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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