THE FAMILY KUMAR by Michael Healy

THE FAMILY KUMAR

The year was 1956 and I sat in my Grandfather’s lounge

In his comfy chair beside his rotating wooden Bookcase

With each revolution different books appeared

Telling the stories of future or past.

One in particular caught my eye

And I decided to pull it free as it circled by

The title ‘The Family Kumar’ seemed fascinating

I pushed the bookcase further

And grabbed this book as it passed.

Around its leather binding, my choice still had a paper sleeve

Slightly ragged around the edge, but clearly illustrating the Indian Sub-continent

Painted with vivid pictures of workers on their land,

And in the background stood a busy village;

Bullocks pulled two wheeled carts along dusty tracks loaded with wood for fires

And young women queued to pump up water,

Clearly it all depicted that a meal was about to be prepared.

And that is just where the story began, as I started the Introduction.

I opened the volume and began my read.

Set in India at the time of the British Raj.

At first it seemed a quite happy tale.

The family was comfortable with food, water and a bungalow.

And they all worked together at different jobs on their four acres of fertile land.

They really had a comfortable life, except for Adam.

 

He was the eldest son and politically aware, unlike his four younger brothers

He objected to the British presence, even though his father disagreed.

‘They have brought us food, water, medicines and banished fraud,

And, now we all have a fair chance to progress’.

‘We can join their Army, their Civil Service and they give us education’.

 

I had been very young , but I still recalled the stories from 1947

Indian independence from Britain,

and resulting murderous conflicts with neighbouring Pakistan.

As I read further it was clear that Adam had been involved in uprisings

He was on the run from the British officials, and yet his love was Kate.

Kate was a Consular Secretary, a member of the ‘other side’.

Life was very confusing for 24 year old Adam, but he loved the auburn hair of his young lady.

As he grew older the pull of the politics weakened, and yet his friends despised this.

How could he love an English maiden, yet hate her nation.

He almost agreed, but his love was stronger.

Over the following weeks I hardly put the book down.

As time passed I felt closer to the members of the Kumar family.

How would their lives evolve in this changing World?

The book finished adruptly, with many questions still unanswered

Did Adam and Kate get together?

I had to know.

 

The last page of the book advertised a sequel ‘,The life of the Kumars’

I had to get that book to find out what happened!

But it was not to be found In my Grandfather’s rotating bookcase.

Michael Healy

If this story is of interest, perhaps you may wish to get hold of the (currently out of print) book:

‘The Asian Community, Medicines and Traditions’

By Dr M A HEALY and Dr M ASLAM   Silver Link (1990)

STORM by Cynthia Smith

STORM by Cynthia Smith

I first saw him silhouetted against the evening sky. My fascination was immediate and I felt compelled to get closer. Walking stealthily towards him, I hid behind a tree a few yards away. He was so beautiful that I hardly dared breathe, lest even that gave away my presence. He looked so strong and powerful, almost arrogantly at ease with his surroundings. I longed to reach out to touch him but knew he would disappear if I moved. As I watched him, crimson and gold streaks began slanting across the sky. The spectacular sunset was a fitting backdrop for his perfection.

As the great red orb sank slowly behind the hills it was followed by darkening clouds. Rain began to fall, soft warm drops on my bare arms. Soon the wind rose, lashing the trees around me and whistling through the long grass, as though urging the elements to a frenzy. It was time to get indoors before the storm hit. Soaked to the skin, I raced homewards as thunder crashed and lightening forked across the sky.

We had moved to this area recently and I was enjoying exploring the neighbouring countryside. On my daily walk a few days after the storm, I thought I would climb a hill to see what was on the other side. The ground was littered here and there with storm debris, but on reaching the ridge the valley below appeared pristine. Verdant meadows basked in the sun, backed by trees dappled in shade. Hawks rose and wheeled, looking for prey; bright flowers fringed the woodland; a glittering stream snaked towards the horizon. It was the kind of vista that Adam and Eve might have seen.

