Emma Miller Cooke: Her Life and Times

Church Street Tamworth courtesy of Patrick Commerford.com

I don't recall my Grandfather Charles Cook talking about his Grandmother, so my first conscious meeting with her was through a book I found on his bookshelves after he had died. The book rather grandly named “British Enterprise Beyond the Seas” had an inscription inside that read:

“This is a birthday present from Joseph Alfred Miller to his sister Emma Miller in commemoration of the event September 18^th 1864, age 23”

Well hello 2xGreat Grandmother Emma and her brother Joseph! The acquaintance was deepened by the discovery of a bible a little further long the shelf and yet another inscription:

“Emma Miller from her sincere and affectionate brother Joseph Alfred September 18^th 1873.”

I adored that expression of love and immediately wanted to know more about this brother and sister between whom there was such a bond and I thanked Joseph Alfred for his inscriptions and for my Grandfather making a couple of notes within the first book that explained the relationships and of the fact that when he wrote them in 1955, one of Joseph's daughters Emily Miller was still living in Wimbledon.

Emma Miller born on 18 September 1841 at 41 Church Street Tamworth, was the 7^th child of 8 born to Joseph Bird Miller and his wife Catharine Broster. Catharine was nearly 41 when Emma was born but her 8^th child Joseph Alfred wasn't born for another four years! Hard in those times to bear a child at 45 but not impossible.

By the time Emma was born 20 years after her eldest sibling, three of her four sisters were already dead and she was but nine years old when her eldest brother William made his way to the USA, where he became a naturalised citizen. Emma and Joseph Alfred were the two youngest siblings by far and it must have been as children that their deep bond developed, perhaps with Emma taking care of her baby brother when she was but a child herself.

Sometime between the census of 1851 and 1861, the Miller family left Staffordshire behind forever to live in the capital city of London. Why Joseph and Catharine decided to do this is lost in the mists of time but they were in their 50s and Joseph B had traded as a shoemaker on Church Street Tamworth for 40 years. This was no young couple seeking fame and fortune! Perhaps there had been some sort of small town scandal as there is a possible clue in the cause of Joseph B's death.

The Miller's set up home in Dukes Court on Bow Street Covent Garden. This noisy, vibrant and bustling new abode must have come as a shock to this Staffordshire family but the atmosphere of the area along with that of Drury Lane Theatre, which was but a stones throw away, left their mark on Joseph Alfred who in later life became a musician . Joseph B and a young Henry set up as posh shoe menders, or cordwainers, Joseph Alfred got a job as a booksellers assistant. Emma meanwhile had embarked upon a life of service, also in Covent Garden and was to be found living as a general servant in the home of journalist and politicist, Thomas C Foster and his wife.

In 1866 young Henry became the fourth of Joseph B and Catharine's children to die young. At the age of 26 he succumbed to Tuberculosis, an all too common occurrence in the densely populated places of London.

It was perhaps around this time that Joseph B started to show signs of the problem that was to kill him. He died in the late spring of 1869 in Middlesex Lunatic Asylum in Norwood of general paralysis also know as general paralysis of the insane or third stage syphilis. He would have suffered horribly in that final stage of the disease, memory loss, trembling, slurred speech, a swaying gait and eventually unable to walk or rise from bed and probably dying during convulsions. It is a disease that can now be so easily treated with antibiotics.

Whitfield House copyright Country Life

Catharine became a lodger in a home in St Martin's Fields and later on, Hammersmith. Joseph Alfred married and moved just up the road to Soho, pursuing book collecting. Emma meanwhile had moved away from London and got herself taken on as a housemaid in the rather grand household of Rev. Archer Clive. Clive was from a very wealthy family (his father's first cousin was the infamous Clive of India) and was Lord of the Manor of Whitfield, Treville in Herefordshire. He was a major landowner in Herefordshire and held the role of Chancellor of the Choir of Hereford Cathedral. Whitfield had a large staff of nineteen including Emma. The landscaped park there is now Grade II listed with English Heritage. I have no idea what the work was like except that it would have been hard but perhaps the setting brought some sense of peace and purpose to Emma. It must have been whilst she was working there that Emma first came across a middle aged bachelor and housepainter called Charles Cooke, who lived in Hereford City.

