Chapter 58 His (dad's) children's stories
I have no memory of
After my birth on
Many memories come into my mind about these first eighteen years. I was Mum and Dad’s first child, and this coloured my upbringing, since the first child always has to take the first steps, including the actual first steps, and parents have not seen this happen before.
From my
Making my first Confession, first Holy Communion and Confirmation through
Canon O’Neill and Canon Ellwell were great men. Mum took me to Whitsands and we had tea and scones at Mrs Bellamy’s café on the day of my first Confession as a treat, since I had missed the class First Confession owing to protracted illness from Jaundice. Going to Midnight Mass with Dad at the age of seven was a source of pride as was being one of those whose feet were washed at the Maundy Thursday Mass. Latin was the language of Church then, and I knew the ‘Old Mass’. Dad used to play the Church Organ at
Jesus etc became and remain, important reference points in my life and I see Marianne, our eldest, has the same interest and commitment to the Church
From 1962-1964, Dad taking me regularly to see Argyle play was magical. The first game was a 0-0 draw v Bury. The second game we won 6-1 v Charlton. David Corbett and Barry Jones were early heroes.
My
Unfortunately, even in
I remember Paul being born in the front room, sucking his thumb from the first moment, and Simon being held up to the window in the hospital. I also remember Mary and Clare with their paint trick, the bus rides to school, having walked up to the bus stop outside the College. Anne Elizabeth’s death is also vivid in my memory, with Mum being carried home on a stretcher, and Dad crying as he washed the dishes. During one of Mum’s pregnancies we were invited to breakfast at a friend’s house near College, and it was amazing to have BANANAS on our cornflakes! Such luxury! Friendships with Aunty Gracie and Uncle Derrick were also good- with nice trips away!
In September 1964, when we moved to Wallington, and Simon slept through lunch as we ate the soup on the journey’s stop in Epsom, my life changed, and from 1964-1966 things became less carefree. My failure to make new friends, difficulties with a very bad teacher, Mr Cronin, and in the biggest negative impact on a young boy, having a terrible temper during games in a way resembling, I now realise, a disturbed child. In addition, there were the pressures of the eleven plus, which I was proud to pass - to Beulah Hill in January 1966, as the first child, carrying the torch was consciously held up as one of my roles.
Gradually, at Beulah Hill, I found my feet in many ways, improving academically, from shaky beginnings, when my first form tutor had told Mum, that they had doubted my ability to cope at the grammar school, playing for the school chess team and the school tennis team. Summer Vocations Holidays loomed large in my life, and were liberating times, which led me to commit my life to the De La Salle Brothers when I left school. Many of the brothers and lay staff were excellent. The brother who doubted my ability got a ‘third’ at
However, outside of school, my life was quite hard. Low self esteem and inability to make friends in my locality meant that life at home was normally lonely and unhappy. Feelings of not really belonging were, I think, exacerbated by the clothes, terrible haircuts and being punished for minor offences. I regret that I took this tension out on a couple of my siblings. People with more inherent self confidence could have carried things better, and I do not know if contemporaries at school experienced similar lives.
Relief was found by throwing myself into academic work, chess, altar serving (!), Vocations Holidays, and visits to
Welsh rugby was also a big thing in the house, when I pretended that I wanted
Weekend trips to
Labour Party politics, with many lunch time debates, canvassing and the 1966 and 1970 election nights, impregnated my soul, and I became devoted to Labour politics and have remained so ever since. Other early political memories, which I debated with Dad include the Cuban missile crisis when we prayed as young children for peace, the shooting of ‘JFK’ and Robert Kennedy, the Vietnam war, the Mexico Olympic Black Power salute, the murder of the Jewish athletes by Arafat’s PLO. I remember Dad being upset on
There were many books in the house, which was a good thing, Dad often buying a book a month, and sending us off to the library, including on holiday. The Telegraph, the New Statesman, the Economist, the Catholic Herald were always around. Dad’s piano playing and singing often provided some good moments, and Miss Nash’s visits were a cause of hilarity at times, but I hated the lessons, since I could not play! I still remember Simon telling her to ‘shut up’ when she warbled as Simon tried, in vain, to find a key! ‘Go and practise your piano pieces’ was almost as common as ‘Go to bed’ (when we were in the sixth form!)
Looking back on it all now, nearly 50 years old, I rationalise things by saying that Mum and Dad did their best at the time, with a large family, limited resources and themselves cut off from their own homes. I think that I and my siblings gleaned the best values on which to base our own parenting. Dad did his best to provide with all the writing, lecturing and teaching and Mum kept things going in the kitchen, the washing machine, and providing a voice of sanity.
Dad always made it clear that I was welcome to come home after I left for the Brothers. The home in which I grew up, despite the flaws was a rich one, where my basic values were inculcated and makes me proud to be a Lane. For me being a Lane, means being Catholic, a Family man, Labour, hard working, thrifty, able to ‘party’ and having a love of academic study.
Having left home on
During these six formative years, I made many friends with whom I have kept in contact and prepared, I thought, for a life dedicated to Christian Education with the Brothers. However, it was clear that the Order was fading in the words of the song, and I really knew that one day I would leave the Order when I was ready. The Brothers gave me the space to get a lot of healing and to find my feet as a person, and I am eternally grateful to them. Attending Old Trafford was a joy, and my love for the club has stayed with me ever since. I like to ‘pretend’ that I was born in
My first teaching post 1979-1983 was in
In 1982 I met Cathy at the school, and she drove me to
The toughest time was in 1994-1995 when I lost my job after a nervous breakdown, triggered by failure to be a good deputy head teacher. Cathy stayed loyal to me, and we passed through the storm with heads just about held high, and although things have never been the same since I ‘failed’ in the prime task of breadwinner, we, I think, run a good home.
Cathy is clever, beautiful, spiritual, Catholic, a great teacher and highly competent. She has often carried me when I needed her to, and she runs a very hospitable home. Her practical skills have been invaluable since I have none! Cathy is normally patient! Her parents, Grandma and Grandad, have been wonderfully supportive to us, minding the babies, and helping with house repairs, supporting Cathy and very generous to Cathy and children, moving to a bigger bungalow so their grand children could come and play.
My marriage has brought so many blessings. Continued healing, new social skills and beautiful homes are three of these blessings, but the four children have been the most wonderful gifts from God, and I hope we are cherishing them.
Our children are in order of appearing: Marianne Therese, our eldest, born on 2 May 1986 in Lancaster, Joseph Anthony born on 19 December 1988 in Norwich, Elspeth Mary Catherine born on 22 July 1994; Collette Anna born on 21 March 1998.
Marianne, now at University (November 2004), is I think, like me. She is a committed Catholic and Labour Party supporter, student of history, coping with dyspraxia, sensitive and intelligent.
With more social confidence than I had at 19, she makes me so proud. We went through argumentative times since we are so alike but I think we understand each other’s needs and strengths.
Marianne is thriving at University in the city of her birth,
Joseph (Joe to his friends) is a fine young man, who is loved by many people. A big, but gentle boy, he has overcome many handicaps which arise from dyslexia, and has been growing academically, has excellent social skills and sporting ability. While Marianne is the daughter every Dad would love to have, Joe is the son, which every Dad would love to have.
Elspeth and Collette are the young lights of my life. Playing in all rooms of the house, bringing new friends to the house, caring for the rabbit, Koda, the animal Lane, singing all day, sleeping in the big bed instead of me, full of fun, they are the next generation in my branch of the family. Elspeth has one close friend, Ursula and she is flourishing at St Mary’s School, Shaftesbury, where life is gentler than it was at
Their lives are different to that of the elder two, since they have not really known the insecurity of moving and their Dad losing his job through mental illness, but they do miss out on not seeing their Mum enough at home. It should be recorded, I think, that the biggest single thing we did for our children, was to find the best possible schools for them to attend, as Dad and Mum did for me, and as Cathy’s parents did for their children.
As I complete this writing on the Feast Day of the Immaculate Conception 2004, I thank God, my friends and above all Cathy and the children for all they have been in my life. Here’s to the next fifty years, in the hands of God. In the words of the old song; “Faith of our Fathers.. we will be true to thee til death”
Clare
Happy Times
Dad teaching Mum to drive…
The journey – potties emptied out of the car window, spangles.
Mass in Millbrook under the gaze of Ted Heath and the Queen (I think), Dad in cords tied with string and lace-free plimsolls; Dad playing the organ in Torpoint – can we forget the sermon about unleavened bread?
Seaweed bonfires, cricket on the beach, Aunty Gwen’s pasties and miles walked along
Wallington. Election arteis, lively discussions with any priest brave enough to voice an opinion, about politics and religion. Dad working, lecturing at Coloma and
Christmas with Away in a Manger, balloons, compulsory rest time… The Miners’ strike and Simon’s concern that we’d wake up dead.
Monday evenings at the library – the rail track from
Watching Match of the Day, Dave Allen, Last of the Summer Wine
‘How ITV led to the decline in education’
And, Damien’s story
Hi.
1. I was born at lunchtime. Mum missed her lunch. I’ve always sensed that mum begrudged me the missed meal!!
2. Mum crossed her legs all day on the 15th, terrified I would be born on my grandfather’s birthday – Aloysius Lane may have been OK in the late 19th Century, but mum figured (probably rightly) that it wouldn’t go down too well in Roundshaw.
3. Mum mentioned the above name, with anxiety, to the consultant who was looking after her, only to be horrified that his middle name was………you’ve guessed it……..Aloysius!!
Remember little of my early years (oddly). Remember being sent across
Sports mad from the day I was born. Cricket – Wallington in the alleyway (six and out, window broken – bugger) or on the beach in
Lots of time spent fighting with Pete and G. Mostly losing the physical battle but winning by careful positioning when dad arrived!! Sorry lads.
Always loved school, as long as it didn’t involve too much hard graft. Effortless mediocrity was always my style. Always has been, always will be.
