Snapshot: My rebellious grandfather

In this photograph of the Home Guard unit in Egham, Surrey, in 1941, my maternal grandfather, Jack Barry, is the second man from the right in the back row. The most striking thing about the picture is how many of this little band are non-commissioned officers (as opposed to privates). My first thought when I saw it was of the TV programme Dad’s Army, which was so good at creating comedic squabbles between authority figures. This looks even better. Imagine the knockabout farce of all these real-life NCOs telling each other what to do.

I didn’t get a chance to ask Grandad about his Home Guard days, as he died more than 40 years ago, long before I saw this photograph. That’s a real shame because he had a healthy disrespect for authority, an excellent eye for the humour of a situation and a great way of telling a story in the Irish tradition. I don’t think it is an accident that Grandad is in the back row of the group, away from the ranks of authority figures.

He had volunteered in the first world war, and served with a battalion of the London Irish Rifles in Palestine, where he was wounded. As a boy I got to hear about those days. He talked of the beauty of the place, the desert, the star-filled night skies, the different people, the strangeness of it all for an East End kid, but never about the fighting.

He especially loved to tell of getting into trouble with his superiors. He was the sort of man who would have got right up the nose of the officer class, and, judging from the stories he told, he would have rather enjoyed doing so. It is fairly typical that he is not wearing his first world war campaign medals. And, of course, he never became an NCO.

I can see that rebellious, independent streak in him in the photograph. He was his own man, and family was first, last and everything. At the outbreak of the second world war, he couldn’t stick the idea of his eight children being forcibly split up and evacuated by the authorities. He moved his whole family out of the East End and took a house in Egham, 20 miles west of London, so they could all stay together. Every day he commuted – sometimes by bicycle – back to his job in the docks where he worked in a cooperage. After the war, the family stayed put and never went back.

I have recently retired. One of my past bosses was fond of calling me “the founder member of the awkward squad”. But I’m not – Grandad was.

Nicholas Watson

Playlist: The song that left me gasping for a drink

Cool Water by Frankie Laine

“Keep a moving, Dan. Don’t cha listen to him, Dan / He’s a devil, not a man / He spreads the burning sand with water / … cool, clear water.”

For my 16th birthday, in December 1960, my parents bought me a Decca radiogram, which took pride of place in the front room. It cost far more than they could afford and was designed to be a cherished piece of furniture, as well as a radio and record player. It had beautiful sliding doors, stood on four polished wooden legs, and the shiny top was crowned with a lace mat, a wooden bowl, nutcracker and family photographs. It made its debut public appearance at my party, which was unburdened with parental supervision for the first time, in recognition of my “coming of age”.

My mum, Lucy, had a small collection of 78s sitting alongside my trendier, slimline 45s of Conway Twitty, Connie Francis and Cliff Richard. When she had heard enough of It’s Only Make Believe, Stupid Cupid or Move It, she would take one of her own precious collection from its carefully preserved, beige paper cover,: Little Brown Jug or Granny’s Old Armchair; something from The Student Prince by Mario Lanza; or – and this was my favourite – Cool Water.

Frankie Laine’s rendition of a song about a traveller tormented by thirst in the searing heat of the desert as he and his mule wander, lost and despairing, was riveting. It was so vivid that, after listening to it, I would be gasping for a drink. Letting the cold tap run and the sound of the water splashing into the glass seemed almost sacrilegious and reinforced the images conjured by the ballad.

The radiogram is still with us 57 years on, although it is in the loft and gathering enough dust to make Frankie Laine’s throat even drier.

Phil Poyser

We love to eat: Mum’s salad

Ingredients
Boiled eggs
Iceberg lettuce (or little gem)
Tomatoes
Cucumber
Radish (optional)
Cress
Honey-roast ham
Bread and butter
Salad cream (optional)
Salt and pepper

There was something appealing about my mum’s salads – mainly because they were fresh. You see, my mum was a hoarder. Probably not quite shocking enough to get on The Hoarder Next Door, but not far behind. Enough for me to feel embarrassed. And enough of a hoarder that in the summer months I would check what she had in the chest freezer before I left for school – not to see what I would eat, but what I wouldn’t. Our freezer didn’t shut, so, especially in summer, I would check what was in there so that, after school, I could select something that hadn’t been frozen, defrosted and refrozen.

But salad days were different. They symbolised that summer was here, but they also symbolised something much more important – normality. Here was a meal that, by its very nature, was fresh. Not a single ingredient was from a tin, but it was prepared in a kitchen where tins overflowed the cupboards on to the floor and countertops. But the tins had been pushed aside to make space for the preparation of a proper meal. A meal made with love.

Eggs were boiled in advance and sliced in the egg slicer. Iceberg lettuce was sliced with the bread knife, but if it was someone’s birthday we might have little gems, and rip them up. No one ate the radish except Dad. Everything was layered in a big glass bowl.

The trouble is, when I really think about it, I realise it wasn’t my mum who shopped for and made the salads, it was my dad. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse. But they tasted of love.

Carol Matthews

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