Open Writing

Physically, my father was tall and handsome. Even in his late fifties he had a good head of hair and clear, fresh colouring. I am sure he was vain about his appearance. On the wall of our living room, above the wireless, hung an enormous photograph of him, taken many years before when he was a young soldier. It was a studio portrait of his handsome face in profile; photographed before the First World War, wearing Coldstream Guards dress uniform. He wasn't wearing a cap, for that would have hidden his luxuriant, wavy hair.

He was immensely proud of his regiment, the Coldstream Guards and the fact that he had been batman to Colonel Monck, the Colonel of the Regiment. He saw nothing demeaning in having been a servant. When the war ended, Colonel Monck asked my father if he and my mother would consider coming to work for him in a domestic capacity at his home. I think Dad quite warmed to the idea, flattered that he had been asked. However when he mentioned this suggestion to Nell, she hit the roof, exploding in Eliza Doolittle fashion, "What and be a servant? Not bloody likely!" However she didn't object to him being a policeman and they came to live in Warrington.

Their first house was in Longford Street, where they stayed for a few years. Joan was borm in that house in 1920. She told me that my parents were so smart and well dressed at that time, or it could have been because they had ideas above their station, that when they went out walking, the neighbours christened them Lord and Lady Longford.

Joan once told me a strange and chilling tale about something that happened when she was a little girl, before I was born. The family was on a visit to London and Dad had taken my two sisters on an afternoon stroll in the park, accompanied by Aunt Amy, my mother's pretty, young sister. The two children were playing while dad and Aunt Amy sat talking. Joan, ever the curious one, went closer and distinctly heard my father say: "You know Amy, if anything happened to Nell, you would always be the one."

When Joan told me I must have been about fifteen years old and I experienced a frisson of horror. I only ever saw Aunt Amy once. I don't remember her face very well, for I was only three years old at the time and it was some considerable time after the incident Joan spoke about. What I do remember is that she was brushing her hair. It was beautiful long hair and the colour was a glorious red-gold. The most beautiful hair I've ever seen.

The first time I saw my father's war wound was when he was washing himself at the kitchen sink. It was a huge, ugly scar extending round the whole of his right shoulder. I cried out, pointing at it, "Oh, Dad, what's that?" He sent me out of the scullery, telling me I shouldn't be in there when he was having a wash.

I waited and asked my mother about it later, when we were on our own. She said that he had been wounded in the battle of Mons and had been brought back to a hospital in London. When he recovered he returned immediately to duty in France, remaining until the end of hostilities in 1918. My mother said he was very brave and I believed her.

He hardly ever talked about the war. Once he said the saddest thing I ever heard. He talked about having to guard a young soldier who had been sentenced to death for cowardice, saying, "The poor little devil cried all night for his mother."

When the American soldiers arrived at the end of 1917, the first thing they said was, "Where's this goddam shooting gallery then?" I don't think dad was very impressed, because he said they soon changed their tune, after their first time over the top.

My father was a kind man, not really hard enough to be a policeman. He remained a constable for the whole of his service.

My best friend at school was named Martha Adcroft. The large Adcroft family lived on the Kingsway council housing estate. I admired them because they were such a united, hard-working family.

One night, on his way home dad picked up one of Martha's older brothers. He was lying drunk in the gutter on Manchester Road. Dad brought him home and Mum said Dad could put him in our back bedroom and let him sleep it off there. Next morning he gave the young man some breakfast and his bus fare and sent him on his way home. He said it was better to do that than being put in the cells for the night. That is what I call being kind!

Unlike Mum, my father never smacked me. My mother would never allow me to visit the cinema on my own, which I suppose was sensible. I always went to the Saturday afternoon matinee at the Queen's cinema. If I didn't go with Flo Jones then I went with Walter Hines. This particular Saturday I went accompanied by Walter. It was a good show and not a cowboy film, thank goodness! There had been a Laurel and Hardy short as well and I arrived home feeling as happy as Larry. My mother greeted me stony-faced.

"You didn't go with Walter Hines did you?"

I looked at her puzzled: "Yes I did - of course I did."

"No you didn't - you're lying. I saw Walter Hines playing in the street when I came back from the Co-Op."

The argument went on and on. My mother was adamant. Then somehow my father arrived on the scene and became involved in the argument. My mother insisted she was right and that I was a liar and had gone to the cinema on my own. Then for some reason she began to insist that my father should punish me for telling an untruth.

I suppose I could have given in, it would have been easier. I ran out of the room and up the stairs. My father chased up after me. I ran along the landing and into my parents' bedroom. I stood facing my father: "Dad, I did go with Walter Hines. Whoever it was Mum saw it wasn't Walter. Why don't you ask him if you don't believe me?"

Dad, whose face by now was as red as a turkey-cock, from all the frustration, not to mention racing up the stairs, looked quite relieved,"Come on then, we'll go and ask him."

Mum, still livid glared at us both, "Where are you going then?"

Father put on his trilby hat: "I'm going to ask the boy."

Grabbing me by the hand, we marched off down the back garden and along the street. Walter sat in one of his favourite places, on top of their back gate. As it became apparent we were heading in his direction, he began to look quite apprehensive. My father was six foot three inches in height and very impressive.

Looking straight at Walter he said: "Did you go to the cinema this afternoon with Betty?

Walter blanched. "Yes, Mr. Skinner," he squeaked.

"Right, thank you," said Dad, and we marched smartly back home.

My father was my hero and subsequent to this my mother never smacked me again.

My father always wore a hat. It was a grey fedora trilby. I know that because once when we went to the library, I heard the librarian, a tall, red-headed woman, say, "Who is the handsome man in the hat?" and the other librarian told her who he was. I don't know if my father heard them, but after that incident he wore it whenever he answered the front door.

This became quite a joke between my two sisters, culminating in Joan asking him why he did it. Dad looked her straight in the eye saying: "I wear it in case someone comes I don't want to see and I can always say I have to go out urgently." Which when you think about it does have an air of quaint logic about it. It quite shot Joan's bolt!

He was in his early fifties when he retired from the police force and was quite content with his lot and happy sitting around the house. He had no hobbies apart from reading the occasional book, something light by Warwick Deeping or Somerset Maugham. He read the Daily Mail every weekday and the News of the World on a Sunday cover to cover.

When I was grown up, I mean really grown up, a married woman with children, Joan told me that not long after I was born my father had sexually interfered with Eve, who at that time was fourteen. Afterwards he gave her a half-crown and told her not to tell anyone.

Then I understood why both my sisters detested him so much. Joan said: "Did the old bugger ever try anything on like that with you?"

I shook my head. "No, never. Dad was kindness itself to me when I was young."

For a while I didn't believe Joan, thinking that,as she had hated my father so much, she wanted me to dislike him as well. Several years later, when we were living in Germany, Eve and her two sons came for a holiday, and she mentioned what Joan had told me all those years before and said that it was true. I added it to the endless catalogue of iniquities that had been inflicted upon my sisters before I was born.