No entry would be complete without
Not much in the way of material possessions, for example I remember never having the trendy shoes, or the haircuts (the haircuts, now there is another story), or anything else, and my regular recollection of christmas (pretty much every year) was profound disappointment – even though we always pretended to be happy!!
Ah Christmas - Peter telling me that Father Christmas did not exist and showing me the cupboard in Clare’s room where mum (I now realise) stored the gifts, my amazement – and real sorrow - when, as predicted I got a Liverpool annual and a Roman sword. The wonder of the football stockings being full of fruit and chocolate and other goodies first thing on christmas mornings, the ache of having to wait for the procession before we could get at the presents, the resentment that G got to carry baby Jesus (!), the family walks after presents and before lunch, the lunch itself – all of us trying to get as much down our throats as we could manage (as usual – only this time there was more than we could manage), the “awful hour in your bedrooms” after lunch (hey, at least it meant not having to wash up! – god the washing up, rotas and all that, mum reminding us that Aunty Teresa’s children had to do their chores before going to school, poor bastards!), the £5 cheques from Nan and Auntie Gracie (a fortune!!), more food – hoorah, then bed, but only after the Wizard of Oz and a busting great row about Callaghan or Dylan or Liverpool or church, or Morecambe or Wise or anything else that anyone could think to row about. Then bed.
We had fun though, and while my children get what they want and when they want it, with holidays in places no-one thought could ever be holiday destinations (Dubai, for example), will they get the freedom, the variety and the fun that we all had. Hey ho, onward and upward……..
Schools attended
St Hildas – didn’t like it much - had to eat sausages in a bowl, see. Style has always been important and sausages in a bowl didn’t cut it. Fond memories of running to school with Clare through
St Elpheges Infants – no memories one way or the other.
St Elpheges Primary – In the middle of Roundshaw. Learnt more swear words in 15 minutes than in the previous 6 or 7 years. Tried one or two at home, which led to a few Sunday mornings and lunchtimes on the landing at 12 Parkhill Road (scene of many other scenes of family relations – but see Simon / Tony / Mary / Clare entries for more details on that score!! Got my own room at the top of the house – along with Simon “studying” for O and A levels. Many evenings spent on Si’s bed listening to the football on what was then radio 2. For some reason the programme always started a
Other than that, there was lots of My Sweet Lord (Harrison),
Cubs football was great – we were the second best, after 1st Wallington, who had some kid who used to score about 18 goals a game against us. Everyone else we thrashed. Great fun.
Not much else to tell from that time in Wallington, other than it punctuated by the odd MASSIVE bust up between Dad and (pick any one from four – Chris was already gone to count biscuits in
Though I never thought of it until now, I suppose everywhere I went in my little world (Church, cubs , school etc), everyone knew me as a “Lane”. Looking at it now as a parent, I realise how odd we must have seemed to the outside world. 8 children for God’s sake!! My memories are pretty much all good and my early childhood in particular in Wallington was as close to golden as anyone would wish for.
Thanks to everyone involved, it was a good – no, a great - start in life.
The move to
It was not until the 6th form that I really enjoyed myself and became more of the centre of attention that I have always liked being. It took me that long (5 years) to feel as confident of my place in life as I had in Wallington. In
Music was an important part of my time in
Only regret – not being more confident about things. Not confident, I hear the reader cry, Damien f*&*%$(g Lane not confident? Pete had confidence, boat loads of it. Gerard too, but I was always too afraid to get involved in anything involving sticking out. I have always based my sense of humour on taking the micky out of people, and having a laugh at others’ expense, and maybe half of me wanted to avoid any situation where it might be possible for someone to reciprocate. Hated rugby – physical cowardice!!
Left school, fluked an A grade in German and decided that if Phil Stokes could go to
Best teachers along the way. Miss Smith (Heads shoulders knees and toes) – great fun doing the can-can and Showaddywaddy spoofs. Maurice Gent (great teacher, if he was not head butting people) Dave Sandham (good man). Barry Hook (cricket, lovely cricket).
1986 / 1987 The year out between school and Uni was great. Worked as a cleaner at M&S in the early mornings for six months and in the afternoons for Woolworths. Went to lots of plays at Poole Arts Centre with Paul Morton and went to Oz with Simon to see the end of England’s last victorious tour of Australia of the 20th Century – Broad, Robinson, Gower, Gatting, Jack Richards, Botham, Dilley, Cowans, Edmonds, Emburey, Gladstone Small et al giving the Aussies a hiding. JOY! Went with brother Simon – off on his hols from beating up vagrants at Victoria Station!! He even paid for my ticket – hats off to you brother!!
1987 – 1990 Uni came and went. Lots and lots of rowing, not enough drinking as a result of the rowing, good mates made and as little work done as possible.
1990 - Work started at Indosuez – courtesy of Partick Diggines (the head of HR) via David Lilley (then a grad trainee, now a good mate). Another mate, Mark Greenberg, introduced me to Sarupa, now
Enjoyed my time at Indo, but having done an MBA at
As far as family life goes, Sarupa and I got married in September 1995, after five years together. Then after another 5 years, Ella arrived. Life changes – dramatically. 15 months later, Mia followed. The final part of this entry is the letter I wrote to Mia when she got to seven and a half months. It applies equally to Ella, but Ella’s letter was handwritten and is in her special box where we store their keepsakes – first shoes, first curl of hair, first school photo etc.
My darling Mia 15 November 2002
I have owed you this letter for every single one of your precious days on earth as part of the Lane family. No excuses, no beating about the bush, no nonsense – I should have written to you earlier. I am sorry.
It’s taken us time to adjust, your mummy and me, to your arrival. Two (as you will hopefully find out one day) is five times more work than one – even if you are less work than your sister!! If you ever specialise in Maths, perhaps you will develop a mathematical formula which explains why in families, 1 + 1 does not equal 2, but 5. This is true in so many ways. Ella’s arrival was a wonderful event and our joy when she first smiled at her was indescribable, but it is you, your inner peace and wonderful contentedness that has completed our family – You, Ella, Mummy and me – and quintupled our happiness. I have a feeling that you and Ella will be great friends and that the three of us (and mummy too if we want!!) will have so many fun outings and times together. Ella and me have already had some, but we wanted to wait for you before we really started on them seriously.
When you are reading this for the first time, you may not understand how much love mummy and I have for you. You will be aware of it I am sure, but you will have to wait a little longer before you discover the joys that your arrival has brought to us all. I love to scoop you up and hold you in one arm while Ella clambers on to my other arm to share in Daddy hugs. Your smell and softness makes me feel so lucky that you chose me to be your daddy – I will try as hard as I can to repay that trust that your soul placed in me. I am sure that we have some wonderful times ahead.
Already, we have some memories that we will cherish forever. Mummy and I will always remember the first time that you woke us up crying as your teeth started to appear. We both got up – amazed that you were stirring for the first time since you were just weeks old – and I went into your room to sweep you up before you disturbed your sister. You stopped crying straight away and I took you back into our bedroom. Your little face (lovely and rosey from the teeth trying to poke out) was covered in a big smile, so delighted to have joined me and mum in the comfort of what Ella currently calls “Daddy’s bed”. Your tiny fingers reached out to touch mummy’s face, and as you did so you gurgled with pleasure – unforgettable.
Now that you are rolling around (so much more efficient than crawling!!) you have your hands on everything at floor level – grabbing it and eating it as fast as you can. You are very determined as well - a good thing, as long as it does not develop into your mother’s stubbornness! I of course, do not have a stubborn bone in my body!!;)
What a first seven and a half months you have had. Ella loves you so much, she loves to tell us that you are her sister and that she loves you very much. Love that she proves by many hugs, an occasional kiss and all-too-frequent sessions of trying to sit on top of you as you sit in your chair. All of which you seem to accept with smiling equanimity. She even lets you watch Barney with her. Doubtless, when you are up and about (soon I guess) you will wreak your terrible revenge and the fun will really start. You are both so lucky having each other, but your best stroke of luck is your mummy. You know in your heart already that she is the best and that is all you will ever need to know – treasure her too, and be thankful every day that you have her.
We are all (Nana, Papa, Mummy, Ella, you, me, Simon, Massy and Anjuli) off to Florida for Christmas in three weeks, and I am so looking forward to spending 21 days with you – introducing you to the swimming pool there (mummy and I think that you will really love swimming!), going to the aquarium to see the fishes and the jungle garden to see the parrots and the other colourful sights. Now that you are sitting up, you have a much better view on life and you are smiling at everyone you see. They will love you and you beautiful smile and big brown eyes in
What a treasure you are to us and how lucky we are to be united the four of us in our little family. We have so many years ahead of us (God willing), so many things to see and do and experiences to share. Know this, my little girl, that whatever life has in store for you, wherever paths you take, mummy and I will always love you and there will always be the most special place in our hearts for you.
Your Dad.
Life has been good – unfairly good.
Great family – check
Great wife – check
Wonderful children - check
Health good – check
Genetic predisposition towards having a positive attitude
The only question - can it go on being so good?
Words cannot describe my feelings for them both, the feeling I get when I see their cheeky smiles, the laughter when one of them says something funny, and the tiredness when they wake up (again) at 5 o’clock in the morning. The only time they don’t wake up at that time is on the days I have to get up at
Life has been good so far. Long may it continue for all the Lanes.
And from Simon -
I Remember !!
“Can’t you talk about something intelligent?”……Not yet!
For very conservative parents the 60’s must have been a nightmare. For ours with five, growing to eight children, the sad loss of another, the so called sexual revolution, the upheaval in their church and very little money, it’s no wonder we all nearly went mad.
Ours was a strict and serious house where Politics, Catholicism, academic results, being anti establishment and discipline were to the fore. Ironically in a house where the philosophies of Christianity and Socialism were promoted it was very much a self help childhood. It bred a strong desire to be perform well and perhaps made me much more selfish than I would have wanted to be. Certainly we were all very competitive.