Weald Park from Britainfromabove.org.uk

Emma didn't stay in rural Hereford but moved to Harrow Weald Park, Stanmore, Middlesex. Perhaps it was to be closer to her widowed mother and of course Joseph Alfred who remained in London either bookselling or being a musician on his own account. The property was once again large and grand and was the seat of R Smith Esquire. It was whilst living here that her Mother Catharine, at the age of 76, died of old age in Hammersmith. Emma was with her.

Emma was on the move again, this time to Shropshire and a tiny village called Stapleton. I don't know what sort of house Emma worked in as a nurse but clearly at the age of 38 and having devoted all her working life to serving others, something changed and a different pathway was forged. What brought a 45 year old bachelor house painter and a 38 year old spinster servant together so late in life? Was it love or a yearning to live the ordinary family life that others did? To work for their own advancement rather than the whims of others? Charles Cooke had lived with his sister Elizabeth until her death in 1871, which is around the time Emma was living at Whitfield and Joseph Alfred had embarked upon married life. I like to think that they found a sympathetic ear with one another and their relationship slowly built on half days and Sundays. I would love to be able to ask Emma!

Stapleton Church from Achurchnearyou.com

Emma and Charles married in Stapleton on 4 August 1879, Joseph Alfred her sincere and affectionate brother and his wife were the witnesses. Emma moved once again, this time with Charles, as newly weds and they chose Nechells in Birmingham and in particular Cuckoo Road. At No.7 just 16 months later, Emma gave birth to their only child, my Great Grandfather Charles Frederick Cooke. She was 39 years old and Charles was 47. When you think to those times, they were incredibly old and also very brave to embark upon first time parenthood.

Charles and Charles Frederick Cooke c.1890

Charles continued house painting in his newly adopted city whilst Emma became industrious on her own account. They moved to No. 1 Cuckoo Road where Emma opened a corner shop. There was one room plus the kitchen and scullery downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs. It must have got quite busy at times as Emma also took in lodgers. As per the Birmingham Rate Book of 1906, the house and shop at 1 Cuckoo Road was owned by John William Wicks and the estimated rental was £11 per annum. Emma advertised in local directories describing herself as Mrs Emma Cook (the 'e' had now been dropped) Shop-Keeper.

Cuckoo Road Nechells c.1950 Unknown source 

The years must have flown by, being kept busy with the corner shop and lodgers and bringing up young Charles F. On August 12^th 1905 Charles died in the Aston Union Workhouse of senile decay. The workhouses were the only places that poorer people could get any medical help and it was to the Union that Emma must have reluctantly turned, when Charles got so ill as to be too much for her to cope with on her own. Charles is buried in an unmarked common grave.

Life continued for this incredibly hard working woman and she remained shop keeping for some years to come. Charles F married in February 1907 and quickly produced grandchildren for Emma. It must have been a crowded house at No. 1 Cuckoo Road when the 1911 Census was taken as Emma was there still shop keeping along with her son Charles F, her daughter in law Nellie and three grandchildren, including my own Grandfather. In between in 1909, Emma lost her dear brother Joseph Alfred who died in London in 1909. They had kept in touch as there is evidence of some of Joseph's children coming to stay in Birmingham and I cannot think that siblings that had been through so much together, would lose touch.

Emma saw her only son, Charles F go off to fight in the First World War. What a frightening time for her that must have been. Your only child, born so late in life, under fire in the trenches of France. Charles F was injured badly enough for him to return home and not go back to the trenches as he was awarded the Silver War Badge alongside his campaign medals.

St Clement's Church c/o Birminghamhistory.co.uk

Eventually the shop-keeping became too much and Emma was granted an almshouse (what was in effect a forerunner to sheltered housing) just around the corner from her shop on Nechells Park Road. Although the houses are no longer there, (and I cannot find a picture of them when they were) the land and buildings standing next to where St Clement's Church stood until it was demolished in 1978, is still owned by the same trust, The James Charities. By 1900 the charity was providing an income and or a home to 15 poor women or widows. They were supervised by a Matron who would ensure they received medical assistance if needed. Unfortunately Emma needed that assistance in 1920 when at the age of 79 she developed bronchitis. She was moved to the medical wing at the workhouse where her husband had died and there on 24^th February she died of bronchitis and heart failure.