Glancing to the right, I caught my breath. Just a few yards away a group of wild horses was grazing, a dozen or so mares and a similar number of foals. But where was the head of the herd? A stallion does not leave his mares alone for long, for fear of other males stealing them. Sure enough, with a thunder of hooves, Storm arrived. I had decided to call him Storm after the wild weather when I first encountered him. Now he circled his mares and foals as though making sure they were all there. I watched him for a few minutes, delighting again in his beauty and vigour. How I wished I had the talent to paint a picture of him. How I wished …

That evening I told my husband, Jeff, about Storm. He too loved horses and I felt sure he would understand how I felt about the stallion.

“We could ask the Brennan boys to help us round him up – Glen’s a master at lassoing – and of course we would register ownership with the authorities!” I was so excited at the prospect of Storm becoming mine.

“But he’s a wild animal Jenny, wild and free. I can’t believe you want to take the most precious thing from him.”

I felt ashamed that my passion for the horse had made me want to possess him. Jeff was right: it would be cruel to traumatise him with capture. Instead I dug out the camera I had not used for years. Gradually Storm became used to my presence and I was able to get closer for some brilliant shots.

…….

That was more than sixty years ago. Jeff has gone now; many other people and things I loved have gone. There are no wild horses left in America either. But sometimes on stormy nights I could swear I hear thundering hooves and the exultant neigh of a horse, wild and free as the wind.

 

A Dream of the Future by Kevin Murphy

I don’t remember my dreams no matter how hard I try. There are five exceptions from a lifetime and I have no idea why they stuck. They relate to getting a new job or railways (I am not a spotter).

If any of you feel like interpreting this, (aside from the obvious Animal Farm reference) I welcome comments.

The one about the pigs

I jumped down off the wagon with a shovel over my shoulder. Another holiday job labouring in another new place. What a strange place – a quick three hundred and sixty assured me that all the houses were of a uniform light muddy colour.

Looking back at the old hands, I saw they were engaged in auto-pilot lifting the aluminium mess-hut down – ‘first priorities Spud – let’s mash up!’ They wouldn’t miss me for a few minutes.

I soon realised that it wasn’t only that the houses were mud coloured, but that everywhere was mud-covered. It was a poorer suburb of town, full of terraces of two-up and two-downs, probably built for the mill-workers, with an occasional break for a ginnel to get down to the backs. We were on a hill overlooking the town, quite a refreshing prospect, especially on this bright but crisp day.

The excited cry of children playing some way off, drew me towards its cheerful sound. On my way I looked for signs of habitation. No one was about, no curtains twitched.

A brisk tip-tip-tap approached from behind. I turned to see an incongruous shooting-stick making the tap as a gentleman, dressed in a tweed hacking-jacket, deerstalker and plus-fours, out of which protruded the source of the ‘tip-tip’ – a pair of trotters. A large bristling moustache bestrode a pig’s nose, thrust high in the air, intent upon ignoring me.

My forced cheery, ‘Good morning’, earned only a reluctant reply.

I chose my banana to distract me this apparition. – was I dreaming? – my shaking hand hungrily peeled and stuffed the fruit into my mouth, before lazily dropping it on the floor.

Hearing the slap, Sherhog dropped onto all fours and raced back to gobble up the skin, before scuttling off down a side street.

I had arrived at the source of the noise, now a din of piercing squeals, giggles and shouts of children racing and chasing around a school yard – boys in navy blasers with silver trim; girls in yellow gingham dresses, most with green cardigans, and all smart upright piglets.

So that was why I didn’t know this part of town. It was a new job with a new team – they must have overlooked telling me how secret a locality it was. Sitting in the mess-hut on the back of the wagon, I was intent on attending to the same old bragging of my fellow navvies, I must have missed any sort of checkpoint. Who else knew about the development of so many mutants – and at so advanced a stage? Who was in charge of the project – people or pigs?

