XLI
Oh, plagued no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to itself resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
XLII
Waste not your Hour nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, fruit.
XLIII
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
XLIV
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas - the Grape!
XLV
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute;
The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
XLVI
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse - why, then, Who set it there?
XLVII
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub couch'd,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
XLVIII
For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
XLIX
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
L
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their fellows, and to Sleep return'd.
LI
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Is't not a shame - is't not a shame for him
So long in this Clay suburb to abide?
LII
But that is but a Tent wherein may rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another guest.
LIII
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And after many days my Soul return'd
And said, 'Behold, Myself am Heav'n and Shell.'
LIV
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerg'd from, shall soon expire.
LV
While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyam and ruby vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee - take that, and do not shrink.
LVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, should lose, or know the type no more;
The Eternal Saki from the Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
LVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh but the long long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.
LVIII
'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LIX
The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left, as strikes the Player goes;
And he that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all - He knows - HE knows!
LX
The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all they Tears wash out a Word of it.
The more things change the more they stay the same.
Almost 50 years on from my time as a reporter in Basildon, Essex, I have been looking at my scrap books of stories I had written then and think how often the same things happen now and the bad ones are often worse than in my youth.
For example, take road rage.
Almost every day there is a case of this modern phenomenon reported in the news, whether it is on TV or radio or in the national or regional newspapers.
Yet when did it first occur?
The term road rage is first recorded in the 1980s in America where rage of any sort can soon reach a lethal level – possibly due to the high rate of gun ownership. One of the earliest known references comes from a Florida newspaper The St Petersburg Times, in April 1988: “A fit of ‘road rage’ has landed a man in jail, accused of shooting a woman passenger who’s [sic] car had ‘cut him off’ on the highway.”
John Cleese as Basil Fawlty about to get mad with his motor in the 1975 TV series Fawlty Towers
In the UK we did not see angry altercations between motorists being described as road rage until the 1990s, not that this means it had not happened before. Consider the brilliant 1970s TV series Fawlty Towers when the inimitable John Cleese was angered by his car and ended up lashing out at it with a leafy tree branch.
In January 1973 I wrote up a court case for the Basildon Standard Recorder about a 30-something motorist who dragged a 60-something delivery driver out of his van and left him lying in a pool of blood on the tarmac. All this because the traffic ahead of both vehicles had come to a halt.
The sub wrote the headline:
Angry motorist dragged
van driver from cab
Nowadays it would have been:
Road rage thug drags
driver, 63, from van
I do not, however, think that road rage itself came to be in the 20th century.
I’m sure there must have been an 18th or 19th century young buck hurtling along the roads of rural England in his two-wheeled chaise, pulled by a thoroughbred horse, who lost his temper with a yokel driving a fully-laden haywain at a plodding pace.
Going even further back the mediaeval barons probably ordered their drivers to force any peasant pushing a hand cart into the ditch.
In these cases the victims of road rage had very little redress against their lords and masters. Nowadays an angry driver intending to berate another denizen of the highway is just as likely to be faced by an even angrier driver, possibly with a hefty wheel nut wrench in his hand.
If you do find yourself involved in a case of road rage I suggest you lock your doors and keep your windows closed and have your mobile ready to dial 999 – making sure the road rager can see what you’re doing.
The President’s Daughter is Missing by James Patterson and Bill Clinton
Thriller readers know James Patterson as a prolific writer.
Young adults know James Patterson for his works in Manga and Graphic Novel works.
Children know James Patterson as a writer who puts youngsters like themselves at the centre of exciting adventures.
Many of us know James Patterson as a writer who works across the genres and is not afraid to share that with co-authors.
It is with one of those co-authors, an ex-President, that Patterson has produced not one thriller but two. Yet the two are unrelated as the President in the earlier book, who apparently went missing, is not the same as either of the Presidents in this book — yes I did say “either”.
Although this is another book among the hundreds Patterson has given us it is only the second for former US President Bill Clinton but it is clear Clinton is not only on the bill to give the inside track on the Presidency.