Having said that I have always felt lucky and almost all of my memories are happy ones.
I met Sarah and have three wonders. At 44 I am just starting to grow up. I laugh at most things now even if I shouldn’t. Perhaps we forgot to laugh together as much as we should have.
The
I remember standing on one side of Mum’s hospital bed with Paul on the other before Anne Elizabeth was born, the policeman coming to Whitsands to tell us of her death, Dad bringing 5 bikes home to Honicknowle Lane in his car, running down the hill with 1d with the older 4 to buy some sweets, stories of the rough boy on the council estate – Trevor Francis by any chance? - falling off my bike going round the corner into the garages and being carried home by a kind lady with bad cuts on my legs – I still have the scars - going to Kingsand for the day with Martin Morgan and his elder sister and getting up in the middle of the night at the Morgan’s – off to Wallington
The Wallington Years
I remember my first sight of
I remember my first 5 minutes at St Mary’s Carshalton, sitting between John Collier and John Tirimani who remained friends until leaving school
We had a lodger, Miss Collins who lived on the top floor. She gave us Churchill crowns when she left, presumably in ’65. Her replacement was as quiet as a ghost, Mr Ketley who suffered when his car tyres went flat one evening – another story for another day!
I stood on the corner of
Watching Dad put up a shelf above the radiator in the hall in about ’66 which was always perilously balanced and thinking he was making a mess of things. Later on, I watched him painting the windows, the window frames and the grass at Whitsands, a memory rekindled in 1985 watching Chris paint his front windows at Bolton Le Sands.
Damien’s arrival was uneventful in the summer of ’68, itself more memorable for having a rented black and white TV at home for the Mexico Olympics, fuss about David Hemery, black power and photos of famous people being shot, presumably Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King.
I remember scoring for 11th Wallington on debut from outside the 18 yard box in Stanley Park, scoring on debut for St Mary’s v Downside, scoring the winner against 1st Wallington in the cub cup final in 1970 from a Dominic Prendegast cross at Green Wrythe Lane– we won 2-1 – and then, two years later the shock of finding we weren’t as good as the boys from Roundshaw!
With Dad, Chris and Paul, watching Palace beating Fulham to be promoted in ’69 with Cloughie’s
I remember we had a colour TV for the
Chris taking me to watch Palace win some matches but lose more, Bert Head’s November clear outs and Palace beating Sheffield United 5 – 1 which was on Match of the Day, Jon Hughes’ debut, and Father Hough opening his sermon at the 1030 mass referring to Palace’s famous win. Palace were sometimes magic – John Jackson was the saviour soooo often.
Mum being moved to
The 1971 British Lions sending my autograph book back with all their signatures except Barry John’s which Dad did for me – Later it proved to be a good forgery since no one could write well at Cefneithen, the outside half factory that also bred Jonathon Davies
I remember believing my dream that I would be the next Barry John and then gradually realizing it wasn’t to be. I was sooo hopeless!
Chris taking me to the Oval where we used to sit in the Peter May stand watching Edrich, Stewart, Roope and co. I used to eat my packed lunch on the bus by 1030 – Chris didn’t show much sympathy as I pleaded to eat his at lunchtime
I remember winning the Croydon Borough 1500m final after Paul had won the Pole Vault in 1973, not being allowed to go to Scouts – and then being allowed to and hating it.
I cried my heart out when Chris went away on
Big Mal arrived at Palace as the saviour and then Palace were relegated twice leading to my first desertion – to Argyle who, after Rafferty and Mariner, descended to nearly the 4th division ironically saved by Big Mal and a certain Gary Megson
Fifteen minutes on the piano was the worst punishment, except for 20 minutes or even worse, half an hour closely followed by “get a book and sit down over there”, Wednesday evenings with “frog face” who occasionally sang as I plundered – not sure what any flies on the wall would have made of the performance - and negotiating my Grade 3 and 4 piano exams with the examiner so I could be allowed to give up. It worked. Miss Nash was shocked I passed Grade 4 and that chapter was closed forever– I was simply dreadful.
I remember Clare not dying of glandular fever and going to work at the Whitsand Bay Hotel – She inspired me to Elton John and Bob Dylan but I had found My Sweet Lord and The Dark Side of the Moon, Rothmans, Lager and The Windmill in quick succession – The times (certainly) were a changing. Later I began to become curious about girls but this is a PG version!
Coming home drunk on Bacardi and Coke with Jon Sluman one Saturday night in ‘77, knocking all the pictures off the wall on the stairs having made a lot of unexpected noise in the kitchen trying to make tea – Clare rescued the situation - and Dad being very amused. I was terrified. Dad confused me the following Saturday lunchtime when I came home drunk again – He didn’t think it was funny at all.
I remember passing my driving test first time and shocking Mr X our instructor after just missing a parade of SJC boys in Stafford Rd who had driven down to follow me around, a weeze at the time.
I was very interested in politics and remember joining the Labour Party, attending meetings, going on marches in
Getting the worst school report ever in May ’78 which motivated me to prove a point to the doubters in August ’79. I even surprised myself but still decided to go to Swansea Uni – Toshack had got promotion twice!
Looking back, I learned to look out for myself from an early age and had a lot of fun while enduring all the insecurities and some excesses of a teenager. There was no pocket money and an abundance of second hand clothes which led me from aged 9 to wash cars to avoid mum’s experiments with the scissors!
But Wallington and Croydon were soulless and, except for my friends, were never going to trap me. The prospect of suburban
Whitsands
I remember the day in Cawsands with Aunty Gwen and her boat, her wonderful pasties, walking to and from Millbrook, the disappointment when she was out having walked up
I used to wonder why I never caught any fish at Whitsands and then catching one.
I remember Johnny Wilkinson selling the telegraph so we missed the football results: “But it’s gone” after Rame View Café became a café and no longer a shop.
Who can forget Fred, a fellow deserter and patron of lost causes giving
I remember always being a good sport when playing cricket on the beach except when Mary bowled successive no balls to dismiss me twice – You couldn’t be out to a girl, not in ’72.
Watching Damien bat beautifully on the beach – and only 6!
I hated cutting the grass and really hating carrying cement, sand etc to lay the patio with the
I remember not going to Whitsands in ’73 but being compensated by watching Sobers, Khanai, Kalicheran and Clive Lloyd playing for the WIndies
I bought my first pint in Cawsands in August 1976 aged 15, with Neil Bradshaw.
I used to practice for my future travels by running away, usually with a family send off, but I always made it back for tea!
I loved the fresh air, the freedom, the beach, the sea, the rain, picking blackberries before any other family could. I even loved the lack of home comforts and learning not to wash – something Sarah had to rectify!
We spent two weeks there in ’92 after we were married and I loved it. I remember my last swim and walking up the cliff, waving to Mrs Maynard and Mrs Bond as I left the beach and talking to Cyril Honey for the first time ever as we packed our car, all the time not realizing it was going to be my last time at Mignonette, now proudly in centre stage on my lounge wall in Singapore
“I don’t know where I’m going but I’m on my way”- Swansea to Swansea
Even leaving aside those two special days at the Vetch,
Between leaving Uni in ’82 and returning to Swansea in November ’88 I had spells in Norwich where I shared a damp terraced house on Ketts Hill, Winchmore Hill N22 where I shared a big house with some wonderful, generous big hearted girls and a very intense Tottenham fan, Ipswich where I bought my first house, a flat on Sydenham Hill SE22 and Topsham.
To
I remember very clearly sitting in Mrs Foote’s class, 4F, in my last term at St Mary’s in June ‘72 and watching a slide show from an Australian teacher, Miss Galvin – the other 4th year teacher – about the construction of the Sydney Opera House and thinking that Sydney will be my home one day.
It built on the imagery of Eyvonne Goolagong,
There was something of their collective spirit, their looks, their disrespect for authority, their determination and their achievements that triggered my imagination, particularly compared to Wallington.
From then I had a yearning to get away from
Between times I went to Australia with Damien in ’86 to watch England win the Ashes – so many highlights: Janet Webb’s brother, John Knobbel cooking baked beans by placing the tin in hot water on the stove – we nearly missed the start of play- watching Alan Lamb plunder Bruce Reid for 18 at the SCG in the last over in a D/N, David Gower’s beautiful 72 at the SCG, a day out at the Gabba, body surfing at Bondi and Manly, Cape Tribulation and the crocodile spotting, snorkeling on the Barrier Reef, climbing Ayers rock, which I found much harder in 1999, the barman in Adelaide near the youth hostel. Everything about the place was wonderful. It was as good as my dreams. John Howard even, was in opposition
Sarah and I were married on
Megan’s birth on
I remember
We were going for 5 years, which was two Ashes series, without realizing that by the time the second one came around I would be supporting our adopted country and living my own Olympic dream.
In the first week I met Gary Ablett from
Megan rode her two wheeler in the
Owen arrived on
In ’97, the Sydney Olympics and
We became Australians in May 2000
There was however a personal cost to it which led to me forcing a contract termination from the Government immediately after the Paralympics having become a pawn in a Labour Party factional battle.
More traumatically, on “Super Saturday”, the Olympics busiest day, I got home feeling triumphant at 1900 since everything had gone so well but at 1930 took a call that Tony Lenaghan had died in his sleep and that on top of Marylin being paralysed by a stroke 10 weeks earlier. It was a terrible shock for all of us.
Via
Honor had not enjoyed her first two years at school but blossomed in
I remember Owen throwing stones from our 16th floor balcony into the Pool below creating some panic, some residual hostility and a visit from the Singaporean Police late on that first evening!
I remember sitting on the beach at Trigg in WA while the kids had a surfing lesson during a short holiday the day after cycling on Rotto’, and realizing
In the 25 years since I left home I have been testing myself while searching for that something. I think I have found it now. The top priority is Sarah and our three wonders now. I realized that almost too late but feel satisfied that the anger and fear inside me that generated the passion, the energy and the commitment in my work, from which I got so much, has dissipated.