The schoolma’am clanged the bell. She was a very large sow. She woke me from my wonder. I realised that I had better get back to the gang or lose my job before I had turned a spit.

The man I wanted to be by Kevin Murphy

The man I wanted to be

Seamus Rooney had the most pluck of any man I ever met. ‘No Bog-trotter like my father’, he swore. He had come over to rebuild England after the war. He brought his Monica gold, but the man that was left after the thousand-ton presses bashed bonnets and boots out of his brain in the flashing dark of the Cowley car plant was not the same man she had married.

They came from emerald country to dim factory; we from dark satanic mills to the city of gleaming spires.

They joined us in the poorest area of North Oxford in forty seven, him seeking more light in Lucy’s Iron foundry; me driving a tax officer’s desk.

He would try anything; change frightened me.

Lucy’s was still hot and noisy – airless. He needed out: one Sunday I stood guard while he circumnavigated a bulldozer. He whistled me; I peeped the all clear. The dozer sparked up and crashed into gear: the behemoth ground forward, crawlers crunched a turn; blade up, blade down; deafening silence; blood roaring in my ears; Seamus by my side; finger to nose, not a word.

On the Monday he told the ganger that he needed a dozer driver – a good one who didn’t ruin his machine. He got the job and the driver got a shovel.

Shorter and younger than me, Seamus was a man I always looked up to. I needed a pal like Seamus to goad me into doing what I really wanted to do, but never dared. Edith was my rock but if ever I needed to strike out for the stars…

Seamus’s biggest wheeze was Christmas forty eight. With rationing still on, we couldn’t afford a turkey if there was one to be had. Christmas Eve, pub turn out time, ears deaf to his ruse. “We’ll have a swan, Paddy!” All was quiet over Port Meadow, where but for the drumming in my chest, I was to stand on one side of the Thames and beat the swans onto his shotgun. Out with my torch, waving and shooing, the swans gathered round the fool throwing the bread. In panic at the empty river before him, Seamus shouted “I’m gonna shoot, Paddy!” letting go both barrels.

He raced back over the Bailey bridge and splashed, chuckled and squashed our mighty swag into the bag. We didn’t sneak back home: “Hol’ your head up Paddy, sure we’re Santa and his elf out on our rounds.”

I told you he had pluck – so did Monica and Edith: Monica to pluck the swan and Edith to pluck stray pellets from my arse. It was our best fed Christmas of the post war decade. We had a laugh, a story and a feast: two feasts really. All plucked and stuffed the swan would fit in neither of our ovens. Seamus cut it in half with an old saw he ‘borrowed’.

Only five years later, a Christmas card from Ireland told of his great success with a Turkey farm.

[A memoir of parents’ early years of marriage]

I MUST GO DOWN TO THE RIVER AGAIN by Pete Brammer

I MUST GO DOWN TO THE RIVER AGAIN

by Pete Brammer

I must go down to the river again,

Where I played when just a child,

Paddling and netting minnows,

Picking flowers, varied, and wild.

 

Admiring the fluttering butterflies,

With fragile wings so pretty,

See mallards bobbing up and down,

Remembering the poem, ‘Ducks Dittie’.

 

Along the banks we’d build our dens,

Where we’d play and share a joke,

And unbeknown to parents,

We’d enjoy a crafty smoke.

 

I too have brought up children,

Who may have done the same,

But today, I’m fighting cancer,

And must go down to the river again.

built on a famous first line

However Many Ways? By Ruth Nunn

However Many Ways? By Ruth Nunn 

 

Love? Truly love you? Do I love you?

Of course, of course! Yes of course I do!

How can you face me brazenly so?

Shameless you stare, and you tell me “No!”

 

“I do,” my heart within me implores,

My very essence in silence roars,

“Undoubtedly so!” my core insists,

And without one word, in anguish lists

 

A silent, painful, record of times

I’ve excused your childish, thoughtless crimes,

Or held you safely within my arms

Both from mortal and emotional harms.

