Sisters

Lucy’s column for May 20
Sislo…1
Like many a war-baby, I was brought up with an absentee father.
Indeed, he entered the Second World War at its outbreak in 1939 when I was barely six months old, returned in May 1946,seriously ill, which led to an untimely death, and he was buried on Christmas Eve that same year. My recollection of him is rather scant, although I do recall prancing about at what must have been a war hero’s funeral because the Union Jack covered his coffin. And loads of folk turned up to mourn, grieve, and eat up the ham and fruit cake "afters".
But did I suffer through this formative-years trauma? Not that I’ve ever noticed. Because wasn’t I the lucky one? With a feisty, hard-working mother, and sisters Margaret and Natalie, respectively thirteen and eleven years older than this fat baby sister, I ended up with the equivalent of three mums, all wanting a piece of the first-tooth, first-word, first-hesitant-step action, and all the love and cuddles which go with being the bald, but blue-eyed, baby.
I know this because, over my years of growing up and being grown up, our mother told me. Those sisters, by then teenagers, out gadding, and up for a bit of fun and frivolity like adolescents the world over both then and now, would actually argue over who was going to stay in and look after me while our mother worked shifts on munitions at the local Bakelite factory. Gentle though they both were, without an ounce of malice in their very bones, they would almost come to blows when it came to taking turns to baby-sit this lump of lard they labelled "our little Lou".
I was no doubt responsible for stopping in his tracks many a young soldier stationed at the nearby Whitworth Institute who had his heart set on a dance date at the local hop there, or at the Drill Hall in Matlock, with one of the Seymour sisters, and probably ruined the prospect of a fish-and-chip supper from Pearl’s chippy at Broad Walk – still there, but with Pearl long gone.
My sister Margaret, who became a swimming teacher at Matlock Lido, sadly died shortly after retiring from the job she so loved. But Natalie lives to tell the tale – though she’ll deny, hotly, that I was anything but a blinkin’ baby nuisance – and last week, celebrated her 80th birthday. So in a Jeremy Kyle world which portrays siblings on the point of slitting each other’s throats, indulge me while I pay a little tribute to those girls who made me what I am today.
While Margaret was laid-back, shy, calm, and wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless it bit her on the leg, then she’d go in, guns blazing,, Natalie appears to be headstrong, determined, stubborn – an image she likes to portray – but is as soft as butter, and loyal as the day is long, when it comes to that inner strength. She’s also a chip off the old block of our mother when it comes to being industrious and hard-working, tenacious and imaginative.
She’s a mother of three, with seven grandchildren, and with one great-grandchild (that we know of!), and at her ripe old age, still gardens with gusto, cooks, cleans, and her embroidery is in the brilliance class. With lovely husband Peter, she zooms off all over the world, whether to their holiday home in France, or on a cruise, or some classical concert in a capital city. Catering for a 30-strong Christmas "do" doesn’t faze her one bit, and it’s only with much reluctance on her part, and some friendly persuasion on Peter’s, that she allowed caterers in for her birthday bash – which incorporated our annual cousins’ get-together, so that’s nearly forty folk for starters.
She visits a doctor only under extreme sufferance, has never been in hospital, and three years ago, age 77, gave up a lifetime’s smoking habit.
As sisters, we were all so different, but looking back I can often see the influence they had on my life and character – an influence Natalie exerts to this day, though I fall far short of her willpower and boundless energy.
They provided me a wonderful, warm and loving environment. What more can I hope for than, when I grow up, I’ll be a heady combination of all three "mothers".
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Jefflo..1
I’m grateful for the response I get to this column – it shows somebody reads it – and the ones referring to my little tribute to former Derby City father Jeff Tillett were particularly heartfelt. His life-long partner, Robin Wood, was first on the phone, a tad emotional, but full of praise. And a blast from my past came via a letter from Jim Rowley, who served on the council with Jeff in the 70s, and was a solicitor of note in Derby.
Jim, who lives with his wife Julia in Melbourne, writes : "Your column was so fitting, and so worthy of a friend and colleague, that I have to say how much I enjoyed it. I’ll keep it in my few cuttings of another age." And don’t we all miss that "other age"?
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Old Folks Homes