Here’s to the next 25 years.
And now it’s my turn. Written before Dad left us to be with
My story is probably much longer than the others, it being 115 pages in all, so far. I started back in 1995, while I was copying Dad’s book from type-script to computer, initially, to tell Dad that he had omitted, among other points of interest to my generation, details of Whitsands. I told him that he had left out blackberry picking, cricket on the beach, horrendously lumpy (from Pa) runny (from Ma) porridge, French cricket, walks to Millbrook and Rame Head and luxurious long hot summers and as more memories came flooding back, the size of the document rapidly grew.
My good and happy memories are from
I have only a few memories of Plymouth - the pond in the front garden in to which Chris fell while trying out his new bike; the back window in the breakfast room overlooking the garden and then on to the wasteland beyond (where Dad threw the spuds); the blackberry picking in Mrs Graham’s back garden below the speedway track; the stairs being put in to provide the rooms up in the roof, a vague memory of a visit from Louis and Nan and being told off for climbing on their car, and, of course, the doctor listening (with what I thought was a hooter) to Mum’s fat tummy (pregnant with number six, Ann Elizabeth).
The Jefferies, next door, had a very steep drive which they chose to cover in gravel going up from the house to the road. Simon and I would regularly stand, clinging on to the chain link fencing that was separating the two houses, and watch Mr Jefferies struggling to drive his Triumph Herald up the steep slope and then laugh at him when he slipped, slowly, back to the bottom. Mind you, I wasn’t so keen on the angry glare he gave the two of us, as we giggled at his efforts.
One autumn Simon and I were taken to
Soon after we moved to Wallington, on a visit to
Back in
Clare was, and still is, one of lifes good people. She looked after me when I went to school, age 4, (because Mum was too tired to have two children at home), and allowed me to hold her hand as we walked to my first dinner break.
Years later, I was again impressed when I heard her name being called out over the loudspeaker system on a visit to her school, St Philomena’s Convent, for the annual fete. Her happy face and laughter was a pleasure to witness, and I enjoyed watching my big sister beating ‘the system’. “What, Clare? What’s so funny?” “Oh, that was for me. I asked for
Like me, she was always keen on sport, and more than once, I went with her to hit a ball at the tennis courts in her school. She had no difficulties with her younger brother trailing around with her.
Later, Clare would cement her place in my worshipping soul during a school re-union when she took her (borrowed) black baby to a school re-union. Was it an ‘Up yours’, to the nuns of St Philomena’s
I don’t think anyone has mentioned the porridge. I still eat porridge myself, but not the way it was made for us. If Dad made it, it was heavy and glue-like, thick with lumps and positively horrible. If Mum made it, true to her ‘prudent’ nature, it was like thinned-out soup (and equally horrible) and I sometimes wondered why they couldn’t work together on their breakfast preparation. One magical? breakfast during an Easter holiday went something like so:
All five children were seated at the table. Dad brought in the steaming pot of porridge, grabbed a bowl, and ladled out a sticky, steaming, lumpy mass. He turned the ladle upside down, but the porridge remained where it was. After a little shaking of the ladle, the nasty mass fell, with a squelch, into the bowl. Mary wretched and was shouted at (cunning, eh?) so Clare was given the bowl containing the foul breakfast and she began to cry claiming that “I can’t eat that”. Chris and Simon laughed at the distressed girls, Chris received a whack and we were all sent from the table to our rooms (saved from the hateful mess) with the supposed punishment of “You can go without your breakfast then”. Phew.
Porridge was consumed once sugar or syrup was added. The adding of the sweetener was usually accompanied with the order to “Put half of that back” chanted by one or both parent/s as one or more of us attempted to get a spoonful to dump into the porridge. That “Put half of that back” could be heard at every meal where we helped out selves to jam/peanut butter/honey/chocolate spread.
And there was Gordon. Gordon was probably about 40, and a little simple, and rightly nervous of the mad and noisy Lanes. As a gang with Neil Maynard and his dog, we saw Gordon wandering down the cliff and head off along the beach towards Rame Head. Bored, we followed him. He sped up, and so did we. He ran and so did we, and we chased him over 3 beaches, on to the rocks and the best part of a couple of miles beyond. Amusing then, not so proud now though.
The next day, while collecting the daily purchases – box of Swan Vesta matches, paper (Telegraph), 6 milk and 2 bread - Mrs Bellamey had obviously heard of our cruelty and was, rightly, very angry with us and she carried out her promise to inform our parents, resulting in a telling off. (I am assured that a fellow cliff-dweller had already informed the parents and punishment had been meted out).
Also on the cliff was a family called Best-Harris with whom Simon became very chummy, either because he hoped to get access to their boat or he was genuinely interested in fishing. BH was a head? librarian from
One holiday masses of seaweed was washed up, and after a while it became a smelly obstacle through which we had to walk to get to the sea. BH was the first to organise us into a cleaning up party and once it had been collected and dried out, in way of a thankyou, we were invited to join the cleanup gang for a beach bonfire on which BH was to cook sausages and potatoes on a fire of driftwood and seaweed.
At that party, having eaten well, one of his sons, Owen, decided to go for a swim. The waves were very big and I watched in admiration as he swam just the right side of crests as the waves broke beneath him.
In his story Simon tells us of the
And while I’m here I have to tell you dear reader that I’m afraid another of Simon’s recollections, his helping with the patio, is a Lane myth. He was there, but only in a managerial role. He encouraged, suggested, and (sensibly) kept out of the way as one after another slab was brought down the cliff (by Dad, Chris and yours truly) on home-made corrugated-iron sheets curled at both ends in the form of a sledge and controlled by ropes.
I remember Mum and Simon advising Dad (not a workman by any stretch of the imagination) that the spirit-level had to “show the slope going away from the hut, not to it, to carry the rain away”. I remember thinking how silly it was, that anyone would need to be told that.
When we finished we obviously retired to the hut, and collapsing into his seat, Dad sighed with fatigue resulting from his efforts. Then we heard Dad’s mocking laughter, laughing at Simon’s Dad-like sigh and comment of “We worked hard there”.
So many managers, and so few competent workers, may explain Aunty Jenny’s comment that our Wallington house looked lived in – I think your truly meant in a state of disrepair.
Overlooking the beach, there was a seat where we would sometimes linger as we went back up to the hut. When I was about 8 or 9, sat on that bench with Chris and Simon, Chris looked at my tubby tummy, gently poked me, and noted that I was fatter than the others.
Nowadays a happy-clappy social worker would probably rush in a psychiatrist to chat to one so small, yet fatter and ‘thicker’ than the others in the family.
Also there was the day when Simon, Chris and myself watched two kids running down the cliff path. The girl called out a “hi” and “what’s your name”. “
Of teasing, my guess is that Mary came off worst – probably because she overreacted each time ni true actress-to-be style. Mary was one for standing in front of a mirror making herself more beautiful than she had been 10 minutes earlier on her previous visit. On an Easter? reading in church there was some talk of vanity she pursued, vanity she became. Poor old Mary was tormented with that until, and probably after, she left home. Yet more work for the psychiatrist – not only for Mary (or the rest of the 8), but also for the parents who never discouraged the unkind teasing or undermining of each other.
We used to go to church in either Millbrook, where the bell was a baby rattle (or was that only when we had Masses in the house), or Torpoint where we had to endure the dreadful singing from the out-of-key choir.
The church in Millbrook was the hall owned by the Conservative Club, where, much to the annoyance of Mum (a devout Socialist), there was a portrait of Ted Heath the Conservative leader hanging over the rear of the hall. On one occasion, Ma launched a verbal assault on the innocent young priest, about the portrait being compared to a picture of the Sacred Heart.
Where the hell’s that psychiatrist!
Dad tells the story of, years later, giving a lift to a priest from
Torpoint was where we were taken to buy Mum a present for her birthday, April 9th,, that often fell while we were away. Mum’s favourite chocolate treat at the time was a Walnut Whip, and in the Torpoint Co-Op I was caught shop lifting, as I attempted to steal a Walnut Whip as a present for Mum and that despite the fact that I had the cash in my pocket already!
I guess around the same era, back in Wallington, I found on top of Mum’s wardrobe (what the heck I was doing on top of the wardrobe, let alone in their bedroom, I don’t know) a pack of Walnut Whips. I’m not sure if I shared any with Simon, probably not. Soon after Mum made a comment about there being a mountaineer in the house. It was a week before that penny dropped. Well, as the teacher did say, I’m a little slow.
Years later when we had taken the top floor/flat back back as part of the family home, Simon and I would raid the cellar for tins of beans, icing sugar and milk to create culinary delights for our mid-night meals. Anything uneaten was stored under the water tank for the next night. How we survived I’ve no idea.
To provide electricity to the three top floor rooms there was a meter which was fed with shillings (5 pence to you younger ones). Simon and I believed that by slowly emptying the meter box we had an endless supply of pocket money but there was an almighty uproar when Mum went to the padlocked box to retrieve the cash. You could wonder why the key to the padlock was left on top of the box, couldn’t you.
Sadly for the two of us, the coin box was removed and if the lights went off a coin was fed through and then taken away for safe keeping elsewhere, but it was good while it lasted though.
I have always been susceptible to insect bites. During one of the holidays in Whitsands I must have been bitten by a mosquito, and, either I had been scratching it, or the sand and sun on the beach had affected the bite and made my knee swell up.
As I walked up the path from the beach, getting to the last of the paths (we split the route from the beach to the hut into pieces – to the seat – to Gwens – to the firebuckets/Maynards - the Bonds – to the bottom of ‘our path’ – to the hut) and I was going from the Bonds to the bottom of our path when I disturbed a large snake, an adder (common to the cliff) dozing on the path.
