Some South Woodford scribbles from DD, our resident diarist and observer of all things local. Illustrated by Evelyn Rowland
Uncles can be very good value. If an uncle, strictly speaking, is ‘a sibling of a parent’, I suppose I only had two. But I had a procession of other ‘uncles’ when it was quite acceptable to adopt various friends and neighbours and invest them with ‘uncledom’.
Talking with Anousha and Haaris who were enjoying a spot of breakfast down George Lane, the definition expanded further. ”Family members we greatly respected were all addressed as uncles,” Haaris explained. Anousha joined in: “I grew up in Pakistan. My mum’s youngest brother, Owais, took me for rides on the back of his motorbike when I was four. There weren’t the same safety rules as here. We had guava trees in the backyard and he would dangle me upside down to reach up and pick the fruit.”
I couldn’t rival that! But I recalled fondly my ‘adopted’ Uncle Eddie, with his lovely rambling bungalow, a huge walk-in pantry, muddy wellies outside the back door and geese at the bottom of the garden. Another adoptee, Uncle Cyril, lived opposite us in Hillside Avenue. He was the first in the road to own a telly. We all crammed into his front room to watch the Queen’s coronation on a 12-inch black-and-white screen. I thought I had never seen anything so romantic as Prince Philip kneeling at his wife’s feet and pledging allegiance.
Several of those I chatted with in George Lane described uncles they loved and admired: Roy told me about his mum’s twin brother, Stephen. “He was a carpenter and decorator by trade. I was the youngest of six and Uncle Stephen was a real favourite of mine. He took me fishing, taught me to play darts and built me a fort with turrets and soldiers and a drawbridge.” Ken also reckoned he had been fortunate to have just the right sort of uncle. “We would go for a few drinks together in the pub, have a laugh, really talk and share our feelings. We built up our relationship over many years.”
My own ‘uncles-in-law’ were Bert and Frank. The wedding photos of Bert and Audrey depict him in circular, wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses, looking taut and surprised after being required to stand stock still for 20 seconds. In later life, he became completely blind and lived serenely alone in his first-floor flat with his talking books and meals on wheels and everything in its place. Never once a hint of self-pity.
Frank was a more dramatic, flamboyant character. He belonged to the local literary society and penned a colourful account of his lifetime experiences “just for the grandchildren, you know.” He surprised me once with a visit when I was briefly in hospital for the extraction of two wisdom teeth. In he marched. “Good God!” I said. “No, so sorry to disappoint you, dear! Only Uncle Frank.”
Other local residents I met were proud of uncles who had been through traumatic wartime experiences. Kevin’s uncle had served as a stoker on The Belfast when it was on duty protecting Arctic convoys. “He was involved in the Battle of the North Cape in 1943 and witnessed the sinking of the German battleship Scharnhorst. His task was to collect the autographs of the pitifully few German sailors the crew managed to rescue from the sea.” Fred’s uncle had fought in the Falklands War: “I would have liked to know more about his experiences, but he never wanted to talk about it.” Fiona had given a lot of thought to her Uncle Ken’s story. “He was amongst those troops who were dispatched to go in and liberate the occupants of the Belsen concentration camp. I may be wrong but I think he never recovered from it. What I do know is that his sisters and brothers all lived into their nineties but he died of stomach cancer when he was only 63. Perhaps, if your duties involve seeing terrible things, you can never un-see them. They leave a legacy of pain and anguish.” Fortunately, Fiona also had a happier portrait to share: “My Uncle Stewart was very much an intellectual. Very kind and gentle. He lectured on mechanical engineering at Oxford. It was all about steam power and pedal power.”
I suppose not all uncles inspire respect. Jules was pretty blunt about her uncle: “Frankly, I didn’t like him! He was born in India, the son of a colonel in the British army. He came home to England, got married and had two children, then just walked out and went back to India, ostensibly to collect his grandmother’s ashes. He never returned. My last memory of him? Sprawled in his armchair with a bottle of whisky in his hand.” I must have looked uncertain about including this story. But, “Of course, you must write about him as freely as you like!” she said. “All the people I’ve mentioned died years ago.”
As had my only two ‘proper’ uncles, of blessed memory: Hugh and Peter. Hugh lived in heaven when we were growing up: he ran a sweet shop and occupied a flat over the business. He chuckled a lot. No wonder! Surrounded as he was with sherbet lemons and aniseed twists and chocolate bars and gobstoppers. He had been in hardware before confectionary (ironing boards and washing-up bowls, spanners and saucepans). Inevitably, his aura was less magical in those days.
Peter smoked a pipe. We enjoyed watching the delicate preliminary rituals that accompany pipe-smoking, the careful insertion of fresh leaves, the neat prodding-down. He had a beautiful black cat called Maclean. One Easter weekend, when his grandchildren were visiting him, Maclean went missing for several days. Imagine their grief when a neighbour showed up carrying the lifeless black body she had discovered by the roadside. The burial service took place with tender tears. But the next day, the wanderer returned, through an open window. Goodness knows whose pet they had buried. “Of course,” said Peter, “I took the opportunity of explaining to them about the resurrection”.
To contact DD with your thoughts or feedback, email dd@swvg.co.uk
