And in my hour of darkness..

My father passed away, alone, at the age of 84 on 6th April 2010 in a hospital bed in England.

He was diagnosed with bowel cancer over ten years ago and in that time endured a few minor strokes but recovered quickly, had glaucoma, and in the last three years walked with a frame. His second wife of 20 years was an alcoholic and this contributed to her death in November of last year.

My father had a relatively strict Roman Catholic upbringing; mostly in the absence of his father who was at sea, served 7 years in the British army (1939 - 1947), and worked as a labourer for most of his life. 


We were never really close and I spent most of my childhood witnessing the consequences of his drinking on my mother... she died in 1985 after enduring 6 years of Alzheimer's. In contrast, my mother was raised in catholic convents until she was 15, she had a very simple and positive outlook on life and although she wasn't an active catholic, she held her beliefs close to her heart. She wasn't just a Mum - she was a wonderful human being that liked art, loved music, and loved to laugh.

Just before Christmas, and living in Canada, I knew it wouldn't be long before I would be visiting my dad. Circumstances beyond my control prevented me from seeing him earlier, and so I made plans to see him in January. He was a very practical man and was never really one for accepting gifts of any kind. However, I wanted to take him something comforting and meaningful.. something that he'd keep hold of and not something he could immediately dismiss as being a 'waste of time'.

I thought long and hard about what I could possibly get him. Eventually, after lighting a candle for him at St Joseph's Roman Catholic church in Edmonton, I visited a local Christian shop and bought him a silver cross... nothing ornate or decorated... just a plain and simple cross. I considered it a risk... he could so easily turn to me and say "What's the bloody hell is this for??" and leave it at the back of the draw with his collection of broken pens and nuts and bolts. I thought to myself... I have no idea how he is going to react.. but if this cross gives him a fraction of comfort... just 0.1% of something, then it would have been worthwhile... it would have been meaningful to him and me. The cross would have reminded him that he was not truly alone.

When January came along, I received news that he'd fallen and broken his hip and that my visit to England would be spent visiting him at hospital, getting into small talk, and looking at my watch. It sounds harsh... but it's reality. We never really got on too well as father and son and his situation wouldn't make much difference to that truth at all.

Finally, I got to the hospital with my son and daughter and presented the cross to him: "Look dad... I got you this in Canada... it's a decent one... I had it blessed... feel the weight of it."

My dad sat up as far as he could, despite the near blindness from glaucoma, despite the discomfort and pain and despite the haziness of the drugs he'd been administered. I could see in his eyes that this little silver cross had far far greater meaning to him than I could ever have assumed it would.

We spoke fleetingly, little reassurances without the pretence, man to man, father to son as it so easily could have been for the absent years previously. After two weeks we said goodbye, I returned to Canada, and among the trials and tribulations that followed, something kinda wonderful happened amidst the chaos of the time.

My daughter, my son-in-law, and my ex-wife were my dad's only visitors during this time and on being discharged from hospital, he spent one week in a private nursing home where he had 100 pounds ($200) stolen from his side cabinet. There was nothing we could do.. it's not uncommon and is almost expected. But this man who was very 'careful' with his money throughout his life, who would have been outraged at the theft of his money at any other time, was completely unconcerned... just as long as he had his cross.. and he clung to it in his final hours and it brought him immense comfort.. that's all that mattered to him now.

On the night before he died, my daughter was with him and he told her: "Look... I am dying... I am telling you this because I don't want you here to witness it... they (the hospital) will phone you and tell you 'you're granddad is drawing his last breath...' or 'we really do think you should come to he hospital to say goodbye'. If that happens... don't come down here! He died the following morning.

I arrived in England two days later and made arrangements for the funeral that would be very small, simple, practical. He would have wanted people to spend money on keeping food and juice on the table rather than to buy flowers and cards. There were maybe half a dozen people attending at the crematorium. We had a short catholic service with 'I am here Lord' and 'Amazing Grace' playing in the background.

My daughters and I accidentally retraced a walk along the Liverpool docks that my dad would take me on when I was a child... it wasn't something I had intended, we just got off the train a stop before we should have. We caught the Mersey Ferry, and at exactly 4.20pm and halfway across the river, we dispersed his ashes with a few red roses from the ferry's bow into the River Mersey as he had requested.

In clearing his house and belongings, I found something I never knew he kept. In the inside pocket of his jacket, he kept a Pope Paul prayer card and a small cross.. he'd had kept these close for most of his adult life and I never knew. 


The silver cross I'd given him was returned to me and will one day be given to my son when he is old enough to look after it and maybe when he's at a point in his life when he understand's it's significance.