In the first collabaration the President was the central character, a former state governor (just like Clinton) and former member of the Army Rangers having served in the Gulf War (unlike Clinton who did not have any military training and did not serve in Vietnam because his draft number was so high).
In the new book we have a different serving President, female, and the central figure is the previous President (but not the one in the last book).
Following it so far?
This former President is an ex-Navy SEAL (once again the military background Clinton never had), but is also a devoted family man (questionable when it comes to our knowledge of Clinton).
The plot is basically the standard thriller.
Good guy upsets bad guys.
Bad guys kidnap good guy’s daughter.
Professionals don’t do enough to find her (according to good guy).
Good guy goes off the grid to get his daughter back with the help of former military mates.
Although my summary sounds a bit scathing it is, in fact, a reasonably good, well-written thriller which changes pace throughout the sections making up this somewhat lengthy novel.
Whenever the President (retd.) is involved the writing is in first person, the remainder of the book is third person, not the easiest job for a writer two switch from one to the other.
Patterson has the literary skill to keep us going (I quite like the amount of detail he puts in to the background of people and places, although it is not to everyone’s taste) and Clinton provides that insight into the politics of America’s presidency.
If you read the previous book by this duo then you will almost certainly want to read this one. If you didn’t read it then it doesn’t matter because this is a standalone novel.
The hardback edition from Century was published in June. Not much point in giving a price because you’re sure to find it at all sorts of prices on the internet. It is well worth it no matter what the price.
Not just any old reviews but reviews of books I have read (whether recently as with new books or my favourites from a lifetime of reading); films or television productions; and music.
I have reviewed newly published books over many years, beginning in the 70s as part of an editorial pool of reviewers, and over the years have also reviewed new records (it was all vinyl in those days) and even cars.
The best time for doing test drives in cars was when I worked in Oman and used to do test drives in everything from compact family cars right through to a Lamborghni adapted to carry a heavy duty mounted machine gun – but that’s another story.
Keep a look out for new postings in this review section.
My time as a journalist in Basildon was not all politics and crime, although I did spend a lot of time in the council chamber and the magistrates’ courts.
The Arts Centre, just off the town square, was a cultural centre for the district and, as well as hosting concerts and professional entertainment, it provided a base for local amateur dramatic and music societies.
Tony Blandford had already recognised my passion for the theatre, as well as for all things Welsh, and that November he offered me my first opportunity to do a review – Under Milk Wood by that great Welsh poet and playwright Dylan Thomas.
Dylan Thomas, Welsh dramatist and poet at home in his beloved Wales
I have loved this wonderful play for voices ever since I heard a BBC recording, made in 1954 with Richard Burton as First Voice, and later released on record. There was also a BBC TV version made in the 1960s, once again with Richard Burton.
To me the original 50s recording, relying only on voices, has always been the definitive version of this masterpiece. This is what Thomas himself had envisioned when he wrote the play about life in a Welsh village by the sea.
On this particular November night I was to be treated to a stage presentation by a local am dram group called the Basildon Players.
Looking back on it I might have been a tad harsh on them but I still believe they brought it on themselves. Many a Welsh group has tended to shy away from this piece which relies on the listener being carried away by the lilting Welsh voices to Llareggub.
I think those reading the review would have guessed by the second paragraph that I was not overly impressed:
“Basildon Players attempted to capture the beauty of this bawdy play”
Just that one word “attempted” must have warned them.
It got worse:
“… I, a Welshman in exile, wept for the ghost of Dylan Thomas.”
I had once told my editor in Rhyl, Brian Barratt, that if I could find a redeeming point in any production I would use it and I did so, picking on the performance of a man called Eddie Griffiths and, as I said:
“His morning prayer outside his door, as he stood barefoot, had the poetic flow of the genuine article. Thank you Eddie Griffiths.”
I was surprised that the piece was used precisely as written. I don’t think the Players were exactly overjoyed when they read that review on the Friday morning, but, as my theatrical mentor Angela Day always told me: “If you pay money to see a performance you expect professionalism.”
That was the first of many reviews on productions at the Arts Centre, both professional and amateur. I also found a friend there, the manager, Malcolm Jones, who was born and raised in Rhyl and remembered my father.
