'Holidays of Old'
Ah, Blackpool, the sands of time long past! Blackpool brings back fond memories to me of windy sea fronts, ‘kiss-me-quick’ hats, the disciplinarian landlady armed with a rule book as thick as a Lancashire plumber, sugared doughnuts with jam centres, fish and chips, the Tower, snatched pleasured moments beneath the pier with a girl I’d never seen before and would never see again, and pleasure beaches to excite the senses and challenge a dodgy stomach.
For well over a hundred years, Blackpool has been the favoured destination for textile workers from the Northern mills, taking that much-earned break from the shop floor for a week of working-class escapism. Blackpool was the place of baptism for many a young girl or boy, young man or growing woman. It was where one often got their first kiss or had their first foray into the 'naughty but nice' world of sexual experimentation. Many a marriage partner was found on the ballroom floor of the Tower while the sacred vows of other marriages were sometimes broken, along with the sound of the waves beneath the pier in the moonlight.
For well over a hundred years, Blackpool has been the favoured destination for textile workers from the Northern mills, taking that much-earned break from the shop floor for a week of working-class escapism. Blackpool was the place of baptism for many a young girl or boy, young man or growing woman. It was where one often got their first kiss or had their first foray into the 'naughty but nice' world of sexual experimentation. Many a marriage partner was found on the ballroom floor of the Tower while the sacred vows of other marriages were sometimes broken, along with the sound of the waves beneath the pier in the moonlight.
I recall that when I first got married, my mother-in-law, who had been widowed a number of years, always holidayed in Blackpool. That was where she used to holiday with her husband and children. Being a widow, we always went away with her for the week's holiday during August. We had some good times during those early years. Once, I remember us going into a cinema farther up the coast towards Morcambe. As we went to our row of seats in pitch darkness, I found my seat, sat down and held my wife's hand. The held hand shrugged off mine and only then did I discover that it belonged to a strange woman sat at the other side of me, who remarked in a matronly spinster voice, "Well, I never! Do you mind? What kind of woman do you take me to be? Well I never!" I don’t know why she should have expressed disappointment because I'm sure ‘she never did’ anyway!
I recall that when I first got married, my mother-in-law, who had been widowed a number of years, always holidayed in Blackpool. That was where she used to holiday with her husband and children. Being a widow, we always went away with her for the week's holiday during August. We had some good times during those early years. Once, I remember us going into a cinema farther up the coast towards Morcambe. As we went to our row of seats in pitch darkness, I found my seat, sat down and held my wife's hand. The held hand shrugged off mine and only then did I discover that it belonged to a strange woman sat at the other side of me, who remarked in a matronly spinster voice, "Well, I never! Do you mind? What kind of woman do you take me to be? Well I never!" I don’t know why she should have expressed disappointment because I'm sure ‘she never did’ anyway!
When my first two children started to grow up, they also were brought up on holidays in Blackpool. I eventually started to get fed up of Blackpool, especially when our marriage started to deteriorate. Eventually, I put my foot down and insisted on going to Morecambe instead. It was only a mere twenty miles farther up the coast line, and the children preferred it.
I remember my very last holiday in Blackpool. My wife and I had agreed and planned to split up after we'd returned from vacation, but we didn't want to spoil the children's holiday which they were looking forward to, by telling them of our plans before we went. So we all went off for a jolly holiday.The children were then aged three years and five. It was the unhappiest holiday I've ever had, but in their blissful ignorance and innocence, the two children loved it as they played merrily in the sand. I recall thinking as I watched them happily waving their buckets and spades as they built their sandcastles that their parents were making plans to break up the stability of their family home. So you see, Blackpool holds mixed memories for me and is not the place that I'd willingly choose to go back to for a break today.
I remember my very last holiday in Blackpool. My wife and I had agreed and planned to split up after we'd returned from vacation, but we didn't want to spoil the children's holiday which they were looking forward to, by telling them of our plans before we went. So we all went off for a jolly holiday.The children were then aged three years and five. It was the unhappiest holiday I've ever had, but in their blissful ignorance and innocence, the two children loved it as they played merrily in the sand. I recall thinking as I watched them happily waving their buckets and spades as they built their sandcastles that their parents were making plans to break up the stability of their family home. So you see, Blackpool holds mixed memories for me and is not the place that I'd willingly choose to go back to for a break today.