I wanted to share this because in this story there is something positive against the complexities of sadness, of estrangement, of despair and of suffering. It is the simplicity of the comfort that this cross brought to a man in his final hour.. something encouraging and meaningful.. something deep and binding between a father and his son.

On Being the Son of a World War Two soldier

British Army ID Card

Between 1939 and 1947, and as far I'm aware, my dad served with the Royal Irish Fusiliers (infantry), and the Royal Army Service Corps (dispatch rider) in France, Germany, Holland, Belgium, Egypt, and Norway. At 16, he lied about his age to get in.

I asked him recently if he regretted going in so young? "We thought it would all be over in a week!" He replied nonchalantly. Five years later, and as the war in Europe came to an end, he was home for a weekend and went back to Norway for a year for what he called his 'long weekend away'.

North Africa 1942

Growing up around my dad wasn't easy but it was my mother that caught the flak from a man who had fought and seen things that even some of the toughest guys today could barely imagine. I took my mother's side always and even though I was a young boy, I did what I could to support her in whatever way I could.

British Army WW2 Medals 1939 - 1945

For me dad, there were no counsellors... no one to mange the virtually unmanageable issues he had to have carried with him through the trenches and battlefields and all the way to his civilian life. I'd ask him about it from time to time but his recollections were selective, I realize now, knowing a little more about the events he would have been involved in, that had it been me then I'd have been even more selective.
A few years ago, I was thinking alot about his role in the Army and the kind of life he would have become accustomed to. Whatever way you look at it.. just surviving all of that and then returning to civilian life must have been incredibly hard and maybe that's partly the reason why he wasn't easy to live with when I was growing up. Ultimately I guess, he deserves some respect for what he endured during the war and perhaps a little compassion for the way he was afterwards. His only listeners would have been the fellas in the pub and maybe occasionally, his Priest.

The thing is, it occured to me that being the son of a WWII soldier is quite a bit different to being brought up by a father who has known only civilian life. I didn't have to spit and polish my shoes and have the creases in my trousers inverted, but there are parts of me that are very much him, things that he'd picked up along the way during the war, and either intentionally and/or unintentionally instilled in me.

I recognize those values, those views, that way of being in exactly the same way as the rest of us recognize non-military traits that came from our parents and I also acknowledge the things I'd rather not have inherited from him.

Fortunately, my mother provided the perfect balance; a more simplistic view of living with a greater emphasis on arts and music than my Dad's emphasis upon 'grafting' and 'applying' myself. If my dad had a vision of how I would turn out perfectly for him, then my destiny would have been the Liverpool dockyards, a 'decent' trade, or as a last resort... the Army. He didn't visualize a 'college pudding' of a son, so I didn't oblige him until my late twenties. When I got my degree, he didn't bat an eyelid ;o)

I wrote this piece as a tribute to a man that brought me up; not for being a great father or husband, but for doing what he did to defeat an unimaginably horrific adversary. I want to say 'Thanks' for fighting for us, to all the guys that fought really.


As time goes by, our younger generations are more distant from these conflicts, from the sheer collective resolve to put things right for the rest of us. I don't really recall too many heartfelt thanks being offered to soldiers who fought after 1945 to the present day. That's sad. I guess, for all the great things men and women have achieved, we never did manage to overcome that primitive concept of 'out of sight - out of mind'.

In 1967, Pauline Kelly tried hard not to laugh at my Dalek suit!

Close to Christmas 1967 and on the corner of Lambeth Road and Stanley Road in Kirkdale, Liverpool, there was a toy shop that I swear was called 'The Choc Box'. The window display included a red Dalek Suit that looked really cool draped over something kinda conical in the corner and with about half a dozen 'Action Men' laid out before it in different poses to catch the eye of passing kids and mums that didn't think Action Man was a boy's doll!

That Dalek suit to me was the closest you could get to having a real dalek in the house.. and all I needed to do was wish out loud a couple of times that I'd love one for Christmas.

Christmas Day saw strong winds rushing from the docks and ploughing through the cobbled terraced streets like a fine tooth comb seeking out nits in the backyards and entries. There was no snow.. not even a frosty suggestion of it and most of the kids in my street were indoors fiddling with Mousetrap, Hot Wheels race tracks and newly acquired Monopoloy money.

There was no fun in screaming 'Exterminate' at my mother or the cat in my red vinyl dalek suit with it's sink plunger and plastic helmet that kept falling to one side of me head. Me dad would just give me 'that look' for being soft!

Pauline Kelly meanwhile had served as my assistant in the Tardis (that was really the outside toilet) for years... she also took on the leading role of Lady Penelope, Emma Peel, Catwoman, and tons of victims when we played Dracula in the entry (back alley for our North American comrades). God I didn't 'arf want to bite her neck!

Yep... Pauline would be perfect and Tony Bancroft would be cool too!