When I returned to my desk on that mid-November Monday, following the funeral of my last grandparent, I was determined to throw myself into my work and become part of the Basildon community (although to do that fully I would need to wait until I was allocated a flat).
Basildon was born out of the Attlee Labour government’s desire to rebuiild Britain after the ravages of the 1939-1945 war and to create new towns as well as to offer a better standard of living.
By the time I arrived in 1972 the Basildon Development Corporation was well into its stride of house building, having been formed over two decades earlier, and had also been responsible for new shopping developments as well as industrial sites and leisure areas. The corporation was not the only major player in the housing game as the Basildon Urban District Council was also a major provider of homes.
The bright new future for Basildon as offered by Attlee was, however, mainly created during the 13 years of Tory control from 1951 to 1964.
When the plans for a new town were set up Basildon was part of the South-East Essex constituency and was represented by Ray Gunter, an army officer in the recent war who won the seat for Labour in 1945. Since the 1920s (before which the seat had been a shuttlecock batted back and forth from Conservative to Liberal) the seat had been held at different times by the Tories and Labour and since the election before the war had been held by the Tories.
Ray Gunter
The Parliamentary political situation changed before the new town plans had really got under way, however, and Basildon was incorporated into a constituency centred on Billericay and except for the 1966 election was then held by the Tories, starting with Bernard Braine. It was taken back by Labour’s Eric Moonman in 1966.
Bernard BraineEric Moonman
By the time I arrived, in 1972, the seat had swung back to the Tories and the MP during most of my time there was Robert McCrindle but by 1974, under a reorganised constituency, Eric Moonman returned in triumph as MP.
Robert McCrindle
This political shilly shallying had little to do with the politics of the people of the new town of Basildon, which tended to be Labour, as indicated by the continuing Labour control of Basildon District Council.
In North Wales I had talked to MPs from Tory and Labour but in the main I had more contact with the members of the various rural and urban authorities around Rhyl. These were a mix of Tories, Labour, Independents and groups such as the Rhyl Residents Association.
I was still not a diehard for any particular party at that time although I felt more at home in the Rhyl Labour Club than the Conservative Association Club. In Basildon, however, I found that politics in the town itself was more important to those closely involved, than any matter of life and death.
I began spending more time dealing with politicians when reporting on council meetings and other matters than I had at home in North Wales. Before long I found myself meeting up with some of the councillors at the bar of the local Arts Centre (which had begun to be an important area of my life) including a rising Labour star, John Potter, who became leader of the Basildon Urban District Council soon after I arrived and continued as leader when it became Basildon District Council.
Although he was about 10 years my senior I felt more at ease talking to him than I did the older council members, especially the Tory ones who seemed to be stuck in a century-old rut.
Gradually that flicker of socialism that continued to stay alight in my heart and mind began to burst into the fuller flame of the workers’ torch which at that time still formed part of the image of the Labour Party.
John was powered by that same flame which made some of those chats over a pint get quite heated at times, but not in the sense of argument, just of heated debate. At the end of the night we tended to be in agreement on most things political.
This awakening of my political sensibilities did not affect my work, however, and I always made sure that any story I did regarding local or Parliamentary politics was always covered from all angles with no preference given to one side or the other.
I did learn a lot about politics from John and before long I began looking into the Labour Party as opposed to just general socialist movements over the years. I found, at that time, it was more acceptable to me than the somewhat dated policies of the Tories and certainly more so than the Liberals who still appeared as a rather pallid political grouping that didn’t really know where it was going.
I had been a member of the National Union of Journalists since my early days in North Wales but I hadn’t had much involvement as even in Basildon it seemed a rather toothless tiger that mainly operated at national level.
My views on that were due for a surprising awakening within my first year but that is a story for later. For now I increased my awareness of socialism and its links to reform and revolution by spending time on Saturday morning at the second-hand book stall at the local market.
Here I found old editions from the Left Book Club; a two-volume edition of Das Kapital by Karl Marx; slim paperback volumes of the Little Lenin Library; even a book on Sidney and Beatrice Webb.
Sidney and Beatyrice Webb
My library of socialism, communism, revolution and reform has grown into the hundreds since then but this nucleus still forms my favourite part.