Four days later Emma was laid to rest in Whitton cemetery in a common unmarked grave. She had worked hard all of her life but there was no money for a separate grave or headstone.

Emma I believe was an unusual woman for her time. Generally speaking when a woman made her career in domestic service for what was probably nearly 30 years, it was different to then leave it, its hardships and its comforts of a roof over your head and three meals a day and then when nearly 40, marry and have a family. I would love to be able to have a chat with her and I wish I could recall if my Grandfather ever talked about her. Instead I have those two books, evidence of a close and enduring relationship between brother and sister and evidence that they were literate and educated despite very poor beginnings.

Empty

 A house stands empty. It's last occupant gone. The windows bare and soulless, staring blankly at the street. It is winter and the once beautiful front garden is leafless and colourless.
Occupied by one family in its many forms for 56 years it holds their history and secrets within its walls.
It will tell you of the day in 1963 when a young married couple and their baby daughter moved in. Hope was strong even if they had little money but the rent was always paid and there was never any hiding when there was a knock at the door.
The family grew with another girl being born in the front bedroom the following year and then sixteen months later a longed for boy.
The Father of the family worked hard to support his family and they were to be seen every June packing the car boot until no more could be squeezed in to depart upon their family holiday for one week. The Father was always heard to be telling the children to use the lavatory prior to setting off as they would not be stopping until they got there!
The house would rest then from the constant noise of fun, arguments and tribulations of three young siblings and the normal domestic disagreements of their parents.
The back garden would become a playground and when the shed was erected a wonderland of fanciful make believe games could take place rain or shine.
Later the house stood guardian as the children went out onto the street to play with the many other children that lived on the street.
There were parties. Children's birthday parties with jelly and blancmange and home made cakes. Family get togethers at Christmas and other times, where the house would ease its walls out in order to accommodate the large numbers of people within. In later years it saw parties to celebrate many years of marriage.
The Mother returned to work as the children grew and a little hard worked for prosperity was enjoyed. The garden became a passion for her and she grew roses the envy of any professional grower. Her lawn was pristine, not a weed was ever allowed to to take root.
The House watched the children grow to adulthood and leave one by one and so just the parents remained along with the faithful dog. A decision was made to buy the House and then followed improvements which made the House look different to those around it.
Gradually the House was filled with Grandchildren, all beloved. Again there were the sounds of shrieking when paddling pools were filled during summer months and in the winter, the house would enjoy full family Christmases once again.
One day the Mother left to never return and the House was a comfort to the Father, its familiarity useful when eventually he lost his sight.
The House had seen warmth and happiness, pain and despair. Homecomings and departures. It was Home. 

Plant Pints

Every now and then whilst researching the main branches of the family tree, a diversion presents itself and you then make a detour down a branch of non-direct ancestors. You can spend weeks, even months following a twig away from that main branch but the stories unearthed can be fascinating and no less relevant just because the connection is not direct, as in one of my 4 x Great Uncle's who become one of the original Oregon pioneers!

This little story is neither as romantic or exciting as pioneering in Oregon but as it is to do with ordinary folk running Walsall Pubs, I thought I would share it with you.

My 3 x Great Uncle, George Plant was born in Lichfield in 1826. In 1849 he married Elizabeth Miles in Birmingham and shortly afterwards the newly married couple followed his brother, my 3 x Great Grandfather Thomas Plant, to Walsall where George and and Thomas attempted Walsall wide domination in Green Grocery. Alas their attempts to carve up greens in Walsall failed fairly early on as George diversified into licensed victualling firstly becoming the licensee at the Durham Ox at 24 Park Street between 1864 and 1870 and then the landlord of the Freemasons Arms on Park Street. Clearly each of the brothers found their niche, as years later the successful Greens man, Thomas, took over as licensee at the Orange Tree on Wolverhampton Street but didn't last very long. Next stop for him was Aldridge and farming!

It was whilst I was searching for further information about The Freemasons Arms that I came upon a wealth of discussion on the ever reliable blog belonging to my good friend Brownhills Bob. THIS discussion links nicely into the history of a hostelry in Walsall Wood, the Royal Exchange. It is also where this delightful photograph of the Freemasons Arms was found.