Now, the awful thing about girls in our street, regardless of their loyalty bonuses as best friends, is that they were excrutiatingly honest... it was for our own good! So when I knocked for Pauline wearing my dalek suit with the wind blowing the vinyl skirt part up around my knees and with the red plastic helmet cocked to one side.. she laughed so hard that the Dalek eye was near blown clean off the helmet! She was suppose to be scared to death!

I should really have worked it out on the approach to her door... she was a brilliant Dr Who assistant but she wasn't soft... and she wasn't ever gonna say 'God you scared me to death then!' when it was so much easier for her to be honest and say 'But er... you do look stupid!" "You're not coming out then? I asked, shunned into insignificance. "Nah... it's too windy but I might call for you later on." she promised.

With the Kirkdale Christmas Day street still deserted, I went home and came up with a brilliant idea! I took the dalek suit off, which had begun to look crapper and crapper, and set it up over a brush and some small boxes in the back yeard air raid shelter that was now a coal shed. It actually looked miles better in there than it did on me!

Tony Bancroft wouldn't have had much for Christmas... and he'd play with me even if he had scurvy or the flu! When I knocked at his house and told him I had a dalek in the coal shed and that he HAD to see it.. he grabbed a butty and followed me down the entry to my back yard door. "Shhhh yer fool... it'll hear ya!" I said with caution as we approached the coal shed door and the second I swung the door open to reveal the awaiting dalek... he frowned, sighed, rubbed his forehead and then looked back at me and said 'But er... It's shit! It's not even a proper dalek!"


I was gutted but instantly went into self recovery mode. Your mate's opinions matter more when you're a kid. They matter a lot when you're older, but when you're a child.. a little beacon of unparalleled imagination and wishful thinking, what your mates think makes all the difference in the world.

It was decided. The dalek had to be destroyed and so the dalek suit was eventually exterminated after being bricked to death by The Jelly Man in a street production of The Outer Limits! The Jelly Man would be played by Tony Bancroft (because of his scurvy), supporting actress Pauline Kelly would make a brilliant victim and you could easily bite her neck, and yours truly would produce.

Giz a go of that hammer!

“I've told ya once and I won't tell ya again... you’re barred from this shop… and you’re not getting served!”


Flatnose Tom announced angrily as I walked into the corner shop he ran at the end of our street.


“Yer wha??? What for Tom?” I asked with increasing embarrassment and in complete and utter disbelief.


“I’ll tell ya what for you little robber! You climbed over the back wall last night and robbed a crate of Schofields lemonade!!”


Even if my status really had been elevated to ‘robber’, I wouldn’t have dared climb over the back wall seeing as Flatnose Tom kept a huge German Shepherd in the back! Not only that, but when I sagged off school or pretended to be sick, I’d look forward to having a game of draughts with him and I’m sure he was glad of the company. Nevertheless, I was banned and there was nothing I could do or say that would make any difference. So I simply crossed the street and bought me threepenny drink at Ballards.


On the way out, I saw Tony Bancroft kicking a stone in a perfectly straight line across the cobbles in an attempt to score a goal in the grid. His slip-on shoe came off with the force of the kick! “Ahhhh yer scruff!” I shouted compassionately. “What are yer doing? Are ya coming out or wha?”

I really liked Tony. He was me best mate and although he was two years older than me, he told me everything I needed to know about the universe and about girls that he had learned from his older brothers Jimmy and Billy.

It was Tony that told me when I was ten that if you lie on top of a girl “you get a thrill!” I tried it once with Pauline Kelly for a whole ten minutes and she just told me to “Get off!” So we both marched round to Tony’s house and told him he was a liar and that nothing happens! Tony just nodded his head and tutted at the pair of us.

There were ten people living in his three-bedroom terraced house including his grandma. They dressed in hand-me-downs, as did most other big families, and although they seemed poor, they managed on Billy’s money from delivering the coal and from Jimmy’s money working on the bins. Me and Pauline Kelly worked out that Mr and Mrs Bancroft were probably too tired to work!

There were other great things about Tony Bancroft.; he’d stick up for me especially with kids and even gangs that were older than us. All it took was a simple “AYYYY leave him alone you!” and most of the time they would stop, frown, spit on the ground, and drag their feet walking away; every one of them baring a curled lip! For this, and many other reasons, I’d usually share me pocket money with him or pay his bus fare when we’d go to the museum or on the trains as far as Southport which was miles away.

In those days, you could throw a brick at a kid, near split his head open, and there would be blood everywhere but no one ever snitched (unless it was really bad and their clothes were wrecked!).