Since dipping my toes in the political waters half a century ago my views have not remained unchanged. After all if on your journey through life you do not listen to new ideas and give them careful thought then you will never learn. Instead of toning down the red from those early days of enlightenment I have tended to see the flame fly brighter and redder.
Harry Lloyd, a hard worker and a jolly grandfather
The news of my grandfather’s death was a shock but after 10 minutes sitting quietly in Tony’s office I had composed myself. He had given me that time to let it sink in before returning.
I told him I needed to call my parents to find out the arrangements for the funeral and said I would need the day off and a day either side for travelling but he told me I could take the week off as bereavement leave.
“No, I’d rather travel up the day before the funeral and then back the day after. I’d only need the three days.”
I had to steel myself to make the call home but once I had dialled that familiar number I felt better and after a few rings Dad answered. Straightaway he asked if I was alright. Typical of my father, putting the feelings of others first.
I knew that he really cared for my grandfather and had known him a lot longer than I had, from the very first days when he dated my mother while she was on holiday in Rhyl in the 1930s.
I told him I was fine and asked about the funeral arrangements.
The funeral was to be on Thursday with a church service at Rhyl followed by interment at Bootle cemetery in Liverpool where he would join my grandmother, Celia, in a family grave, surrounded by the graves of family and friends. His family ties to Liverpool went back generations, it was to be many years before I found out how many.
I told my father I would drive up on Wednesday morning and probably travel back at the weekend, Saturday or Sunday. He told me I should think about whether or not I wanted to see Grandad as he would be in the Chapel of Rest at the funeral directors’ and the coffin would not be sealed until first thing Thursday morning.
I don’t remember quite how I managed to work over those two days, I must have gone into automatic mode. On the Wednesday morning I left Burnham after breakfast to drive home to Wales. I still considered Rhyl as my home and certainly Wales has always been home to me. All the other places I have just been visiting.
It was lunchtime before I arrived and parked my car in the large back yard.
When I walked through the back door my mother was there in the kitchen and I reached out and just held her tight. I had always had a special relationship with my mother and at that moment we did not need words.
Ivy Pierce, nee Lloyd
I went through to the shop to see Dad and let him know I had arrived safely.
Later that afternoon I decided I would go and say my final farewells to my beloved grandfather. Mum offered to come with me but I said I would rather spend some time alone with him.
It was not far to Tong’s the funeral directors. I used to pass it every day on my way to grammar school. I told them who I was and they showed me into the chapel and left me on my own with my grandfather.
His coffin was rested on trestles and as I approached and looked down at him I felt almost a sense of shock going through me. It was true, all that I had been told, he really did just look as though he had fallen asleep.
He was dressed in his smart suit, wearing a white shirt and a tie.
His face still had a rosy glow on the cheeks, just as when I had seen him last a few weeks before. I reached out to tough his cheek and received my second shock – he was icy cold.
My hand jerked back, involuntarily, as I felt that cold, waxy flesh which had once been a living, breathing person. Then I returned it to rest it again lightly on his cheek.
I was there for at least 20 minutes. I talked to him the way I once talked when we were playing cribbage. I reminded him of the fun we had and how much I had enjoyed the visits to Wrexham to hear him play for the local amateur operatic society. I talked of his friendship with Anton Mutschler, who stayed with us as part of a youth holiday exchange system.
I talked of shoes and ships and sealing wax and of cabbages and kings.
It did not really matter what I said, it was the feelings behind it.
This was the man who, on the day that I was born, had written to my mother to welcome me to the world and had illustrated the letter with one of his little sketches. This time it was of a robin and in recent years I have used it as an illustration on my various writings.
The sketch made by my grandfather on the day I was born
I had so many memories but I also had questions. Questions I should have asked years before during a whole decade when I often had him to myself at home.
In time I asked those questions of his daughter, my darling mother, and discovered just what an amazing man he was. I will save the stories of his exploits for another time but suffice it to say he had served in two world wars, the first of which had cost the lives of many of his friends and family, as well as working through the terrible 20s.