I let out a scream, the snake disappeared into the brambles, and I ran/hobbled up the path to the hut. During the evening my knee became further enlarged, and the pattern of thought must have been, snake, knee, hospital.
So, up to the car I went with Dad, stopping at the Bellamy’s cafe, a quick request for them to “Phone the Torpoint ferry and ask them hold it for us. Ask then to allow us onto the front of the queue, on to the ferry first and then to be the first off at the other end”. They did, and we rushed through Torpoint charging passed the queued-up grockles (visitors to
The snake/mozzy bite was treated with cream (anti-histamine?) and, more calmly, we drove home to the hut. It is only now, having watched my Dan go through his many epileptic fits and the blue light journeys, that I understand the fear my Mum and Dad must have had having only recently lost Ann Elizabeth.
And the journeys
Think of the worst ‘A’ roads in
There were only a few dual carriageways, certainly no motorways, to the West Country in those days. So off we went on a 6 or 7 hour journey, often at great speeds, racing past other road users as we sang our merry way ‘home’ to Cornwall. And we sang many songs, The Great American Railway, This Old Man, What A Funny Family (indeed so – barking crazy, I would say), Oh my darling Clementine, Molly Malone, Oh You’ll Never Get To Heaven, There Was A Para Trooper, and many more (all of which my kids know).
On those long journeys were took our love of cricket into the car, using the counting of vehicles to acquire scores for ourselves, 6 runs for a lorry/bus/coach, 4 for a van and 1 for a car. We were out if we saw a bicycle or motorbike and if we came into a place where there were street lights, the umpire (Dad) would declare bad light stop play.
(Nowadays, with motorway driving being the norm’ for long distance travelling, my three grew up playing to the same rules, except bridges are out instead. My Dan tells me that when playing, Ben used to close his eyes as we approached the bridge, and therefore, in his opinion, he was not out!
Cars
The Morris Traveller was the car in which we travelled when moving from
We were used to pushing the thing until it would fire up. As a family we became quite good at bump starts, and I remember Ma passing on the instructions that we would later need/use in life, “2nd gear, ignition on, clutch in, and push. Get a good head of speed, clutch out and as soon as the engine fires, press on the accelerator, slow the car to allow the pushers to get in, but all the time keep the engine running”.
When in Whitsands, our car was always parked facing towards Rame Head. The road had a 100 yard/metre downward slope facing that way, and you could have often seen the Lanes pushing their car along that road on damp Sunday mornings.
The MT was replaced by the Austin Westminster, 3.5 litre (with overdrive!) That car carted us up and down the road to and from Whitsands for the best part of 10 years, without, I seem to recall, a hitch, except…
In the AW on our way back from
It was getting late, and would soon be dark and it was beginning to rain. As we did not have the ‘luxury’ of AA or RAC cover and we were in the middle of Salisbury Plain, with a puncture, drastic measures were called for.
“We’ll turn in here and ask for help”, says Ma! Only those that know Ma, will believe that she had the brass to behave the way she then did.
Up to the gate, “I say, my man” to the soldier walking along (no gate/security guards in those safe days), “which way to the motor pool?” “It’ll be closed”. “Can you call someone to help to fix the car?”
Someone was called, then another, then another. The underside of the car was so rotten that the jacking points had collapsed. Three Army engineering minds decided to lift the car with a forklift! to allow the changing of the wheel having warned
(You may be surprised to know that the AW stayed in use with us for a further 5 years after that!). An hour after calling these chaps from their accommodation, the car was being lowered back down to the ground. One, the Sergeant?, asked, having seen the army kit (sausage) bag on the roof rack had already assumed we were an Army family, asked Ma “What Regiment are you with, Marm?” “Regiment? Oh no, my man, my husband is a professor (never one to allow the truth to stand in the way of a good story) in
The reply from the Sergeant is unprintable. But wtith the wheel changed, we cleared off as he suggested (but quite not so politely) very quickly, all embarrassed, except Ma, who touted the thought that “Well, that’s what the Army is for, helping people, isn’t it”.
My hobbies
From the age of 11 until I was 16, I cycled the 25 miles to and from Crystal Palace sports centre to receive pole-vault training from the National Coach, Alun Neuff – designer of the fibre-glass pole and the currently used ‘banana’ pole with its pre-bent shape (that I trialled for him way back in the mid-70’s – for £10).
One Saturday, I returned home early from pole-vaulting at
Mum and Chris taught me to play chess, and from an early age I followed Chris around
Dan spent a couple of years living in
School and Cub football was a refuge for me, and playing right-back (no, not in the changing room), obediently following the instructions of Mr Banks (school) and Chris Richardson (cubs) we won most of our games. One memorable game was outside the Carshalton Athletic ground where I played a storming game at the back, this time in central defence, with a chap called Kieran in goal. Simon took all of the plaudits for skilfully slotting in the winning goal (which has no doubt since become a 25 yard pile-driver), maybe two, to win us the cup.
London Welsh RFC was a Saturday afternoon haunt that Dad, Chris, Simon and I attended and on more than one occasion we watched what seemed like half of the British Lions team, JPR, John Dawes, Mervyn and Gerald Davies and more.
Before one of those matches, as we were walking towards the clubhouse in a small crowd, Simon called out very excitedly, “Look Dad. That’s John Dawes”. It was too. Not that John needed telling, at least, not at that volume.
One moment of merriment on the way back home occurred when Chris had lagged behind. He was late getting to the car, and with both Simon and I already in, Dad started up. Dad was laughing about Chris not keeping up as we drove along the side road seemingly intent on leaving Chris behind. To ensure he was to get the 20 mile ride home, Chris laid down in the road, but you should have seen his face and watched him move as Dad, having knocked the car out of gear, pressed hard on the accelerator.
With Chris I also played tennis, usually against him and taking a beating, but always enjoying myself.. Occasionally we would team up against a couple, usually adults, and I remember the two of us dishing out some severe thrashings to ‘old’ people, now of course realising that those ‘old’ people were the age I am at present (45).
We would sometimes play in one of the local parks but more often than not it was at the British Rail Sports Club (not that we were members, of course) and to those courts we had access through the back garden of the Ryle’s house. John Ryle being the head of the St Elphege’s
Postman’s knock, or knockdown ginger was a favourite ‘game’ that Simon and I enjoyed. Two or three ended in horrendous messes, but if Simon won’t tell, I shall not tell on him! Rest assured whackings were involved.
I remember thinking that Dad’s stories of playing postman’s knock back in PT sounded very amusing, with linking knocker after knocker with string, and as you knock on the first door, the second doorknocker is ‘knocked’ and on down the road.
And about not telling, I can’t tell you about Simon and his exploits when he was working in a newsagents either. Do ask him, I’m sure he’d love to share that information with you.
School
Unlike the others, for me, school was a miserable place where I was never going to reach the academic levels the others were easily achieving. Sadly, only one teacher (who was ignored) spotted and advised my parents that I was less able than the others. Ignoring that teacher resulted in me going to the wrong high school and receiving the wrong kind of education but more importantly years of unhappiness. I gladly left school at 16, sadly, but to no surprise to me, with no exam passes.
As I found out much later in life, if I was given hands on instruction, rather than having to learn from a book, and allowed to learn at my pace I could achieve many things. In the build up to the Golden Wedding party one of my friends showed me the basics of manipulating photographs, cleaning them up, adding and taking away things and then use the same pictures to create a slideshow. I lie not, the book is some 200 pages long, and the course is 3 weeks. He spent 15 minutes with me, I came home and a week later I fixed the photograph below. It’s not perfect, but it works for me. I am indebted to Paul Webb for his help that enabled me to develop what was a great show, if I say so myself.
Dad says that one of his sisters cut out him out of the picture. Which one, I wonder, and why?
Many of us leaving home
The first time I left home, well nearly did anyway, was when I was around the age of 10. It had been arranged for me to be swapped with another catholic boy (Damien McGowan) who lived 6 houses up the road, and only a last minute change of mind, by the McGowans, kept me in the Lane house, but only for a further 6 years!!
If one of my brighter brothers/sisters had been involved they would probably have demanded a transfer fee, or atleast a signing on fee if I was going on a ‘Bosman’.
Another nearly, was Simon. He was always running off. I remember feeling very sad for him as he ran off crying and shouting “I’m never coming back” as he went. He always came back, just in time for tea, until he went to Swansea Uni (where he visited (scrounged from)) the Port Talbot Lanes.
By the time I left school in 1975, Mary had already unhappily chosen to leave home. Mary and Clare had stayed behind over a summer holiday and had obviously been told that there was to be no one in the house. When Mum called from Cawsands to check on how the girls were getting on, a Irish? lad answered the phone, and all hell let loose. The remainder of that story is for someone else to tell, but, as a direct result, Mary was given two choices and she elected to leave home. There was a justifiable? long (angry?) silence from her following that episode.
Talking of Mary, and her years of silence, I remember taking Dad to the doc’s in
I suggested that Mary was probably in the same position, and if he were to write to her, her reply would probably be very very angry. “Then, Dad, you need to reply, and her reply will be only angry. Then, you need to write once more, and her reply will be cross. Another letter and you may be surprised with a humane reply”.
He did. It was pretty much as I said it would be and thankfully, for her if noone else, Mary returned to the fold.
I wouldn’t have blamed our Gerard if he had packed his bags and left earlier than he did, leaving after his A Levels for Reading University and the Jesuits thereafter. His voluntary exit easily could have been justified with the constant reminder that “If you’d been the first, you’d have been the last”. Get me that psychiatrist, NOW!
At 17, Clare had decided enough was enough and had done a runner and I seem to remember, once I’d ‘moved out’, riding my motorbike to visit in her her room/s in
At 16, I left home, not swapped this time, but thrown out! Returning home from another working day working for the GPO, I found my few personal items in bags outside the back door.
All of those exits in that 3 year period left only Simon and the three younger ones at home and luckily space and time for both parents to reassess their parenting methods, which they changed in time to provide a better home for the three ‘young ones’.