When I threw a brick at Flatnose Tom’s son though, he went beserk and we had a fight at the bottom of the street until I convinced him that me trousers were brand new and that four year old Tony Kelly had thrown it. Tony even admitted it for me and we were all best mates within an hour!

For the next few months though, whenever there was a raid (gangs of kids throwing bricks and stones at each other) and despite being warned to “Aim to miss” Flatnose Tom’s son went out of his way to aim for me head! He still missed cos I was a good brick dodger but I got him in the forehead loads of times!

Now, you need to know that knocking houses down was great fun especially in the late sixties when hundreds of families were moving out of the area to places that had gardens and weird birds like Starlings, Thrushes, and Magpies! We only ever saw pigeons, seagulls and sparrows and the only trees you ever saw were all in the park!

When a family had moved out, their house was condemned for clearance and the entire area earmarked for poorly informed and narrowminded redevelopment. When a house became empty, it was like winning the lottery! As kids, we just thought it best to help out in any way we could and so our dad’s tools came in really handy!

Armed with a set of stone chisels and hammers, me, Pauline Kelly, Tony Bancroft, and Tony Williams managed to climb over the back wall of the Cobblers and in through the back window to begin our demolition.

Tony Bancroft legged it upstairs while the rest of us sorted through discarded shoes and found tons of leather cutting tools and bits of shoes. Once we’d sorted our individual stashes, we joined Tony on the first floor where he’d already begun knocking one of the upstairs walls down. 


“AY You!!!” I shouted. “What are yer doing??? We all start on the SAME wall!!!” We had rules and you never break them especially with tasks this big when you worked as a team. But Tony couldn’t wait… he wanted a wall of his own and that’s when we heard this almighty crash accompanied by an “Aaaaggghhhh!!!!” and a heavy thud!

When we got to the doorway of the room Tony was ‘working’ in, there was a huge hole in the floorboards where half the floor had collapsed! Now the distance from the upstairs floor to ground level was easily around 15 feet and as we inched our way to the edges of the hole we saw Tony covered in plaster and lying in a pile of rubble and timber. He was still alive but winded and it had to be one of the funniest things we’d ever seen! We could barely breathe ourselves for laughing but then, at the same time, you had to at least ‘look’ concerned’ cos this, afterall, was one of yer mates!!

There was loads of times I'd fallen off walls and roofs and Tony was there like a shot! When I fell off one particularly high wall and landed on me back, he even made a song up with lyrics that went: 'Putting on the agony, putting onnnnn the agony...." I wasn't putting anything on though... I near broke me back and me neck and I nearly died cos that wall was easy over 20 feet!!

Eventually, we controlled our laughing and it was safe to take our hands away from our mouths. We shouted down the reassuring “Awww are yer alright Tone? ... We’ll get yer out in a minute!” The thing is, Tony Williams and Pauline Kelly had already started knocking the stairs down so it took a while for us to negotiate the lack of stairs and reach the still winded mate.

He looked a right state lying there coughing and moaning and trying to clear his eyes of debris until he finally and quite casually said: "Fuckinell... I near broke me neck then!"


After he finally stood up, he tucked his shirt in and brushed himself down, and was sniffing quite a bit. When kids sniff like that, and they haven't got a cold, you know they're dying to cry or that they really got hurt. You kind of ignore it as though it isn't happening because there's every chance that someone will say "Ahhh look... he's dying to cry now!" I'd had it said to me loads of times but you never ever say it to your mates and no matter what.. you do everything you can to stop the tears!


So.. we got out of the Cobblers and back into the street. We’d just got to Pauline’s house when her dog Prince started jumping up at Tony probably because he ‘looked’ strange covered in plaster. Get off yer bastard!” Tony snarled, but it was then that I realized with horror that he had left me dad’s chisel in the cobblers and even though me dad would be blind drunk when he got home, he’d KNOW his chisel was missing without even having to look!


All of our dad’s had somehow inherited psychic abilities from all that fighting in the war. Some could tell that you were lying, others could sense something was missing from their toolboxes, and that you'd heard them calling you in half an hour before you turned up.


There were some dads that were really powerful though.. these were the ones that could tell if you’d been to Mass on Sunday or not just by looking at ya!


Eventually, Tony Bancroft went back to get the chisel through sheer peer pressure and when he got back and everyone had gone in for tea (dinner), I was waiting for him on my front step. "D'ya wanna go the pictures?" I asked enthusiastically. "It's alright.. I'll ask me mum if I can pay for ya... there's a Dracula film on and I think it's on with The Mummy's Shroud!"


Tony Bancroft smurked a classic best mate smurk: "How are we gonna get in... they're both 'X's?"


"Don't be soft!" I said, on my way to get me pocket money off me mum... "You know how it works... just look like you're about to cry and we'll get someone to bunk us in... cum-ed!"