He had married his sweetheart, had four children, two of whom had died long before him, and he had lost his darling wife and had to live on more than two decades without her.
HaRRY lLOYD AND cELIA c RAIG ON THEIR WEDDING DAY IN 1918
It was only as I leaned over to kiss his forehead in a last farewell that I realised the tears had been streaming down my face and they had now dropped onto his as though he too had been crying as we said goodbye.
The next day we accompanied him on his return to Bootle, in his beloved Liverpool. He had been born there and lived there for more than 50 years. He had always been an avid Liverpool FC fan, although in later years he also followed Wrexham FC.
That drive took us through parts of Liverpool I remembered from the times we had visited family in that great city, which had also given birth to my mother and to myself.
After we said our farewells at the graveside Mum took us to see the graves of other family members including those of her own grandparents. It seemed to me at the time that we were related to half the people there.
We returned home and it all seemed so normal that at any moment I expected to see Grandad sitting in his comfy armchair and watching television, except we would never see him there again.
It was a sad day yet a happy day as well as we had our memories of this wonderful old man who had spent his life laughing and joking with others despite the tragedies he had seen.
I stayed until Sunday and then drove back to Burnham ready for a new day at work on Monday afternoon.
It is almost half a century since I said goodbye to Grandad.
Dealing with death becomes a part of life for many journalists, especially those working on regional dailies or weeklies when the people involved are part of their community.
Whether it is a case of natural death, by old age or a long-term illness, or sudden death by accident or design (a house fire or fall as opposed to murder) a reporter either deals with the obituary or funeral report or will report on a sudden death, usually by attending the inquest.
I had been dealing with funeral reports since my early days as a cub reporter, and had dealt with cases of sudden death, although until my first doorstep interview in Basildon I had normally attended the inquests for information and reported what the family and other witnesses had said.
Death in your personal life is entirely different and often the first case you have to deal with is in teens or later when a grandparent dies.
By the time I became really aware of family members beyond the immediate household, other than as people who turned up now and again at birthdays or Christmas, I was fast running out of grandparents.
Both my grandmothers had died before I was born.
My paternal grandmother died when my father was still in his teens and I was told her sudden death came about a year after the shocking death of her eldest daughter, my father’s favourite sibling, his sister Dorothy who he had called Dodo from the moment he could speak.
I believe my maternal grandmother died in the late 40s or possibly very early 50s when I wasn’t even a year old. She had been very ill in her last years and had had a leg amputated.
My paternal grandfather used to visit us in Chesham but I am not sure whether my memories of him were real or conjured up by photographs especially one taken when I was about two or three.
A young curly-headed Robin looks up at his grandfather Rev. Edward Vyrnwy Pierce
He was seated on an armchair in the garden and I am stood at the side looking up at him. He died, aged 80, a year or so later, well before we moved to Rhyl.
My only remaining grandparent was my mother’s father, Harry Lloyd, a lovable man with a pink face and a wreath of white hair, or that, at least, is the way I remember him best.
My early memories involve visiting him in Wrexham, well Southsea actually which is just outside Wrexham, where he lodged with a family friend after he retired from the civil service. Sometimes we three children would stay for a few days and would go out for country walks and even go blackberry picking in season.
At other times it would be an evening trip to see a musical performed by the Wrexham Amateur Operatic Society at the local college. Grandad was a violinist in the small orchestra.
A young Harry Lloyd in the 1920s
At the time I had not known that he had actually been a semi-professional musician in the 1920s with his own string trio playing at dance hall in the evening.
I still remember many of the tunes from Oklahoma, South Pacific and similar musicals which were popular in the 1950s.
In the early 1960s Grandad came to live with us in Rhyl.
This involved a bit of an upheaval because the house, which included the shop and a flat with external access, only had three bedrooms – one for my parents, one for my brother and myself and one for my sister.
The flat, which included former upstairs rooms from when the property was a girls school, had originally connected with the house by doors from the landing which had been blocked off with plasterboard.
The tenant had moved out and before it was relet my parents opened up one of the doorways leading into the main front room and then closed off the access to the rest of the flat, which now had a kitchen, bathroom and toilet, a living room and two small bedrooms.
