 and 8.
My father had been taken ill at work with a suspected heart attack. He was sent home on a bus, instead of being sent to a hospital less than a mile from his workplace. He was treated at home by our GP. But on Wednesday 12th February 1964 he had a further heart attack which he succumbed to. He was 43 years old.
That afternoon I was in a woodwork class, when I received a message from my teacher to report to the headmaster straight away. The walk back to the main school (about a mile away) was the longest walk of my life. I was racking my brains as to what I had done to warrant seeing the headteacher. The last thing on my mind was my father.
On arrival at the school I was ushered into the secretary’s office and left alone, which I found strange. No one spoke to me. After about an hour my Uncle Frank arrived with my two brothers. They never said anything and still the penny didn’t drop. We went to the car in a daze. He took us to his house and broke the news that dad had passed away. We were looked after by my uncle and aunt for over a week. In those days children didn’t go to funerals, or that’s the impression we had. It wasn’t until afterwards that we saw our mother again.
Life was hard for mum, financially and bringing up three young boys on her own. Money was in short supply. She had a widow’s pension and supplemented it with a part-time job. Even so we were still entitled to clothes and shoe vouchers as well as free school meals. The teachers were very good and knew of our circumstances. This was up until I was in the fifth year of secondary school. On one particular day my brothers and I had sat together for school lunch, which was very good with meat and two veg. We were all asked if anyone wanted seconds. Being growing boys with healthy appetites we stood up for seconds. But one teacher looked at us and said, “Sit down! You have free meals, you’re not entitled to seconds.” We were humiliated in front of the school. I still feel bitter and angry about that 50 years on.
Fast forward 20 years and I was working as a Police Officer in Cambridgeshire. At the time I was often dealing with a young teenager who was quite frankly a real pain in the neck for us. He was always getting into trouble and seemed to have anger management issues. His behaviour wasn’t normal. One day I asked him what the problem was. He looked at me and just burst into inconsolable tears. His first words after that were “I miss my mum.”
It turned out his mum had died when he was 11 and he felt alone in the world. His poor old dad couldn’t help him. So I had a chat with him about my circumstances at a similar age and how I felt. It may have struck a chord in him, as I don’t recall him being in trouble with the law again.
My memories of my father are what I call snapshots. I remember him taking me on the back of his Vespa scooter to see Stanley Matthews first home game for Stoke City against Newcastle United when he returned from Blackpool FC. I can see him dressed in his tuxedo going to work as a semi professional musician playing saxophone and clarinet in the Trentham Garden Ballroom Orchestra. This was a big band in the style of Glenn Miller. On a Saturday and Sunday morning, I remember him cleaning his instruments and complaining about these new pop groups who could only do 10 minutes and were not musicians. Nevertheless, for Christmas 1962 – at the start of the rock n roll era and The Beatles – my brother and I were given acoustic guitars. Dad was teaching us to play, having taught himself using Bert Weedon’s Play in a Day book. After he died I lost the impetus to carry on learning the instrument.
Philip’s father, Harry, is pictured second from right.
I still think of my dad every day; sometimes the tears are never far away, especially if I hear a piece of music he was fond of, be it big band, Ray Charles, or Louis Armstrong. Come to think of it he sowed the seeds of my love for Black American Blues music
When I was 55 years old, I felt the wheel had very nearly come full circle when I suffered a heart attack. Fortunately due to prompt action by the ambulance service and the NHS I received treatment which resulted in a full recovery. Every day since then has been a huge bonus and I am lucky enough to have four grandchildren.
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