My Dan, has just asked me, “Was it the Lane house rule that you all had to leave at sixteen, or what?” I couldn’t help laughing at such a good? question. Observant lad, my Dan. As way of reassurance to him, I promised him that my home is his for as long as he wants.
Saved by the RAF
Going in search of a job I was interviewed (with Dad sitting in the interview!) by the GPO (BT to you youngsters) and we jointly won me an apprenticeship. If you can believe it, I had no idea at the time that an apprenticeship would mean I would need to go back to college, and it was a disaster for me. The RAF was some time off and a few interesting things (both good and very bad) were to happen to me in the next 4 years.
I didn’t stay with the GPO very long and drifted on to do a variety of jobs such as milkman, cellar-man to a wine merchant, and warehouseman. During the period 1975 – 1979 I had little to do with the family, the major exception being when I attended a small family gathering to watch Chris collect his degree, Oxford (1978?) and a small gathering afterwards as the Lanes celebrated that great occasion.
Despite the unhappy past, I would still visit the Lane home from time to time. One sunny afternoon I had walked the 5 miles to the Lane home from my lodgings and as I approached along the side road adjacent to the house, I heard part of a conversation that went along he lines of ‘the RAF? Paul would never cope! I remember the surprised voice answering Ma with ‘Oh surely he would love the RAF’. Did they know I was there? Was it a set up, a challenge? But to prove Mum wrong, and for no other reason, I decided to join the RAF.
I was allowed home for the last night before I joined (to make sure I didn’t chicken out at the last minute?). Dad came with me to King’s Cross (to make sure I actually went?). Being the ‘oaf’ I was, I had lost the RAF-provided ticket and Dad stepped forward to buy me a replacement ticket. Once paid for, hey hey, I found the old one, and with the now famous look, he sighed with frustration and returned to the ticket kiosk to reclaim his payment and after a hug, Dad saw me on to the train heading north for RAF Swinderby.
On arriving at
I was in the group that was pushed towards ‘the stick-man’s’ coach where, just in front of me, one of the recruits tripped as he climbed the steps falling back on to the lunatic with the stick. Another chap laughed and I expected him to receive a home-like ‘telling off’ but the stick-man simply glared at him, and went back to his shouting. If shouting was all they could offer, I had nothing to fear here. I climbed aboard feeling quite content with my decision to join up.
In the RAF, I found myself amidst others with similar in/abilities to mine, and within days, in that controlled and secure environment, I felt very comfortable. I had sport, running, more sport, more running and only then, a little work, I assume, to allow us to recover for the next day’s exertions. I had the time of my life.
Is it any surprise that all 3 of mine hope to be able to follow in my footsteps?
If I could have changed my 6-year contract to one of 22 years in those first few weeks I would have willingly done so.
During the six-week basic training course, we were taught to march in a straight line, salute, and clean toilets and stairs with toothbrushes. During one of the daily room inspections I had to
watch ‘the stick man’ throw my bedding through the first floor window “because it isn’t folded well enough” (but still no whacking).
On the first morning, we were woken at six, given a cooked breakfast and left right left right to the ‘haircut man’, and then on to clothing stores to collect our uniforms. Then back to the 20 man room to learn how to iron a shirt, polish shoes ‘so the toe-caps shine like mirrors’ and lunch. So much food, Mum would have loved it! More marching, then P.E. Right you ‘orrible lot, let’s see if you can run. What! Paid to run?
100 recruits set off with three of us going into an early lead and quickly completing the five mile route. When we returned the Corporal PTI was outspoken in his praise for the “three big fellas up front”.
Early the following morning, up early again for breakfast, then “line up, tallest on the left, smallest on the right. “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going to, big fella?”
The stick-wielding lunatic was bawling at me! Unknown to me, in my confused little life that I had led since the age of 16, I had grown to be nearly 6 foot. (I still feel small, and I was very surprised when I saw photographs of Kevin (who in my minds eye is the same size as me), Simon and myself and the difference in our heights.
But back to RAF Swinderby. Am I the ugly duckling here? I’m leading the running, I’m not the shrimp I always was, no-one is whacking me, and because I can do that left right left right stuff, no-one is shouting at me…and, they want to pay me, too.
At the completion of each week, the RAF arranged for a pay person and his crony/hench-man (with the cash) to pay us our dues.
We lined up in the corridor, in alphabetical order, A’s first, and …
“On the calling of your name, you are to come to attention, call out your service number, surname, salute, march forward and come to a halt at the pay desk. You will receive your weekly pay, you will salute, collect the pay, about turn, and return to your room (of 24 men/boys) where you will wait, quietly”. Seemed pretty clear to me.
Up we went one by one. My turn. Attention, “J8185215, Lane”, march, halt, salute, and I awaited the delivery of my £125 weeks wages. It was immediately obvious to me that there was a problem. The pay officer and his hench man provided only £10.50. In turn, I looked at the cash, the officer, the hench man, then the stick man.
“What, Lane? What is it”? Now fearless, I informed the three ‘thieves’ that I was due £125.
The hench man sniggered, the officer glared, the stickman went sort of purple, and shouted, this time just like Dad, “In my office, left right, left, right, halt”. Slam of door. “
I explained to the still-purple stick man that my contract with the RAF was for an annual pay of £5,600.
“That sum” I told the mathematical fool “divided by 12 and again by 4 was about £125 for a weeks pay”. Bless the man, he actually smiled and calmly explained in a kind fatherly fashion to a semi-idiot child that you only get paid that amount after you have finished your training at Cosford. “Right, he quietly said, “back in line”. Somewhat, subdued, I went to the back of the line to collect my paltry £10.50.
On the day of our pass-out parade I was informed that I had been voted, by my fellow cadets, as Sportsman of the Intake and I stepped up to proudly receive the first of many trophies that I would win in the RAF.
From Swinderby I was posted to RAF Cosford, the home of military sport and the Amateur Athletics Association and their (and, then,
Marriage and three lovely children
One sporting story for you – during 1980, while courting Patsy I was caught, out-of-bounds, in the girls housing by a female Warrant Officer (WO Davis) the British Amateur squash champion. It turned out that she knew of me and my sporting abilities and offered me a choice of two punishments; One from the Station Commander, which would have been a weeks wages and 2 nights in the cell, or the other, “you can train with me for the next two weeks”.
I’ll take the training please, Marm” and with my running shoes and a borrowed squash racket, I went to the RAF High Wycombe squash courts and so began a virtual 25 year love affair with squash. Lucky me.
During Christmas leave, 1981, I received a short-notice posting to RAF Rheindahlen in
After two very happy years Ben was born, and finally I had the chance to give to one of mine, the love and time that I had wanted so much, as a youngster. Dan (1987), then Clare (1989), followed, both being born in
After Clare’s 2nd birthday, as Damien has also done, I sat down and wrote a letter to each of my much loved children.
Patsy’s family, especially her Mum, Sheila, and Patsy’s step-Dad, Mike (Granddad, to my three), gave to all five of us buckets and buckets of kindness. Mike was a Kent-born tenant farm child, with no education, he had a difficulty with reading and writing but he outstripped most men I knew and though he could be taken as being a ‘simple’ man, he was a giant, and in time Mike became a hero to Ben, Dan and Clare, and my best friend.
Off to Rheindahlen we went for 3 years overseas where money was good and life was better. Dad wrote to tell me to say that there was a house for sale and “you really should buy it” and for £20,000 I/we bought
Ben was born at RAF Hospital Wegberg on
From Rheindahlen we moved back to Linton-on-Ouse, near
In 2004, once the story of Grandpa Jim and his exploits were shared I spent a little time reading about the heroic efforts put in by Jim and his colleagues. Each one was a hero, and fortunately our hero came home. They went to
They fought long and hard, heroes all, before being ordered to withdraw because the other nations alongside them were being over-run. Only the British were holding their own and they were grave in danger of being surrounded and back to the Channel they ran, chased all the way.
The
With 3 children we returned to the
Cancer in the family
In 1994 Mike was diagnosed with bowel cancer. After a 2 year respite he was advised to prepare the family for his death. His generosity, advice, humour, gentleness and love for his many grandchildren was taken from us all, and he is still missed today. As I nursed him on his deathbed I knew that I was losing a special person from my life. Still today, years on, I often think of him and when I mention his name to my kids there reply is always along the lines of “Yes, he was really nice, wasn’t he”. Actually, he was better than nice. He was a tremendously caring, giving, loyal and contented man and I learned plenty from him.
I will forever remember crying to Dad that Mike had been my best friend and that “I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t gone to the doctor when he MUST have known something had been so badly wrong”.
Dad came to Mike’s funeral, and if that church service and the unnecessary death of Mike was the persuader for Dad to visit the doctor, only he knows. I can tell you that very soon after, Dad informed us all one by one, that he too had bowel cancer and would soon be “going in for an op”.
While doing the typing for this book and putting together my family tree, Dad loaned me the birth and death certificates of the wider family. I discovered in that batch of papers that his maternal Grandfather, Jeremiah McCarthy had died of bowel cancer (at the age of 73, Dad’s age at the time of his op) and so too, had many of Jeremiah’s children. My uncles Pat and Gerard had sadly died years earlier through cancer and now Dad was ill. I took that as a warning and I booked myself in for a check and now undergo three yearly checks, uncomfortable for sure, but a lifesaver?, who knows. Certainly it’s a reassurance each time I walk away ‘all clear’.
Five years of fun and games
Back to work at Brize, where I worked with the Paras and the like. In August 1992 Saddam Hussein invaded
I remember the morning after we had arrived, listening on World Service, to Maggie Thatcher, stating the her government had no intention of sending any troops to save Kuwait and I hoped that my long-held belief that all politicians are barefaced liars was going to hold true, and that reinforcements would soon turn up. Five days later, they did and within three weeks we were recalled to the
I arrived home, took some leave, and headed for the
Soon after, I regretted ‘briefing’ the parents when it was announced that it was Peter’s turn to go and that he and his people would be there until it was over. Thank God, he came home in one piece, but that’s his story to tell. I regret to say I was away for his home-coming party, back in the Gulf with the gang from Brize.