And yet, if I allow my mind to think far enough back, all the way back to my teenage years, my memories of Blackpool were highly pleasurable then (that's me with my back to the photographer....the best looking one). There was the Pleasure Beach and all of those white-knuckle rides that threatened to empty your stomach as the rackety carriages rattled and filled you with fear, before descending a perpendicular slope of which 90% had been constructed solely from wood!
Included on this Blackpool menu of youthful experience was having my first underage pint with a group of underage friends from Windybank Estate and getting up on the stage in a Working Man's Club to sing in the days when karaoke hadn't yet been invented. Then, there was also the obligatory practice of sleeping the night away under the South Pier with a 17-year-old girl from Cannock Chase. I'd only met the girl that afternoon on the dodgems, but was convinced by midnight that we’d been destined to meet beneath the Blackpool skies and spend the rest of our lives together. We did meet again at her parents place. They ran a public house in Cannock Chase. The weekend was mememorable, but that's all it turned out to be; just another wet weekend.
Included on this Blackpool menu of youthful experience was having my first underage pint with a group of underage friends from Windybank Estate and getting up on the stage in a Working Man's Club to sing in the days when karaoke hadn't yet been invented. Then, there was also the obligatory practice of sleeping the night away under the South Pier with a 17-year-old girl from Cannock Chase. I'd only met the girl that afternoon on the dodgems, but was convinced by midnight that we’d been destined to meet beneath the Blackpool skies and spend the rest of our lives together. We did meet again at her parents place. They ran a public house in Cannock Chase. The weekend was mememorable, but that's all it turned out to be; just another wet weekend.
Even at the age of eighteen years, I remained a hopeless romantic. I often wondered if I've ever really change. Only time itself was to prove that I was capable of changing. If I was ever to find myself unattached today, I might meet a good looking woman and end up at either her place or mine, but I couldn't possibly envisage sleeping under the South Pier again with nothing but the shallow prospects of a short coat and a long night ahead.
My first full week's holiday that I took away from the presence of my parents and all the rest of my family was at Butlin's Holiday Camp in Skegness with my 18-year-old friend Geoffrey Griffiths. I was sixteen going on seventeen years old at the time and I will never forget that very first time at Butlins. Me and Geoffrey, being relatively good looking lads, weren't at the holiday camp long before we were paired off with two girls who originated from where I cannot recall. What I do remember about mine wasn't her name or her address, but the fact that she was a 'comptometer controller'. I'd never before heard of such a position. The holiday was memorable for all the right reasons that only a sixteen going on seventeen-year-old youth could appreciate. As my dearly departed mother would often say, "Short, but oh so sweet, Billy boy!"
Then there was Ireland, dear old Ireland; land of the hopeless romantic and place of my birth. My parents were born in Ireland, along with me and the two oldest girls they had, Mary and Eileen. My mum and dad have been deceased for over thirty and twenty years now respectively, and there is still not a day passes by when I don't miss them, especially my mum.
I remember my mum when we were growing up in relatively poor circumstances. She would suddenly announce to me and my oldest two sisters at 4.00 pm on a Friday, "Billy, get your two younger sisters, Mary and Eileen ready; we're going to Ireland”.
"But we can't afford, Mum," I'd reply. I was always the responsible adult in the family, in the absence of my dad.
I remember my mum when we were growing up in relatively poor circumstances. She would suddenly announce to me and my oldest two sisters at 4.00 pm on a Friday, "Billy, get your two younger sisters, Mary and Eileen ready; we're going to Ireland”.
"But we can't afford, Mum," I'd reply. I was always the responsible adult in the family, in the absence of my dad.
"If we don't pay this week's bills and let them run over one more week, we can afford the ticket fare!" she'd reply. "Besides, I can always pawn my wedding ring again until next month. It won't be the first time it's been in the old pawn shop!"