My brother Nigel and I were moved into the new large bedroom and Grandad had our old room.
They were happy years when he was with us, I remember him teaching me to play cribbage and later letting me join in when the elderly aunts visited from Liverpool for a Sunday afternoon card session, games such as gin rummy and Newmarket.
They bet on the games using matchsticks but I am now certain that the sticks represented real money, probably a halfpenny a time, and Grandad probably subbed me for my stake.
I do know that if I did well he often gave me threepence or sixpence which represented some of my winnings, at the same time he absorbed many of my losses.
My Grandad the gentle joker wearing my school cap and wielding my hockey stick (the eagle-eyed among you will note I prefer the Indian head hockey stick)
It was a wrench to leave my parents and Grandad when I moved to work in Basildon (my brother and sister had both married and moved out by this time, but when I said goodbye I knew I would be seeing them all again at Christmas.
Except I headed back home sooner than that and under very difficult circumstances.
It was on a Monday morning early in November that I received a call at the office from my mother.
She was ringing to tell me that my dear grandfather had died peacefully in his bed some time in the early hours of Sunday morning.
When I put the phone down I sat there stunned and I am sure tears were trickling down my face. It was certainly enough for Tony Blandford, the editor, to come over and ask what was wrong.
At first I couldn’t even get the words out until finally I said: “My Grandad’s dead.”
He suggested I go into his office to get my thoughts together and take in the news.
This was my first close death in the family. It took some time to take it in.
Boris Johnson doorstepped when he was Foreign Secretary and news broke of his row with his girlfriend at her flat
DOORSTEPPING – we’ve all heard about it. A politician or an entertainment celebrity is alleged to have done something (cheated on the wife; fiddled their taxes; taken a bribe) and members of the press are on their doorstep waiting for them to step outside and face a string of questions and a barrage of camera flashes.
Some just ignore the questions and chat away without answering a single question (Johnson has that off to a T) while others smile and offer simple answers of the yes or no kind and head off to work without being offensive.
Jeremy Corbyn chats with members of the press outside his Islington home.
Others tend to run away.
Michael Gove just keeps running
Doorstepping has not always been so in-your-face. At one time it just meant calling on a person without making an appointment beforehand.
In the 60s and 70s reporters did not rely on the telephone to get their stories as they do nowadays. At that time telephones were the exception not the norm. If you wanted to talk to somebody about a story it was a matter of calling at their home or work to speak to them face to face.
The call might be to get reaction from local people about plans the council had for their area; or there might be a story affecting a number of people – such as an overflowing drain; then again it might be just to get up-to-date information on a local organisation or sports team.
In most of these cases ringing the doorbell was not a problem.
During my time in Basildon I did a number of such calls.
My first, however, was not a vox pop, or anything to do with an incident in the area where I went to make my call. I was tasked with the hardest doorstep of all – calling on a young widow, and when I say young I mean teenage, whose husband had died over the weekend.
The information from the police was that a young man had been out with friends at a local nightclub and following an incident at the door to the club he had fallen down the steps and died from head injuries.
I had his address and the name of his wife and the fact that she had a young child (that last titbit came from a young policewoman, who one of the police team who had informed the young widow about the death).
Armed with this information I headed to the address I had been given and noted a number of people on the pavement outside. I recognised some as journalists but I was too recently arrived to be recognisable.
The house was one of a modern terrace and the neighbour’s front door was was to the far right, out of earshot of anyone outside the the widow’s door.
Instead of joining my colleagues I rang the bell of the neighbour’s house and when it was answered by a young woman, probably a couple of years older than me, I introduced myself as a reporter from the Standard Recorder.
Her first reaction was to say: “I have nothing to tell you. If you want to speak to Sue you’ll have to join the queue but I don’t think she’s going to answer while that lot are outside.”
I told her: “I’m not here to ask you questions about your neighbour, I actually want you to help me do her a favour. Until somebody has a story they will be there waiting. Some of them will be keen to sell a story to the nationals and won’t care about her once they have talked.