One memory from those Brize days was coming through the front door to find my Dan and Ben, dressed up in my ‘going away clothes’, sleeves and legs of my camouflage clothing rolled up many times, one wearing my gas mask, the other my helmet, both shooting the place to bits with their toy rifles and having the time of their lives.
At Brize too, Patsy and I began to be unhappy in each others company. Maybe it was due to the five years I spent doing ‘my thing’ and the writing of wills, “If I don’t come home, tell the kids I loved them and take good care them should anything happen”, away for 6 weeks, home for 3 days/a week/a fortnight and away again.
Only someone left behind will (and I don’t) understand the pressure and worry that poor Patsy must have suffered during that 5 year period. To her credit, she never asked me to change jobs, nor did she once ask me not to go, and being the way I am, each time I left, though I left with a little tear, I got on with the job in hand and I took great pride and got much pleasure in doing my worthwhile job very well.
On New Years Day of 1993, I received a thank you letter from by my bosses up on high. A proud moment for a dysfunctional, academically inferior youth. On returning to duty after the Christmas break, my immediate boss called me in to offer his congratulations. He then laughingly told me “The award would have been much greater if you hadn’t told so many bosses where they were going wrong”. Once a Lane, always a Lane. Forthright, you could say.
Great times with the children
In the hope of saving the marriage I applied for a posting back to
That move was their first time of flying. I had left some 4 weeks earlier and I remember them arriving at the new house in Germany, and the three excitedely jabbering on and on about the hotel and the flight over, especially excited about “flying backwards”, the RAF and backward facing seats being years ahead of many ‘forward thinking’ airlines.
It was only recently when I was talking with Ben about the constant moving when I asked him “Did you mind”. “Not at all”, he told me, with the beaming smile that he wears so often, “I loved the adventure”. I have long admired his positive attitude but I am glad that the moving came to halt when we moved to RAF Shawbury three years later.
But back to
In that park too, Clare first went solo on her bike. “Can we go for a ride, Dad”, Dan asked. And me, and me chirped the other two. And off the four of us went. I was on crutches recovering from a broken ankle so I wasn’t very mobile and as I hobbled along with my crutch and holding Clare by a shoulder we disappeared into the park. On the first downhill slope, she increased in speed and I couldn’t keep up. She went for about 50 metres before realising I wasn’t there anymore and she fell off with a crash. Hobbling along as best I could, I got to Clare who was crying and laughing, jumping up and down with pain and joy. After a big hug she wriggled free and was soon back on her bike to do some more cycling.
I taught all three to ride, but none succeeded in such a dramatic way. A proper drama queen then, and now. But like her Aunty Clare, so lovely with it. For the next two years we cycled as a four-some along the many paths cut between the fields, taking picnics and disappearing for hours. On one trip out we stopped for an hour or so to watch six huge hunting birds playing high in the sky, listening to them calling each other, and watched as they circled and practiced their hunting skills by attacking each other.
I was working a very friendly shift pattern (which I still work today as a civilian employee) and to keep myself busy during my time off I joined the window-cleaning service provided by the Unit. With that extra cash I could pay for the kids to go swimming several times a week, ice skating, gliding, ten pin bowling and on and on. When I was not in work or window cleaning, and they not in school one or more of them would be out with me as per the TV character Yozzer from Boys From The Black Stuff . It took my pals about 2 weeks to realise that
Sadly it became very clear that Patsy and I were not to be able to continue together and when I received the notice that I was to be promoted and posted to RAF Shawbury, I decided that I would go there on my own. Patsy moved to our house in
Single parenting and some very good times
By the time I arrived at Shawbury with the boys, I was easily capable of running the house and cooking and baking to satisfy our needs. My new bosses were less than pleased that I was a single-parent and therefore an administrative burden. A single parent, definitely. A burden, most certainly not, but it was difficult for me for the first few months.
Once I had adjusted to being a single Dad, my state of mind settled knowing the boys (and Clare in Bournemouth) were in good schools and they were in safe hands, especially the boys ‘behind the wire of the RAF Station’. On the way home from school they called in to my office to tell me they were home and off they went a further 200 metres to new their home, supposedly to do their homework but invariably I got home to find them playing their guitars or out playing football.
Soon after arriving, I became friendly with a PTI who invited us to try canoeing with him at the local (45 minutes away) canoe club. The boys took to it instantly, Dan first, braving the coldness of the winter, Ben joining in the April (“once the ice has gone”).
When Clare joined us on weekends all four of us would get on the water, Clare and me falling out, or sliding down the small waterfalls backwards or sideways, barely aware of what to do next, and the boys paddling alongside calmly offering words of advice.
For 3 years we toured the country, racing and practicing, rain and shine, and much fun was had by all. For myself, the best part was getting them all together, tent at first, later a caravan heading for the quieter parts of the
The best trip of all was to
the three kids happily seated prepared for another long trip. The effort in getting there was very worthwhile with the sun shining each of the seven days. Once the canoeing had finished, we had lunch and took to the hills to sample the joys of the fantastic scenery.
Thankfully that trip was better than many journeys from earlier days, when I would hear, “Dad, he’s touching me” or “Dad, he’s looking at me”. The best? complaint, at which we all still laugh, was one of Clare’s complaining pleas. That story goes:
Ben sat in the middle, would turn to Clare, and loudly breathe, at her, through his nose. Clare’s plea to me, “Dad can you stop him breathing?” A bit drastic, I thought, but sometimes after a 200 mile journey, I could well have obliged her. Is teasing a genetic pastime, I wonder?
The boys, and Clare from afar, continued to be the priority in my life. Dan became the head of the list of priorities when Ben rushed into my office, his face contorted with fear, “Dan’s collapsed, he needs help”. I took him to hospital where he was diagnosed as an epileptic, changing his and our lives completely. Many fits later he has been placed on a sensible amount of medication and for the past year he has been fit-clear. With good fortune, he will remain clear and be able to lead a ‘normal’ life.
Ben, apart from the canoeing, has always led from the front. He has a ready smile, a willingness to listen, a greater willingness to find fun and certainly takes much enjoyment from teasing Dan and Clare, … and sleeps alot. He is full of ability, whether on the football pitch, volleyball court or playing tennis, he shows a natural touch and loads of enthusiasm. He would probably want me to tell you that he as the good fortune to believe that second place is the first loser and that a good loser is a loser!.
Like Dan, he took to canoeing like a duck to water. Within a year it was obvious that he was a class above many of his age, and, at the age of 14, he was selected to represent the team that won the British Championship. The following year, much stronger, he returned with the club to defend their title.
Not only did they achieve that, but Ben also took the title of U.16 British Champion too. What a weekend.
He made many friends in the canoeing world, as he does where ever he goes He has the good fortune to be able to take on any challenge with confidence and correctly expects to succeed. Lucky boy.
He cruised through his High School years into his 6th Form where he reduced speed (naughty boy) and struggled somewhat, but he got through. Why, you may ask did he struggle. Ask him, but I can tell you that his guitar playing, volleyball and football was markedly better by the end of his second year of sixth form! (Eric Clapton, watch out!)
Ben is currently planning to join the RAF but wherever his future lies, I am sure he will be happy. He continues to be a very affable and cheerful young man and realises that he is capable of taking on and succeeding in most challenges. If he fails to join the RAF, he has discussed the idea of returning to university, now a wiser and more applied young man.
As a 4 year old Dan was a true joy, whooping and laughing as few others could. He loved his Mum, Dad, little sister and big brother and showed it with hugs and cuddles, laughter and smiles and nothing has changed much.
Dan has completed his high-school years, having had great difficulty in dealing with his dyslexia and losing a lot of class time recovering from the many epileptic fits. Having had a shot at A’ Levels he realised that, like his Dad, he needed to find a different route into the adult world. He is now awaiting an interview with the Civil Service to start on their very long ladder.
In his Junior school days he and Ben were allowed an hour a day playing on computer games. He took great pleasure in the combined efforts of Ben and himself being aware that Ben was able to quickly get through the less difficult phases when he would stand behind the chair, jumping and leaning in tune with the game on screen. “Watch out, careful, go on go” whatever was suitable. At the point where the game was confusing, Dan took over, eased his way through, and handed it back to Ben to carry on. A great team player.
A story, added very late, that I recall is much to do with the adjacent picture. When only 4 or 5, like all other children, Dan was a watcher of Tom and Jerry and other cartoons. In one of those cartoons Dan had seen Jerry being fed through a mangle and him emerging the opposite side as flat as paper before exploding back to his normal shape. In Whitsands we had a mangle used on the hand washed clothes before they were hung on the hydrangea bushes. Dan, encouraged by Ben – infact assured, by Ben, that “it won’t hurt” and “ofcourse you’ll pop back into shape” – placed his fingers in the mangle ready for Ben turned the handle. Ben laughed, Dan screeched in pain, and Dan found out the hard way that Ben’s a naughty boy and that cartoons are not reality.
When he was 10, he excitedly came in to the kitchen and dragged me from the cooker to the computer room. “Look” he said with a big smile and with some pride, “Look what I’ve done”. There was a blank screen. “Touch the keyboard”. I did. A sky blue screen appeared, then a tree, then another landed in mid-screen. A bird flew in to view. Flowers popped up, the sun rose, and a rabbit ran across the grass. “That’s lovely Dan”. "No, watch", and as I turned back to the screen, everything exploded. Jumping up and down with pleasure, hands aloft “What do you think”, he asked with his cheeky smile. It was very good. My laughter at his little production and Ben’s admiration for his little brother’s efforts was enjoyed by us all.