In later years my mother told me that the very first time she had cause to pawn her wedding ring was in Fintona, County Tyrone.
One hour later, we'd be on the train to Holyhead Port in Wales, where we'd board what became colloquially known as 'The Cattle Boat’. They gave the steerage vessel that name because both poorer people and cattle for slaughter in the Dublin abattoirs were ferried across the Irish Sea in an 8-hour journey (as it used to be rumoured in earlier years), in shared accommodation!
We'd arrive in Dublin during the early morning and the very first thing mum would do upon leaving the ferry was to post a letter to my dad and ask him to send her any spare money he had as she'd decided to go to see her parents in Ireland 'before they died and while they could still possessed their failing eyesight to see their growing grandchildren’. As it happened, my grandparents would live for another eighteen years; by which time my mother would have parented another four children, making me the eldest in a family of seven children; Me, Mary, Eileen, Patrick, Peter, Michael and Susan.
My mother would usually arrive at my grandparent's house in the middle of the night and arouse them from their depths of sleep. My grandmother would open the door bleary eyed, to see her eldest daughter (my mum) standing there with one of my sisters in either hand and me holding on to her skirt.
"Can you put me and the three children up for the next three weeks?" she'd ask, adding, "Paddy will send us some money through out of next week's wages to help pay for our food." Paddy was my father, who would be working overtime back in West Yorkshire in order to pay for my mother's on-the-spur-of-the-moment holiday jaunts.
Of course my grandparents always accommodated us free of charge, and to tell the truth, they were glad to do so. They were wonderful people and when I die, I have already made up my mind to have part of my ashes spread in my grandparent's grave, another part on my parent's grave, a part in the allotment that me and my wife, Sheila, spend many a happy hour, and the final part on the Haworth Moor. where our dog Lady's ashes were scattered and the ashes of Sheila's first husband, Anton. However, I must add that I have no intention of dying just yet, despite having contracted Chronic Lymphatic Leukemia in 2013 (a terminal condition), and twice having contracted two further cancers since that have been dealt with, besides having had two six-month courses of chemotheraphy.
We'd arrive in Dublin during the early morning and the very first thing mum would do upon leaving the ferry was to post a letter to my dad and ask him to send her any spare money he had as she'd decided to go to see her parents in Ireland 'before they died and while they could still possessed their failing eyesight to see their growing grandchildren’. As it happened, my grandparents would live for another eighteen years; by which time my mother would have parented another four children, making me the eldest in a family of seven children; Me, Mary, Eileen, Patrick, Peter, Michael and Susan.
My mother would usually arrive at my grandparent's house in the middle of the night and arouse them from their depths of sleep. My grandmother would open the door bleary eyed, to see her eldest daughter (my mum) standing there with one of my sisters in either hand and me holding on to her skirt.
"Can you put me and the three children up for the next three weeks?" she'd ask, adding, "Paddy will send us some money through out of next week's wages to help pay for our food." Paddy was my father, who would be working overtime back in West Yorkshire in order to pay for my mother's on-the-spur-of-the-moment holiday jaunts.
Of course my grandparents always accommodated us free of charge, and to tell the truth, they were glad to do so. They were wonderful people and when I die, I have already made up my mind to have part of my ashes spread in my grandparent's grave, another part on my parent's grave, a part in the allotment that me and my wife, Sheila, spend many a happy hour, and the final part on the Haworth Moor. where our dog Lady's ashes were scattered and the ashes of Sheila's first husband, Anton. However, I must add that I have no intention of dying just yet, despite having contracted Chronic Lymphatic Leukemia in 2013 (a terminal condition), and twice having contracted two further cancers since that have been dealt with, besides having had two six-month courses of chemotheraphy.
In my later years of life, I was to return home to my native land on many occasions. I view going back to Southern Ireland as having a much needed tonic, and I never return to England without feeling that I'm leaving somewhere important in my development behind in the Emerald Isle.