“What I want to do is to let her tell her story the way she wants it to be told. I want to find out what sort of man he was and how they were settling down to parenthood. I’m not going to make up details or print anything she doesn’t want because we are a weekly paper and we are here for all our readers not just this week but every week.”
I’m not saying that her face had been hard up to then but what I said seemed to make it soften a bit.
She invited me into the hallway and pushed the front door to.
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“All I’m asking is that you call on Sue and ask her if she is willing to talk to me about her husband, Gordon. I won’t be writing about what happened the other night, we couldn’t say much about that because police are still investigating. What I want is for her to tell me the real story about her and Gordon up to the point before he went out that night.”
Something must have convinced her I was serious, whether it was my boyish look of sincerity or the soft Welsh accent (which seemed to slip into my speech at certain times). She said she would go and talk to her neighbour but it could take half an hour or more and the best thing would be if she called me at the office (it turned out she was one of the few in that street to have a telephone) to tell me whether Sue had said yes or no.
Before leaving I asked one more favour: “Could you ask if she would mind if I had a photographer with me? The only pictures taken would be those she agreed to.”
I returned to the office and told Tony, the editor, the situation and he told me to get the photographer to stand by and if we got the go-ahead we could go straight there.
Forty minutes after I had left the neighbour phoned and said Sue had agreed to the interview and for a photographer to be present. We were to go straight to the house in 20 minutes.
With that the photographer and I headed off and pulled up across the road. The group on the pavement had thinned out but of those left a few knew our photographer and realised I must be a reporter.
“You’ve got no chance,” one said. “She’s not even answering the doorbell except for some woman from next door.”
“Ah well, worth a try,” I said and rang the bell.
The door was opened by the neighbour who ushered us in, leaving our colleagues on the pavement with their jaws dropped to their chests in surprise.
We were shown into the living room where Sue was waiting for us, holding her baby, Hayley, in her arms.
At first glance you would have thought she should have been in school. The tragedy may have left her with puffy eyes but she still had that schoolgirl look about her.
I introduced myself and the photographer and expressed my sympathy over her tragic loss.
We then sat down, or rather Sue and I sat down, she at one end of the sofa and me on an armchair facing her. I got out my notebook and stressed to her that I would not use anything she did not want used and any photograph would be at her discretion.
She was shy and somewhat withdrawn at first but as I asked questions about how they had met, and what Gordon was like, she started to come out of her shell and before long it was as though I was doing a feature interviewing one half of a couple celebrating a special anniversary.
She told me how they met at school, he was a couple of years older than her, and that they started “going steady” within a few weeks.
His main interest was football and he played for two teams, one was a club team he had played with since his schooldays and the other a works team. One was in a Saturday league and the other in a Sunday league.
Other than the football training and matches and the pair of them going out to the cinema he rarely went anywhere. Especially as in the early days he was saving for the furniture they would need when they got their first home.
The pair were the ideal couple for Basildon New Town, young, starting a family and looking forward to the future.
A couple of months after they married she got pregnant and he had devoted himself to being there for her, although she had insisted he go to his football matches.
Then a few months after the birth she suggested he should go out for the night with his mates, something he had not done for a very long time.
He had gone out that Saturday night and promised not to be back late.
He never came home.
By now Sue was crying and I asked her if she wanted us to go.
I knew I was sitting on one of the best stories I had ever had but I didn’t want to upset her. That was the promise I had made to the neighbour.
Instead she asked us to stay and said she would have to pop upstairs to freshen up if we wanted a photo.
At that she suddenly asked if I would hold the baby while she was gone and before I had a chance to say anything I found myself cradling a small bundle with a little pink face and tiny hands poking out of the blanket.
Naturally the photographer could not resist taking a few pix of me, claiming that he just wanted to make sure the lighting was right. He did give me a copy but after all the travelling I have no idea if I still have it.
Once she returned and we were done I asked if she had a picture of Gordon we could borrow. She gave us one taken of the both of them with the baby a few weeks after the birth.
My first front page byline with the picture of the tragic trio.
The story almost wrote itself and because the picture Sue had provided was so perfect we didn’t use the shots taken by our photographer.