While still quite new to canoeing, Ben and Dan chose to race their kayaks at Bridgenorth, near Ironbridge, on Jackfields rapids where the river
Gate 14 was tucked behind a huge mid-river rock, underneath the largest drop. My advice for my little treasures was to “Go down the waterfall, miss 14, and go straight to 15, collecting 50 penalty points, but then you are avoiding getting tipped out at a very difficult point”.
Jan and I watched them get into the water, a quick “good luck” and we dashed through the woods to the mid-course vantage point and video camera running. Dan went first, paddling through the course, to the waterfall. Not for Dan to miss gate 14, not a chance. There are moments in all parents lives when you could cry with pride, and that was one for me.
A massive effort, right turn paddle up under the rock, nose out, launched across the fast moving river to gate 15 and on to the finish. He sat in his boat, arms and paddle aloft, a smile of pride and celebration.
Ben had watched Dan complete the course and, not to be outdone, Ben followed the same difficult route. Once more Dan’s smile returned, his arms went aloft, shouting his encouragement to his equally brave big brother as Ben successfully took on 14 and the remainder of the course. Was Dan’s pleasure diminished by having his older brother achieve the difficult route? Not a bit of it. Dan had remained on the river and it was lovely to watch them celebrating and happily chatting as they paddled back to shore, champions both.
He remains very active out of the house spending much time with several interests, and many friends, mainly with the voluntarty group, the Bournemouth Student Council where he helps to plan activities for themselves and others as well as debating issues of importance to them forwarding their conclusions and suggestions to the relevant authorities.
Everyone that meets and gets to know Dan, loves him. He is growing, like Ben and Clare, into a happy and outwardly confident adult, and with the right help will overcome the hurdles of moving into the world of work.
Little Clare has quickly grown from the tearful child that I left at her Mums in 1987 with the promise to see her on the following weekend.
I kept that promise and each time I left, I promised her that on the next weekend we would see each other again. I drove the 4 hour journey many times to ensure that Clare and I could spend as much as time together as was possible and I hoped by doing so she would grow up to know that I care about her, as much as as I care for her brothers living with me.
Nowadays, the visits and contacts are less, not because I care less, but because Clare is rarely home anymore. Like any healthy, well-balanced teenager, she has her band of friends. It is no surprise that she is liked by many people as her bubbly and enthusiastic personality, quick mind, sharp wit and willingness to join in, encourage others to enjoy her company.
I hear in her voice the difficulty she feels when I ask if she’s busy and I can sense how she and is torn between seeing them or seeing me. I am happy to sacrifice our meetings allowing her to join her friends because they give her great pleasure and she knows that if she needs help or advice, I’m there for her.
Now, far from little she has grown to be a lovely young lady. Her desire - to surpass Ben’s achievements. That spurs her on and she works hard in school and plays just as hard on the sports pitch. Yes, she’s another Lane who thinks second place is for others.
One of her claims to fame is her weight lifting story. At the age of 14, while at school, she was teasing the ‘girly’ boys weightlifting team, laughing at their feeble attempts. To justify her mocking, she waited until they had all achieved their maximum, strode in, upped the weight, lifted the bar, and no doubt in Lane-like fashion, head held high, strutted off with a smile on her face.
While in a shop with Ben and Clare I overheard a lad tell his mate “She’s quite foxy”. My Ben tells me that that’s a complement! She is a very keen dancer, attending a variety of dance classes and enjoys the limelight of performing in places such as the Bournemouth Conference Centre and Christmas 2004 in the school play performing as a singer, actress and dancer.
There is nothing I have said of Ben and Dan that cannot equally be said of Clare. She has poise, wit, an ability to laugh, a real love of people, a fierce determination, and, apparently, quite foxy too!
Her future looks bright. She expects to be accepted into St Peter’s sixth form and to pass her A Levels followed by Uni’ and the RAF-based University Squadron. And what drives her? Simply the intention of beating Ben and his results and of gaining entry to the RAF where she wants to work in the Phys’ Ed’ branch and, as I told her recently, I am already looking forward to joining her at her Officer Graduation party at Cranwell in 2011 to celebrate her success in achieving so much. To Clare, good luck, and to you boys, keep up, eh!
Thanks for the genes
Though success in school was not mine, the other seven were more fortunate, genes playing their full part there.
We also received the genetics that have allowed us to take part in our respective sports, be it chess, lacrosse, tennis, running, cricket and/or rowing with any amount of sports squeezed in between and none of us settling for second place or ‘taking part’ when winning was an option.
Thankfully most of us managed to avoid the McCarthy gene that allocates the musical ear, or lack of, in Mum’s case. “What a wonderful descant” she was told (while actually attempting to sing in key!) Mary gained from those musical genes and fortunately for them, she has passed on those same talents to her four girls.
Looking down from heaven, do you think that Louis and
Dad
As a teenager, and later still as a 20 year old, I had some awful arguments with Dad, and like others I spent some years when I found it impossible to talk to him. Fortunately I grew up, learned to forgive, if not forget, and discovered for myself what a sensitive, caring, deep, generous and misunderstood man he was. He had very high standards and expected everyone around him attain the same level.
He hated laziness, fibbing, cheating and stealing and he tried so hard to be fair. If you wronged him, though, he could be slow to forgive, and the bigger the wrong, the slower he would forgive.
I believe it was those standards that made Dad so special. He was a much-admired man by virtually everyone who met him. The 300-parishioners, friends and family who congregated to say cheerio, were there en masse to jointly acknowledge that a fine man had gone before us. I don’t expect to go to another service like that.
I’ll miss him, especially when I have a difficulty or just need someone to chat with and I am glad that I had many years with him when the two of us were at peace with each other.
Here’s to you
Ed.
And what do we make of that lot?
It was probably a hard decision for Louis’ Grandfather (Patrick) to leave, with his young family, his wider family and the safety of the Irish Catholic home in Kerry in the 1850s
Another hard life for Louis’ father (Patrick) grinding out a living and climbing the social ladder in Dowlais.
In 1914 the early death of Anastasia and a dash down the hill to Aberavon and
And for the eldest of his, to
What have we had handed down – apart from our good looks and modesty?
Good health
A sense of humour
An ability to sensibly manage our cash
A willingness to work
An ability to tell a good story
All in all, not a bad list.
To the 22 grandchildren - my generation had a bash at furthering the story. It’s now your turn. Make good use of the high genetic standards that you have been gifted and improve on that list where you can and remember –
Second is first Loser.
God Bless you, yours, and on down the line.
And finally – truly
At the Requiem Mass Damien stepped up to ‘do’ the first reading followed by Clare to ‘do’ the second. Gerard wrote 5 brilliant bidding prayers that were read in magnificent style by Ben, Alice, Maz and himself. Dan and Joe carried the bread and wine for the Offertory and the Grande Finale (The Tribute) was delivered by our Chris. the tribute to Dad had been written and re-written several times over the past 6/7 years.
It was delivered to the congregation with a humour and sensitivity that would have made Dad very proud and at it’s conclusion the priest, Fr. Beattie, led a standing ovation. I would hope that the ovation was not only for the time, care and effort put into the writing, nor only for the honesty in it’s delivery but was a final applause for our wonderful and caring Dad.
That brilliant tribute (including a forecast of a victory over
A Tribute to Dad, given at
On behalf of the Lane family, I would like to express my deep gratitude to Father Beattie for his care for us. We are so grateful to you all for coming to support us with your prayer and your Faith. Please come to the Rite of Burial in Gloucester Rd Cemetery, and to the reception at the
Dad was born in
Dad was an outstanding sportsman, excelling at tennis, cricket and rugby football. I watched him playing outside centre for Plymouth Albion, refereeing as a schoolmaster, and supporting the London Welsh. He was noisily happy when
He is now praying for a Welsh victory over
Dad was proud of being from south
Dad left school aged 15 and his first job was as a clerk in the bus company. In 1942 Dad joined the De La Salle Brothers and, having done his religious and academic studies in
Dad’s hard work and passionate commitment to education excellence were seen in action at St Boniface College,
Dad was also a prolific writer of books for school children. The books successfully put, in his words, ‘jam on the bread’ of our large and ever growing family. Dad often had three writing projects on the go at the same time, and sometimes his children were dragooned into composing the index, when we were not washing dishes, altar serving, or delivering general elections leaflets!
Dad loved his Church. Proudly Catholic, he strove to bring us up in the faith of our fathers. He served as Governor of our parish school in
Dad loved singing, and he was a considerable organist and pianist, self-taught. My earliest memories are of Dad playing ‘Soul of my Saviour’ at
Dad and his booming voice. He loved debating, especially about the Labour party, the church and education, rarely letting facts get in the way of a good argument!
I can imagine Dad in a corner of heaven now, pipe in hand, arguing with his Dad, his brothers and others, occasionally listening to the other person – if he agreed with Dad!!
Many of Dad’s friends have written to me about his sense of humour, his story telling and his ability to put people at their ease, so that they felt better as people, having known Dad.
Dad was a sensitive and complex man, for whom life became easier when the burdens of child rearing eased. Dad loved – and still loves – our much loved Mum, his nine children, and 22 grandchildren of whom he was so proud, and to whom he spoke so movingly in his humbling speech in August [during the party to celebrate Mum/Dad’s 50th Wedding Anniversary]. Dad did his best to give us the right values and to protect us from harm, so that we would follow the ‘Way, the Truth and the Life’.
The words of St Timothy come to mind: ‘The time has come for me to be gone. I have fought the good fight to the end; I have run the race to the finish; I have kept the faith, all there is to come now is the crown of righteousness reserved for me, which the Lord, the righteous judge will give to me on that day; and not only to me but to all those who have longed for his appearing.’
May he rest in peace. Amen
Ed.
Ring out the applause for Dad and his eldest.
Following the burial, where we sang one of Dad’s favourite tunes – Faith of our Fathers – we headed for the reception at the hotel and another large gathering of the Clan.
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