I have throughout my life remained a citizen of Ireland and a subject of England and I have never been tempted to seek 'naturalisation'. I recall taking my son William and my daughter Rebecca back to play on the sands of the many golden beaches that are to be found in dear old Ireland in their childhood years and introducing them to Uncle Willie, who sadly died many years ago. I am the only living Forde who was born in Portlaw, and it is only fitting that my final resting place shall be there for part of my ashes.
It pleases me that 'The Portlaw National Heritage Centre' now display some of my many published books there; being one of the few published authors to have been Portlaw bred and born.
I have throughout my life remained a citizen of Ireland and a subject of England and I have never been tempted to seek 'naturalisation'. I recall taking my son William and my daughter Rebecca back to play on the sands of the many golden beaches that are to be found in dear old Ireland in their childhood years and introducing them to Uncle Willie, who sadly died many years ago. I am the only living Forde who was born in Portlaw, and it is only fitting that my final resting place shall be there for part of my ashes.
It pleases me that 'The Portlaw National Heritage Centre' now display some of my many published books there; being one of the few published authors to have been Portlaw bred and born.
I couldn’t possibly look through my mind’s eye of treasured holidays spent during my childhood and earlier life without mentioning dear old Scarborough on the East coast of North Yorkshire. This was to become a favourite place of happy memories, especially for the eldest five children of my mother’s brood of seven, and it is of no surprise that over the past ten years, most of my siblings have started visiting Scarborough for the weekend at frequent intervals throughout the year.
We use Scarborough as a place to relax, where we speak of the old days and follow a rock and roll singer called, Danny Wilde, who sings in the resorts clubs and pubs. On other times, my sister Mary and her partner will hire a self-catering flat and use it as a retreat for the brothers and sisters to stay; a safe haven where the gossip within the four walls remains there after we have left the place. As they say in Scarborough, 'What happens in Scarborough, stays in Scarborough!'
We use Scarborough as a place to relax, where we speak of the old days and follow a rock and roll singer called, Danny Wilde, who sings in the resorts clubs and pubs. On other times, my sister Mary and her partner will hire a self-catering flat and use it as a retreat for the brothers and sisters to stay; a safe haven where the gossip within the four walls remains there after we have left the place. As they say in Scarborough, 'What happens in Scarborough, stays in Scarborough!'
During my early childhood years, my mother took the children she had then given birth to on our first seaside day out to Blackpool. We were later to experience our first full week's holiday at Cayton Bay caravan camp site. During the first two years we travelled by coach (the cheapest form of public travel), which we enjoyed tremendously. However, once our mother had taken us on a day's outing to Blackpool by train from Bradford and I had seen how beautiful the Caldar Valley looked as we went via Halifax, trains became my favourite form of transport evermore, and still remain so. In latter years, I recall going to Scarborough via train from Dewsbury. That was also a wonderful journey.
Once we had been to Cayton Bay at Filey, that same holiday spot, along with the occasional trip to Ireland was to be our main holiday destination until I was aged sixteen years. I remember that it seemed that each year we went, I'd be landed with the added responsibility of another brother or sister who'd arrived on the scene since the last holiday had been taken. There were two caravan sites; each directly opposite the other on the road edge as one approached Cayton Bay Village. One was called, 'Ottaways' and the other was named 'Wallaces'.
Once we had been to Cayton Bay at Filey, that same holiday spot, along with the occasional trip to Ireland was to be our main holiday destination until I was aged sixteen years. I remember that it seemed that each year we went, I'd be landed with the added responsibility of another brother or sister who'd arrived on the scene since the last holiday had been taken. There were two caravan sites; each directly opposite the other on the road edge as one approached Cayton Bay Village. One was called, 'Ottaways' and the other was named 'Wallaces'.
Although a mere five yards across the road separated the entrance gates of each camp site, the class of people who occupied each camp couldn’t have been more different had they tried. We soon learnt within minutes of arriving, that one camp site served the poorer and more common estate occupant who always paid the grocer’s bill for what they ate this week out of next week’s wages, while the other camp site with its higher standards of comforts and more extensive facilities, accommodated those ‘better off’ families who enjoyed two or three seaside holiday breaks a year; paid for in advance of taking them!