 

How many times have I born your rants?

And how many times cleaned dirty pants?

Or how many times prepared your lunch,

Then sat there to sweet-talk, “Just one munch”?

 

When have I pleaded, “School soon. Hurry!”

And worked myself up to a flurry?

Or when repented to teachers who

Don’t understand the loss of your shoe?

 

Many a time in the depths of night,

I’ve snuggled amongst my blankets tight,

Abruptly woke to your frightened scream.

“Mum, there’s a noise!”, “a spider” or “dream”.

 

Tired still, I’ve lifted my head,

And swung weary legs round out of bed.

I’ve run to your room, exhausted, worn,

Allaying fears well into the morn.

 

Shopping, once, on a regular trip,

I carried you round, sat on my hip,

Only one hand to push the trolley,

Juggle with tins, nappies and brolly

 

Then “Mum,” you told me, “I’m feeling ill.”

Nauseous groans as your gob did fill

And repugnant puke whelched in a tide

All of the way down my left hand side.

 

“A story Mum,” you’ve so often pled.

How many books have I bought and read?

How many times have I funded your play?

How many cakes have I made for your day?

 

Yet still you claim that I love you not.

“My friends,” you tell me, “have such a lot.”

“I want what they’ve got,” I hear you cry.

“Why can’t I have it? I want it. Why?”

 

I listen, allay my inner pain

When I’m sure you’ll need me soon again,

When your knee bleeds, or you simply tire,

Arms held towards me once more require

 

Caring hugs from this loving mother,

My cuddles, comforts, like no other.

You’ll look towards me, wordlessly say,

“Thanks” in that simple, juvenile way.

A face like Dorian Gray by Kevin Murphy

[Memoir: using facts from my father’s war to create a 3000 word story]

A face like Dorian Gray

 All during the film I couldn’t help feeling my face, following the fine line of the rebuild across my cheek to the bridge of my nose, straight down and across my lip to my chin and back up – the great divide between my two faces, old and new. Unlike Dorian Gray I carry both my faces with me. Yes I am two faced, but I am no longer useless.

VJ Day – Victory over Japan, the final stroke of the war and my victory over the world which had branded me ‘Useless’. There are two aspects to being ‘useless’: as looked at by others and how you see yourself. They said I was useless and I proved them wrong. I felt I was useless and proved myself wrong.

Edith saw the hard face at first.

I heard her voice first – from the stage. I was making myself useful at our Amateur Dramatic society, managing the door and penny programmes. I was standing at the back and was struck more than any High Explosive or even that Landmine in the Blitz. ‘Whose is that voice?’

Ray Mort and Fred Warburton were holding forth centre stage. The three womenfolk listened in. Tension built in me as none of them had a line for a few minutes. It couldn’t be Edith Pooler – she was playing a crippled girl. Joan Carty had been in our Peggy’s class and I had heard her babbling. No, it must be Yvonne Lees – I don’t know her.

Ray then turned to his two ‘sisters’ and Yvonne spoke first before…

‘It’s Edith Pooler!’ A voice pealing, true as a bell. I had known her all her life – I was really going to get to know her now.

Crumpled then crushed by my war, at twenty one in 1943, I had dragged myself from the wreckage that was me. I had shaken off the dust, removed my invisible bandages and touched up my new face with a hard gloss. I couldn’t add a smile, so what Edith saw that first time was an arrogant smirk. It had taken a whole week to pluck up the courage to ask her out. I didn’t ‘await my opportunity’, I strode up and knocked on her door and she knocked me straight back.

It was wartime and lovers – most lovers – seized the day. That next day, Edith knocked on my door and made me a reluctant proposition: her friend’s beau was home on pre-embarkation break – would I like to make up a foursome with Edith? Though she tried, she couldn’t get rid of me after that.