Lucy’s column for May 13, 2008
Agelo..1
Many years ago, my friend Granny Annie Colville and I made a pact that when we were knocking on a bit, and our better halves had shuffled off to that beer-and-skittles Utopia in the sky, we’d move in together.
Not only that, we also had our "carers" lined up – her daughter Deborah, and my friend Rose Kennedy, who’d cook, clean, pander to our every whim, and make themselves scarce should we want to be alone. Though we’ve never got round to letting them know our plans for their future. It was, we agreed, the soft option, compared with spending our remaining years in an old people’s home, sitting in a semi-circle with a telly blaring away in one corner, and a budgie twittering in another, watching the kids’ inheritance drift away as we snoozed from one meal to the next.
We’d have a weekly visit from our hairdresser Julie Skivington, a monthly one from a chiropodist we’d call a pedicurist in that she’d paint our toe-nails as well as cut them and wrestle with crippling corns, buy all our food from Marks and Spencer’s, and have gin delivered by the crate-load. But it’s all pie-in-the-sky, of course.
We can’t even agree on where we want to live. While I fancy a luxury flat with big windows and little window-boxes, and the sort of security system which sifts out any visitors, Granny Annie insists on a bungalow because she needs her beloved garden, with easy access to all and sundry so that she can indulge one of her many hobbies. Talking.
Even the proposed décor causes consternation. She’s brown leather, with crimson curtains and sensible lighting. I’m more your chintz and cherubs and chaise longues. Besides which, Annie’s dead bossy in the kitchen – shaker-style for me, stainless steel for her – and wouldn’t allow me within an inch of the stove because she thinks she’s the only one who can cook. So no prizes for guessing who’d end up with her hands permanently in the sink.
And although I’m with her when it comes to home-made soup and stock pots, and her waste-not-want-not ideology, even I have been known to baulk at her imaginative ways with leftover potatoes, especially after three days. And while I’d also run the risk of being pulled out of bed at the crack of dawn every day to go swimming, Annie would be loathe to go along with my idea of entertainment bliss – an afternoon on the sofa, watching a soppy film, followed by Flog It with the dishy Paul Martin.
But there’s already another option on the cards. I’ve recently read about a retirement village being built on the site of an old Pontins holiday camp, nestling between Lancaster and Morcambe, offering bungalows, apartments and cottages to the fifty-five-plus age group, and boasting all sorts of facilities and activities.
They include tennis courts, a bowling green, pool, spa facilities and treatment rooms, and a dizzying number of classes, courses and quizzes, all topped off with nights spent strutting your stuff doing the salsa and the samba round the ballroom floor.
This is retirement Florida-style – yes, the idea comes from the sunshine state – and promises both practical and emotional support to the silver surfers and golden oldies in their midst. It may be some people’s idea of shangri-la, but to me, it smacks of the kind of discipline, joining in, forced friendships, my-net-curtains-are-whiter-than-yours attitude, which I would abhor.
Then there’s always the idea put forward by granddaughter Grace a couple of years ago : "When you’re old and tired, grandma, you can come and live in our garage, because you’ll still be good fun." Which would suit me just fine, but I don’t think she’s passed that one by her parents yet.
Much more appealing is the route offered in that famous Jenny Joseph poem, When I’m Old I Will Wear Purple, which tells of, after a lifetime of towing the line, paying the rent, not swearing in the street, setting a good example to the children, an elderly woman going slightly bonkers.

Agelo..2
She dreams of spending her pension on brandy, summer gloves and satin sandals, gobbling up samples in shops – which some of us do already at Costco – eating three pounds of sausages at one go, or only bread and pickles for a week. She yearns to press alarm bells, run her stick along public railings, and learn to spit.
Since I’m not a born eccentric, it’s going to take a bit of practice to get into that dotty frame of mind, so don’t be surprised to see me picking flowers from other people’s gardens, or shuffling around in slippers in the rain. I’m going to start with a trip to Costco. And on the way back, I may just treat myself to a purple frock and red hat. Coming with me, Grace?
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Jeff Tillett

Lucy’s column for May 6.