We naturally patronised Ottaway’s caravan site, which ironically, in a twist of fate that only the guardian angel of ’poor caravan sites’ could have manufactured, was on the cliff side that was closest to the beach. This single advantage Ottaways possessed over Wallaces was the only plus factor in its favour.
We naturally patronised Ottaway’s caravan site, which ironically, in a twist of fate that only the guardian angel of ’poor caravan sites’ could have manufactured, was on the cliff side that was closest to the beach. This single advantage Ottaways possessed over Wallaces was the only plus factor in its favour.
With regard to the standard of caravan, all of Wallaces were new whilst none of Ottaways were younger than a dozen years and had been built before the 'Second World War'. Indeed, because of the large size of our family, the agent for Ottaways always put us in ‘the railway carriage’, which was precisely as it said on the tin; an old railway carriage which had been converted to accommodate the largest of families.
The younger siblings in my family loved it (my younger siblings Patrick, Peter, Michael and Susan in the photo), but I was a growing boy who could more clearly see what it wasn’t; and I knew that it clearly wasn’t a caravan! I remember my poor mother paying the agent a few shillings a week out of her house keeping every week from one year to the next in order to secure the railway carriage for the August of that year. Needless to say that the holiday of this year might not be fully paid off until we went off on next year's caravan site holiday.
The younger siblings in my family loved it (my younger siblings Patrick, Peter, Michael and Susan in the photo), but I was a growing boy who could more clearly see what it wasn’t; and I knew that it clearly wasn’t a caravan! I remember my poor mother paying the agent a few shillings a week out of her house keeping every week from one year to the next in order to secure the railway carriage for the August of that year. Needless to say that the holiday of this year might not be fully paid off until we went off on next year's caravan site holiday.
Often, we would arrive at the camp with nothing in my mother’s purse, apart from a few pence, with which to buy food and provisions for the first part of the week. The little money she managed to take with her was the money to pay this week's rent or from the grocery bill that had been left over to pay, yet another week. When the money was spent and we had nothing left to eat in the early evenings, as those revellers across the road were still in the process of having fun and games, we would go to our bunk beds earlier than otherwise and dream of the next morning’s modest breakfast.
Early to bed each night, our family would always be the first to rise. Often, we’d have breakfasted and built our sandcastles on the beach a few hours before the caravaners at Wallaces across the road had received their morning call through a loud tannoy system. I was sure that the tannoy was deliberately made loud enough to wake up everyone in the Wallace caravan site as well as informing any Ottaway scum on the ‘wrong side of the street’ that the more gentrified visitor to Cayton Bay had now risen for the day and was about to have their breakfast served in their modern camp dining hall.
Early to bed each night, our family would always be the first to rise. Often, we’d have breakfasted and built our sandcastles on the beach a few hours before the caravaners at Wallaces across the road had received their morning call through a loud tannoy system. I was sure that the tannoy was deliberately made loud enough to wake up everyone in the Wallace caravan site as well as informing any Ottaway scum on the ‘wrong side of the street’ that the more gentrified visitor to Cayton Bay had now risen for the day and was about to have their breakfast served in their modern camp dining hall.
The two caravan sites and their occupants hardly ever mixed; that is to say unless a teenager of high testosterone level at one camp found themselves sexually straying into the illuminated libido of the other camp in the moonlight of Cayton Bay. I’ve no doubt that many a person who’d paid for a berth at one side of the road, occasionally found themselves sleeping in a shared bed at the other side!
There was one couple who I heard of that met and fell in love beneath the Cayton Bay moonlight while having been booked into different caravan sites with their respective families on opposite sides of the road. To avoid recognition by any of the other campers from the other side of the tracks, the young man covered his face when he went across the road. I’d like to be able to report that the couple lived happy ever after their night of romance on the beach and that they are presently awaiting the soon-to-be celebration of their golden wedding anniversary, but alas, I can’t.