My story and byline were also used in our evening paper (a little bit of a bonus cashwise for me) and I later received a letter from Sue thanking me for being so kind.
Sue and Gordon were typical of many young couples in Basildon. Oddly enough I had another story in the Recorder that week involving another pair of newlyweds the same ages as Sue and Gordon.
This was not heartbreaking tragedy, however, They had recently married and ordered new furniture for their home including a brand-new bed.
Within a week one of the legs broke (no sniggering in the back there) and they had to prop it up with a tin of beans while the company they bought it from arranged for a replacement, unfortunately for them that took weeks.
Newlyweds Christine and Peter show the tin of peas supporting their marital bed
Sorry I didn’t get back to the tale of our young reporter on his big adventure in Essex but a few things happened before I got round to it which made me think carefully about friendship, something I have talked about before.
Friendship is important.
We begin making friends when we are very young and we continue making them all our lives. Often they become lifetime friendships, such as my friendship with Roger Steele. We met as five-year-olds and continued that friendship until three years ago when he died.
He was a good friend and we were almost like brothers until I left Rhyl – but was I a good friend? I have begun to realise that the answer to that question is not an easy “Yes” or “No”.
Roger came to visit a couple of times when I lived in Basildon. When I moved back north we saw each other more often. When I moved to Australia, of course, he was unable to visit as often but we corresponded, occasionally, and certainly exchanged birthday and Christmas cards for a few years.
On my return to the UK he was one of the first people I visited and five years vanished in a flash over a few pints and a game of darts.
Then I moved again.
Then I went abroad again.
Then I was home again.
We met up and had a few pints and a game of darts.
Then I moved again and visits to North Wales were limited, and I moved even further (although I remained in the UK) and returned to Wales less and less. Yet when I did visit a knock on his door or a quick phone call and it was like old times.
Then for a few years it was back to Christmas cards. After a while return cards did not appear but then again it was possible he had not kept up with my changes of address – to be honest I cannot recall them all.
I did keep in touch with goings on in Rhyl via Facebook and noticed the name Steele crop up quite often. I sent a message to Tilly Steele and asked if she was related to Roger and it turned out she was his niece, daughter of Roger’s older brother David – guitarist at many a late night party in the 60s.
Tilly said she would be calling on Roger within the next few days and would say I was trying to get in touch.
She did get back to me but it was to tell me that Roger had died a few days earlier before she had a chance to visit him.
That left me wondering if he knew I was still his friend.
Certainly when I attended his funeral his family welcomed me, especially Roger’s older brother and sister David and Diane. I met again his niece Lynda Dykstra who I had last seen when she was still a schoolgirl.
What made me flinch inside was when they said how Roger often talked about me.
Since then I have been contacting other old friends via Facebook but again sometimes I have been too late. For instance I made contact with a lot of old friends from Rhyl Little Theatre – the Roberts’ sisters, Gwyneth, Val and Christine; Sian Roberts, daughter of one of the best woman journalists I have ever known, in fact one of the best journalists I have ever met – Ruby Roberts. Yet when I mentioned some of the plays I appeared in and people I had worked with it was to be told Glyn Banks, a fine actor who could play the porter in Macbeth as easily as Huck Finn in the Adventures of Tom Sawyer, had died last year.
I have been in touch with other colleagues from the world of journalism and I have often mentioned on here the best journalist and friend I have ever had – Peter Leaney.
Earlier this year I found his address and wrote to him but heard nothing.
Then in early May I was told by a journalist friend that Peter had died on May the first. That was one of the things that brought me to a halt with a jerk and has made me think what friendship really means.
There have been times I have been back in the north and could have called in on Peter, just as I could have called in on the Little Theatre or looked up other friends from Wales.
Everywhere I have been I have made new friends and then I have moved on and put those friendships in little boxes and tucked them away in the attic which is my memory. I have never forgotten them but I haven’t looked in those boxes very often.
I know some of those friends have shuffled off this mortal coil and memories are all that remain. I can only hope I can catch up with others before we all take that finale on the stage of life.
My failure to be a good friend to so many people who have been my friend is my fault, not theirs.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
I still have the memories but I must try to be a better friend.
Robin's Nest 