It took a long time for her to see beneath my hard face. The first time she saw, she saw a face twisting in the agony of an epileptic fit, and I didn’t see her afterwards.

I had had some ‘blackouts’ as I called them throughout my youth – I had fallen out of a tree at Thorn Leigh School when I was sixteen and everyone thought that had brought on my ‘fainting fits’ as they called them. They didn’t recognise the reason for the fall as one of those fits. I refused to go back to ‘Turd Leigh’ – it was all very well having no corporal punishment, but I didn’t like the way they tried to get their hands on my body. The knock meant I had lost my way to my Higher School Leaving Certificate; anyway I had gone AWOL to cousins in Ireland.

When I came back with my tail between my legs, Pa got me into De La Salle in Manchester for the 1939 year, but I had to ‘start again’ with lads mostly two years younger than me. This was no hardship – from a large family brought up through the depression, a dead pan face and a nonchalant air were the only means of carrying off the fact of wearing cast-off or grown-out of clothes and maintaining face, both in school and with social acquaintances. Two faces. At home we jokingly referred to ‘carrying things off in the Grand Murphy Manner’. It was not in fact a joke – rather a family complex, to show or admit internal upset was a sign of weakness and in very bad taste.

People think it strange, but ‘The Boss’ – Brother Columba, at De La Salle – had made an instant impression on me – a good one. After my first misdemeanour: he ‘had’ to give me the strap on each hand. Then he immediately asked ‘Do you play Hand-ball? See you on the court at five.’ Offence – Punishment – Forgotten, and no long lecture with a creepy hand on my knee.

He also showed tacit recognition of my extra years, giving me prefectorial duties and some privileges – one of which led to my need for a new face. This was a combination of right and responsibility – if I took a major role in maintaining the school boiler, I could smoke my pipe in the boiler house. One time I pulled out the boiler’s ash-tray and was overcome by fumes. I was apparently rescued by two lads and I woke up in the neighbouring Hope Hospital. There they took a patch of skin from my thigh and made up my face – and a good job they made of it too. They said I wouldn’t grow hair on my cheek, but on VJ Day five years later I missed a section of “The Picture of Dorian Gray” as Edith stroked my stubble and kissed my lips.

Ironically Salford’s other Hospital – The Royal – itself needed a new face a couple of years later after Fritz blew it off, killing 16 nurses – that’s a crater in the foreground.

The Boss tipped the wink at me after recuperation: “I’m confiscating your bacca, Patrick, I reckon that John Cotton is too strong for you – knocked you out!” My Pa had given me a tin of his favourite ‘John Cotton’ – maybe he shouldn’t have made it the strong one – but when Columba eventually gave it me back for the holidays, I barely restrained myself from accusing him of helping himself to a good few pipefuls out of it.

In the Christmas Blitz of 1940, some of us senior boys were encouraged to be Stretcher Bearers for our two hospitals – Hope was only half a mile away – and it was another lad’s affliction that saved my life: we were sheltering in one of the small concrete-roofed, brick Air Raid Shelters thrown up on all sorts of open spaces – Piccadilly was covered with them. It was full-to-bursting with old folks and mothers with children – hot sweaty and tense. A man with a mouth Organ was leading everyone in a jolly old sing-song in the hope of distracting the little ones at least.

Johnny then came over with an attack of claustrophobia. He asked the warden to let him out, but he refused. We sat back down but poor Johnny started to tremble, then to moan and eventually was wailing and screaming. The mothers were put out with him upsetting the infants, tutting him and telling him to grow up Eventually the warden threw us out.

Fritz was having a great party and we were invited. We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when we felt the whoomp before we heard the bang of a landmine from where we had just come. We rushed back and one of the worst sights of my life, one that will never leave me, was the man with the harmonica, bolt upright, eyes open, organ in mouth, silent and still – his legs cut off by a slab of the fallen roof. Everyone inside was killed.