There was one couple who I heard of that met and fell in love beneath the Cayton Bay moonlight while having been booked into different caravan sites with their respective families on opposite sides of the road. To avoid recognition by any of the other campers from the other side of the tracks, the young man covered his face when he went across the road. I’d like to be able to report that the couple lived happy ever after their night of romance on the beach and that they are presently awaiting the soon-to-be celebration of their golden wedding anniversary, but alas, I can’t.
Their union, it would seem, soon ran into trouble. Within two years of their shot-gun wedding and a second child on the way, the couple realised that they'd never have enough in common to make their union a happy one. They'd been born on different sides of the track and that is where each should have remained! The rules had been written for centuries and all classes understood them. One could walk the track, even lie on it; indeed do all manner of things upon it or at its side, but when one 'crossed it', they did so at their peril!
He should have never attempted the crossing, but he just couldn't resist the temptation once he'd seen her lying there, just waiting for the right man to come along. The man who’d travelled across from the Ottaway caravan site to the Wallace caravan site on that fatal night, very soon realised that he’d made a mistake in his choice of marriage partner. “Don’t you worry” his mother told him after he’d first voiced his concerns outside the matrimonial home, “we all make mistakes. A man who makes no mistakes will never make anything of himself!”
He should have never attempted the crossing, but he just couldn't resist the temptation once he'd seen her lying there, just waiting for the right man to come along. The man who’d travelled across from the Ottaway caravan site to the Wallace caravan site on that fatal night, very soon realised that he’d made a mistake in his choice of marriage partner. “Don’t you worry” his mother told him after he’d first voiced his concerns outside the matrimonial home, “we all make mistakes. A man who makes no mistakes will never make anything of himself!”
"But, what can I do, Mum?" the man asked.
“If you don’t love the girl” his mother continued to counsel her married son, “then get out before any more bairns come along. Forget this ‘doing your duty’ malarkey and get out now! It may hurt you both to break up now, but it will only break you up emotionally the longer you insist on remaining in the same carriage of the train, each experiencing the sad reflection of the other from opposite sides of the glass window.“
It would undoubtedly have been better if the unhappy man had taken his mother’s advice and had left his unhappy marriage early on in it, but alas, he didn’t. This was the early 50's and to him, leaving his wife and young child with another on the way, would have been 'a step too far to contemplate' and he didn’t want to bring ‘shame’ upon the family name. Far better he thought to bring more hurt on himself than to inflict his family.
“If you don’t love the girl” his mother continued to counsel her married son, “then get out before any more bairns come along. Forget this ‘doing your duty’ malarkey and get out now! It may hurt you both to break up now, but it will only break you up emotionally the longer you insist on remaining in the same carriage of the train, each experiencing the sad reflection of the other from opposite sides of the glass window.“
It would undoubtedly have been better if the unhappy man had taken his mother’s advice and had left his unhappy marriage early on in it, but alas, he didn’t. This was the early 50's and to him, leaving his wife and young child with another on the way, would have been 'a step too far to contemplate' and he didn’t want to bring ‘shame’ upon the family name. Far better he thought to bring more hurt on himself than to inflict his family.
It’s strange, but these days whenever a man is doing something he is ashamed of, he rarely thinks about ‘doing his duty’. In the 1950s though, it was usually the other way round that things were viewed. To lie in the bed you’d made was then your duty, and by and large, one did it and prayed for better times to come.There was only one thing a young man could do when he 'did the wrong thing' to his lady friend and that was to make matters right by 'doing the right thing,' by marrying her!
They do say that 'gratefulness' is the poor man’s payment. He tried to be thankful for what they did have instead of what was found wanting in their marriage, but the more he tried to make the marriage work, the more his wife seemed to be disappointed in him, and in all that he did. Nothing was ever good enough for her. It was as though he wasn’t good enough for her. She gradually appeared to be a woman up a hill, constantly looking down on him and all the other peers he associated with. His wife was always filled with a mouthful of distaste and was constantly eager to quickly disapprove of whatever he did or however well he'd managed to do it. She had always been accustomed to the standards by a Wallaces' Camper and could never get used to her Ottaways' life style that she had to endure after their marriage.