Politically, we were poles apart. But we shared a sense of the ridiculous, and in the early 70s, Jeff Tillett and I forged an unlikely friendship.
I say "unlikely" because he was, on the surface, erudite, intelligent, cultured, a gentleman and a scholar, where I was, compared with the great character, a bit frivolous and ditzy, forced to play her three miserable School Certificates close to her chest in the presence of this man of letters and -ologies.
I was in Cala Bona, Mallorca, when Jeff, perhaps Derby’s most famous Derby City father, died – a fitting place to be, perhaps, because with him and his partner of 40 years, Councillor Robin Wood, I spent many happy hours in their company in that Derby-by-the-sea home-from-home. And oh no, it wasn’t just a round of bars and sun-beds, parties and posturing. They attempted to instil in me a soupcon of culture by showing me the sights of Palma, and I’ll never ever forget that one and only visit to the famous and exquisite Palma Cathedral.
But it was back in his home town that our camaraderie began to flourish, when I was a Derby Telegraph hack reporting on the then Borough Council’s meetings, and he was education chairman – slipping me the odd "leak" which did wonders for my reporting reputation, and at the same time enhancing his prowess as a dyed-in-the-wool councillor with Derby’s progress engraved on his heart.
But it was that heady year, 1977, when Jeff was elected Mayor of Derby for the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, that our friendship was well and truly forged. Together with the late sisters Margaret and Wendy Wilcox, who were incredibly zany and fun-loving, I became one of what he dubbed his "ladies of the town", giving us the opportunity to doll up in fancy frocks and posh hats as his mayoral escorts. Though it wasn’t all fun and life in the fast lane. A deeply spiritual man, he spent his fair share of Mayoral duties on official visits to churches. And for reasons best known to him, usually called on yours truly to accompany him.
By the fifth, I was getting a bit brassed off. "Next time you walk me down an aisle," I quipped, "we’ll come back married….." As a committed gay member of society, it probably scared him rigid, but it did the trick. Next time out was a champagne-fuelled hurtle on the high-speed-train to London, with the Mayoral chain taken off, and put back on again, as we whizzed through Leicester Station on the way there and back.
The year had its fair share of embarrassing moments with both of us. I toddled along with Jeff and Robin to the first real ale festival in Derby – and asked for half a lager, since they weren’t serving gin and tonics. He confided later : "I thought we’d be asked to leave…. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me." What did I know about men and their beer? On another occasion – a church "do" – he berated me for turning up in a dress with a contrasting broderie-anglaise hem. ""Your underskirt’s showing, hitch it up" he chided me. To which the priest retorted : "Mr Mayor, don’t you realise, it’s the latest fashion."
But Robin and I still cringe at our red-faced moment in Derby Cathedral when, just as the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Donald Coggan, began his oration to packed pews, Jeff fell asleep – and his snores reverberated around that hallowed hall.
But that was the year, that was. Jeff, often with his mainstay, Robin, by his side, was magnificent in his statesmanship and cool, rose to every occasion whether it was when the Queen granted the Letters Patent granting Derby city status, accompanying the Queen Mother as she opened the Assembly Rooms, or, more humbly, attending celebration street parties, or opening a bazaar or garden fete. What a character. And what a good egg of a chap.
Along with Robin, his nephew Nicholas was the light of his life, and when Nicholas’s children came along, he took on the role of doting "grandfather". With Jeff and Robin, we continued to party – and debate and argue - for years, because they were superb hosts, Jeff was a brilliant cook, and we all had our opinions.

Jefflo…2
His good works, in literature, music, education, charity, art, are legendary, both locally and nationally. He was a committed politician who believed in democracy, the spirit of this city, and above all, the people he was privileged to serve.
We last saw Jeff on his 80th birthday, last November. He was ill and very frail, but in true fashion, didn’t turn down the chance to celebrate with a glass of red. As we reminisced, he occasionally chipped in to the conversation. And the famous Tillett chuckle never left him. Our sympathy to Robin, his lifelong, loyal and loving partner. As was noted at his beautiful funeral mass, Jeff Tillett left the world a better place.
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