As well as parachuting down the odd huge landmine, the raiders mainly used a combination of bombs – High Explosive to break up brick, stone and concrete, followed by a hail of tiny incendiaries that burn up all the wood – and people. The incendiaries were only the weight of a bag of sugar and could be extinguished with a bucket of sand. Also lots of them were duds – didn’t go off – and could be thrown to safety.

The second incident that has stuck with me, was our rugger captain taking on one of those little blighters. A crowd had gathered outside Hope Hospital pointing at the fin of an incendiary sticking out of a roof gutter.

 The old Victorian building was constructed as pairs of wards. The brave sport got a ladder and climbed to a window on one side, hauled up his ladder and perched it across to the opposite window, zigzagging – only three storeys, but high ones – to a growing roar of the crowd. As he reached the top, we were all hushed as he peeped over the weapon … and it blew him off the ladder.

After my accident I was given a letter or exemption from military service, but I had done alright in the Blitz hadn’t I? I got my call up in 1942 and reported to Hinckley just before my twentieth birthday in April. I passed A1 in my medical. The initial impression on most of us students, clerks and office workers was complete culture shock – three chaps committing suicide in the first week – one a pal of mine, a solicitor, simply jumped off a roof.

The first fortnight was tough for me too: I was issued with a blanket which had fresh vomit on it. I asked politely for another and was told in certain words to get on with it. I told the corporal that there was no need to swear, and for my blushes I was given a litany asking me to explain what the strips on his arms were, “fucking birdshit?” The upshot was that I got blanket rash on my new fresh face, leaving my chin scarred for life. This attitude of the NCOs really so grated on one of my new pals, that he planned to cosh the Sergeant Major in a blackout with a sock-full of sand. Whether he actually did or not, the officer was not seen again on our parade ground. However, his ghost won the day. The pal was put on Jankers for a far smaller breach of discipline, and after spending two weeks of chores at the double, he was a broken man and didn’t recognise me thereafter.

After the initial weeks of square bashing and rifle training and a week’s leave in June, I settled to it and was deployed as a storeman and soon a clerk in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps.

Then the fun started. I blacked out getting into a lorry – basically I fell out. I could have passed it off as falling onto my head and knocking myself out, but it was apparent to my mates that it was nothing of the sort. I had a week’s leave to recover in September and everything seemed to be going tickety-boo, when in November I blacked out on machine gun practice, gripping the trigger as I collapsed, almost shooting the Sergeant Major’s head off.

I had to face a full Medical Board and my Christmas present from the British Government in 1942 was to be deemed useless – unfit for service.

I had to admit to being very ill – I lost my memory – completely for a few weeks – and didn’t recognize my Pa when he came to visit. There was such shame in Epilepsy, that I always felt that he thought I had just ignored him – far from it, I had never needed a loving father more.

The next period at home was not happy as I felt that my family had no sympathy for me – simply that I was sulking and swinging the lead. I recall my perfectly robust eldest brother – now a parish priest – paying a home visit, and me being told to stand up and let ‘poor Father Dermot sit down’.

I put in a few weeks at the local Coop shop and enjoyed the simple ribaldry of the women working there. I used to mimic them at home and was castigated for ‘lowering myself’ to their level.

My mother couldn’t think why I had destroyed my medical certificate when I was called up. There weren’t any heroics involved – I just wanted to be like all the other men – big bro Kevin was climbing aerials in the RAF.

It was he who got me back on course – not without a very heavy hand on the tiller. On leave as I was into recovery, he professed the family all dumbstruck when they heard that I had not used my ‘sick note’. He asked me what I had been thinking of to put other people’s lives in danger (on my own side!) by handling armaments when I knew I had epilepsy. Ma said it was one of my ‘Megrims’: a capacity not only for developing crackpot notions but for holding onto them through thick and thin until they became hallowed – the given truth. Well – she was an Irish Seanachie, always telling us fanciful tales – she would know.