They do say that 'gratefulness' is the poor man’s payment. He tried to be thankful for what they did have instead of what was found wanting in their marriage, but the more he tried to make the marriage work, the more his wife seemed to be disappointed in him, and in all that he did. Nothing was ever good enough for her. It was as though he wasn’t good enough for her. She gradually appeared to be a woman up a hill, constantly looking down on him and all the other peers he associated with. His wife was always filled with a mouthful of distaste and was constantly eager to quickly disapprove of whatever he did or however well he'd managed to do it. She had always been accustomed to the standards by a Wallaces' Camper and could never get used to her Ottaways' life style that she had to endure after their marriage.
The couple had moved from their council house on Windybank Estate a few years after getting married and secured a mortgaged property in nearby Heckmondwike which they could ill-afford to maintain. Almost every penny that the husband earned, whatever overtime hours he worked during the week. there was never enough money to last them one week to the next and to give his wife the standard of living to which she'd always been accustomed.
The worried husband's debts mounted with each bill he left unpaid and each loan he took out on the quiet. Being a man of his time, he never told his wife his troubles as he felt it to be his husbandly duty to sort them out without burdening her. In his fourth year of married life, 'Tommy' went into a period of depression and went on the drink. He was eventually found with his head in a noose. He had hanged himself while his mind was unbalanced.
While the majority of suicides are tragic for those left behind, for 'Tommy's' merry widow, the suicide of her spouse appeared as being no more than a ‘happy accident’ and her doting parents were only too pleased to reassume all manner of financial upkeep for their only child; their little girl.
For many months following his death, news of his suicide was all that was spoken of in the shops, mills and pubs of Liversedge by residents and former neighbours of Windybank Estate. Before long, the truth started to gradually become distorted and all manner of speculation and salacious gossip began to be woven into the embroidery of factual telling. Of course, such spurious speculation provided ample fare to feed the appetites of the listeners to parochial gossip for many winter months to come.
Much speculation was entered into as to what precisely had led to the marriage becoming an unhappy one, as the couple had seemed to be so much in love with each other when they first married. Everyone had their own particular view or slant on the issue, but being faithful to their own particular breed and upbringing, all agreed upon one certainty. They all agreed that there existed a cultural divide that no amount of moonlight madness away from one's home on holiday could ever breach. All were of the firm view 'that no good ever comes of it when one crosses the tracks; when someone from one caravan camp site sets up house with a person from the other caravan camp site across the Cayton Bay road!’
Copyright William Forde April, 2012. (Amended and updated April 2018).
The worried husband's debts mounted with each bill he left unpaid and each loan he took out on the quiet. Being a man of his time, he never told his wife his troubles as he felt it to be his husbandly duty to sort them out without burdening her. In his fourth year of married life, 'Tommy' went into a period of depression and went on the drink. He was eventually found with his head in a noose. He had hanged himself while his mind was unbalanced.
While the majority of suicides are tragic for those left behind, for 'Tommy's' merry widow, the suicide of her spouse appeared as being no more than a ‘happy accident’ and her doting parents were only too pleased to reassume all manner of financial upkeep for their only child; their little girl.
For many months following his death, news of his suicide was all that was spoken of in the shops, mills and pubs of Liversedge by residents and former neighbours of Windybank Estate. Before long, the truth started to gradually become distorted and all manner of speculation and salacious gossip began to be woven into the embroidery of factual telling. Of course, such spurious speculation provided ample fare to feed the appetites of the listeners to parochial gossip for many winter months to come.
Much speculation was entered into as to what precisely had led to the marriage becoming an unhappy one, as the couple had seemed to be so much in love with each other when they first married. Everyone had their own particular view or slant on the issue, but being faithful to their own particular breed and upbringing, all agreed upon one certainty. They all agreed that there existed a cultural divide that no amount of moonlight madness away from one's home on holiday could ever breach. All were of the firm view 'that no good ever comes of it when one crosses the tracks; when someone from one caravan camp site sets up house with a person from the other caravan camp site across the Cayton Bay road!’
Copyright William Forde April, 2012. (Amended and updated April 2018).
