The Scrivener: Clippings From The Past
Brian Barratt’s musical father used to shave in the dining room.
“Less fascinating, however,’’ says Brian in this portrait of an astonishing character “was his habit of cutting his toe-nails at the breakfast table. He would put his foot on the table and start snipping.’’
For more of Brian’s sit-up-and-take-notice words please click on The Scrivener in the menu on this page. Visit also his stimulating Web site The Brain Rummager www.alphalink.com.au/~umbidas/
In the 1950s, breakfast-time in our house was unusual. Although we did have a bathroom and a kitchen, my father decided, after his retirement at the age of 70, to shave in the dining room. More specifically, at the breakfast table. Out would come the antique shaving mirror, well-spread brush, shaving soap, mug of hot water, leather strop, and cut-throat razor. The sound of the sizzlingly sharp blade sliding through his stubble was actually quite fascinating.
Less fascinating, however, was his habit of cutting his toe-nails at the breakfast table. He would put his foot on the table and start snipping. Fortunately, we always had several different types of cereal. I was able to surround my plate with a wall of boxes to prevent toe-nail clippings from landing like milk-seeking missiles among my Corn Flakes, Puffed Wheat or Grape Nuts.
In his heyday in the 1920s, Dad mingled with the social set. His name appears in several programmes of Newark Choral Society, both as tenor and as Secretary, alongside the names of the titled, the rich and the locally famous. He continued singing in church choirs for about forty years.
When he was well into his 70s, he went to a performance of Handel's great oratorio 'Messiah'. Changes had to be made to the programme because the tenor soloist was indisposed. Dad immediately marched up to the conductor and volunteered to sing the tenor solos. He was very cheesed off when his magnanimous offer was turned down.
We had a piano, which my mother played very well, much to my delight. Dad played it less well. There were also several violins and a flute. One day, he decided to teach me how to play the violin. That was the way things happened — on impulse. He was eminently unsuccessful for three reasons: I was tone-deaf; he was not a patient teacher; and the dog gave forth such deafening howls of protest that we had to cease our labours.
Along with his impulsiveness, he had a wicked sense of humour. I'd discovered an old cigarette-rolling gadget in a cupboard. Being a creative child, I cut some brown paper bags into small strips, added a handful of tea-leaves, and made some realistic fake cigarettes. The idea was to pretend to smoke, not to light them.
By that time, Dad was taking long walks to one of the town's parks or to the castle grounds, striking up conversation with anyone who had time to listen to his exaggerated yarns. He asked me to make some fake cigarettes, which he took with him. Very discreetly, he dropped one or two around the grass and footpaths. He would then avail himself of a park bench, and wait.
Some old chap, usually a tramp, would come along, see a nice new cigarette on the ground, and pick it up. Dad would gleefully tell us how he'd watched the poor old fellow struggle to light one of those brown paper and tea-leaf fags.
Dad's father died in 1901, which Dad constantly reminded us was the year Queen Victoria died. He attached some sort of honour to that achievement. From his father, he inherited a love of books, an eye for a pretty face, and an insistence that things have to be done properly.
When I was about 14, he decided to emulate the properness of his younger days and wax his moustache. His hair had been flaxen but was now grey. He sent me to the chemist to buy some Hongroise pomade. He didn't tell me that it came in various colours. Well, he must have applied it without reading the label or using a mirror. He had a very black moustache for a couple of weeks. He was furious. I got the blame, of course.
He had great respect for the gentry of the town, coming from his younger days. He once took me to visit his music teacher from the early 1900's. This ancient lady, Madame D'Ascanio, had in turn been a pupil of the incomparable Dame Clara Butt.
That was something else Dad constantly told us. We were taught to raise our caps to one old gentleman in particular, though we never knew why. On the other hand, Dad had no respect for a particular Methodist minister who had the presumptuousness to greet him and smile whenever they met. He was even more annoyed when I broke centuries of Church of England family tradition and became a Methodist.
At the age of 74, he emigrated to Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe), and my mother was unwillingly obliged to go with him, of course. I was equally unwilling, but I had to go. A couple of years later, he changed his mind, and they went back to England.
If I suffer from impulsiveness, pedantry or perfectionism, then it's probably because of Dad's influence. If I have any patience, tolerance or insight, it's certainly from my mother. She had a lot on her plate for forty years, with or without the toe-nail clippings.
© Copyright Brian Barratt 2006
Adapted from an article previous published in Bonzer!