What my brother winkled out of me was that I had indeed developed one of my famous ‘megrims’,and had convinced myself that epilepsy was syphilitic in origin and that to produce such a medical certificate was tantamount to saying that one of my parents had syphilis! He inveigled me into going to see our family Doctor – indeed our father’s close friend – who spotted that my assiduous study of available encyclopaedias at De La Salle, had led me to conflate the sentence ‘Neurosyphilis has symptoms of Epilepsy’, into ‘Neurosyphilis is Epilepsy’ – and of course vice versa. I believed the doctor, where I mistrusted my own brother, and started the regime of medications that kept me if not seizure-free, then at least steady, and as normal as I could feign. He also told me to ‘stay off alcohol’, which wisely or not, I failed to heed.

With Ma’s Seanachian tendency to escape to fantasy with 8 children during the depression and the thirties, you can see reminiscence as a kind of poultice or a basket of lost dreams – I certainly had lots of those: I was going to inherit the family farm in Ireland, but unbeknown to us, my uncle had already sold it; I was going to teach – but I didn’t even have my Highers. Though I was the sixth of eight, now I was the last – even my younger sister and brother were succeeding – a nurse and another airman. I knew my place – the black sheep.

That unwanted face again.

I persevered with Edith and she eventually saw that the arrogance was a cover – I had nothing to be arrogant about, even if my family were a different class from her cobbling and mill-worker family, she saw that I loved people – and fun. We sang together, and made a lovely couple on the dance floor. Shy as she was she transformed on stage and she could that the person most people thought was me was just an act.

We went to a lot of flicks, and I my love of the horror films – “The Monkey’s Paw” and “Pandora’s Box” – didn’t frighten her, they were a tease. And now here we were at the Heywood Picturedome watching “The Picture of Dorian Gray”.

Dorian’s true face was hidden in a locked loft. He had sold it to the devil for the price of an image of eternal youth. Mine was buried deep inside and I prayed God it would one day come together and melt away the plastic one. The warmth of Edith’s hand got the process going; would her warm heart light up my eyes?

We had caught the early house at the ’dome at Heywood, to be sure of getting a bus back to Bury.

As we left the horrific painting of Dorian gurning over his dead body in the dark loft, we went blinking into the bright light of that August evening and it was the noise that hit us first – cheering and church bells, whistles and bangers laughing, roaring and singing. “Pack up your troubles” – pack them up indeed.

Sights swung in on that sunny night – swaying and waving crush – with and without flags – kissing, cuddling, and canoodling. “Hey, that’s my girl!” Edith – my girl. Another girl kisses me! I better get hold of Edith and kiss her, but why, what’s it all about? Because I am bursting with love, of course. No – it’s…

“…it’s what you say?”

No buses or trams. Everyone was out dancing in the street. We knew it was coming … but what has actually happened? We were swept up into the swirling delight, Edith almost pulled my fingers out of their sockets, but she held on, held on to me.

“Victory! … Japan’s…!”

Edith shouts in my ear – “Japan’s surrendered Pat – it’s all over!”

Oh no it’s not – it’s really just got going – for us. But hey, Okey Okey Cokey! We are putting our whole selves in.

“War’s over!” over the roar. Grasping, linking arms, loosening again and move on, be moved. Where too? Down into town. I drag Edith towards the Bury Road. Maybe a bus down here. No. Well down there.

I’m not sure our feet touched the ground all the way back home to Bury, but I do know that after we had passed through the town centre and seen the bald headed Bobbies laughing at the lads updating Bobby Peel’s hat and giving him a scarf of bunting and a flag to hold … that on Bury Bridge we had each other to hold. One last … one first real kiss before I carry her over the Irwell.

“Give over, you daft ’ape’orth!”

To a new life of Peace, to face the world anew, to face the world with somebody. I knew it. I could no longer be a nobody going nowhere, I just could not. I’m a somebody, going somewhere looking the entire world in the face, with Edith by my side.