It was Stockport Carnival last Saturday
I arrived in town just as the procession was making its way up the hill during a fortunate dry spell so I was surprised to find my eyes were moist as the brass band marched past
My nana & my mum always used to cry at brass bands.
As did many other women. In a good way – almost as good as Gone With The Wind
Perhaps it was the music
Or perhaps it had something to do with two world wars. Men marching off to war. Women too, of course, in my mother’s case
And then the death of Harry Patch was announced & I found myself, along with so many others, reflecting on what World War I meant for my family
My granpa – born in the same year as Harry Patch – volunteered at the age of 16. I do not know any of the details – he never talked about it, except to mention (almost fondly) the names WIPERS & GALLEY-POLE-EYE
By the age of 23 he was a proud husband & father. He had survived – seemingly unscathed - & spent a lifetime working as a cotton dyer & printer
When he retired he & Nana went on an awfully big adventure. Round the world
I, now living as a student in London, saw them off at Tilbury, together with horrible uncle. They were sailing away to visit their second son & his family, previously known only from letters & photographs, in New Zealand. They came home via Tahiti
They lived long enough to celebrate their Golden Wedding, & died within a few months of each other in 1975
Granpa was 5’ 3½“ tall
My other grandfather was a tall man – a Regimental Sergeant Major. He & G’ma married in Dover in 1915. He died young from a ‘bad chest’ which he got during the War, leaving a widow & 2 young sons
Oddly I cannot trace his death certificate. Either there is a secret here or – more likely I think – he died in Ireland, where G’ma came from