Courtesy of Ann Cross

Thanks to the wonderful Hitchmough's Black Country Pubs and to Bob's readers, I've been able to put together part of the story of this lost Walsall pub with my family connections added as free extras. Call it the free peanuts on the bar.

At some point Park Street was renumbered as the Freemasons appears in census under two different numbers, being 58 and later 24. From what I have been able to ascertain it stood towards the Town End Bank part of Park Street, which during the 1800s must have been a busy thoroughfare as it was during the latter half of that century that the business and busier part of Walsall gradually gravitated towards the Park Street area and of course Park Street was part of the newly 1920s designated A34.

The Freemasons was originally called The Square and Compasses and a list of licensees can be traced back to 1834.

My 3x Great Uncle George was the third licensee, taking over in 1871 when the previous licensee had been declared bankrupt. Clearly the business required building up and this must have been a successful enterprise as the pub remained in the Plant family for over three decades.

It seems that George had become successful because by the time he moved to The Freemasons Arms, his two sons Thomas age 21 and William age 16, had obtained useful employment as an engineer and a clerk respectively.

The Freemasons Arms was a substantial premises. In 1925 it was described as having stabling for four horses. The public bar was 19'7" x 16' x 9'4" with a lobby, smoke room, snug, billiards room and five bedrooms.

Since originally publishing this I have been contacted by a 4th cousin 2 x removed (yes, distant!) with more information about George and his sons and who also provided the beautiful photograph below of a token that George would have issued from the Freemasons.

Courtesy of Chris Plant

Poor George died in 1877 being only 50 years old. His widow Elizabeth took over the license and the running of the establishment and it remained so until she died in 1891. William her youngest son, remained resident with her throughout and appears to have taken a different route in his career by becoming a saddler.(Finally, I have discovered a saddler in the family!) He also remained single and one can imagine that as Elizabeth got older, having William there with her was of great help and support.

Elizabeth died in 1894. The license was transferred to her son William at the licensing session held on 1 September 1894 at the Guildhall and in the following February William became a member of the Walsall and District Licensed Victuallers' Society. Due remembrance was given to Elizabeth, who although not allowed a vote in local and general elections because of being female, was allowed to run a pub under licence and be a valued member of the LV Society, when the following August the Walsall and District Licensed Victuallers' and Beer Retailer' Friendly and Protection Society, noted in their minutes her sad passing and the fact that they had been represented at her funeral by Mr George Maund, who was the licensee of The Vaults on the High Street. It was not the only Plant funeral Mr Maund attended that twelve month period as we shall see later.

It seems that William, having left saddlery for running a pub had ideas for improving the Freemasons and diversifying because by 1901 he describes himself on the census of that year as a 'hotel proprietor'. This maybe but as yet, I have not turned up any evidence that this was a successful  venture. My thoughts are that it was more B&B than Hilton, with a Walsall spin. It may have something to do with that during 1900 William also took on the license of The Three Cups at 17 Park Street, which apparently did have rooms to let. The license was transferred to him in November 1900 after the owners of The Cups decided they wanted done with the previous licensee Joseph Russell, owing to his infamy in providing what was then illegal bookmaking services from the premises. Apparently The Cups had a telephone! Never a good sign so it seems.

William looks to have been attempting pub domination of Park Street!

In June 1909 William retired at just 55 years of age, the license being assigned to Thomas Watson. This is confirmed on the 1911 census where William is described as a retired licensed victualled. He had clearly made a decent amount of money over the years but there is a little mystery concerning him. Sometime between 1891 and 1901, probably  the summer of 1896, William got married however thus far,  I have not been able to trace his wife nor any potential children. More work to do on this diversion!

On 2 March 1933 The Freemasons Arms closed its doors for the last time and the license was transferred to the Red House in Station Street, just around the corner. Presumably the pub became another shop or perhaps was demolished.

Let's backtrack for a moment though.  William had an elder brother called Thomas who back in 1871 was described as an engineer. What happened to him?

Thomas had been busy in the 1870s, getting married, having children and becoming a shop keeper and beer seller at 1 and 2 Butts Street Walsall. I now know that at number 1 Butts Street  stood the Black Horse and Thomas had the beer licence assigned to him in 1872.  In 1886, Thomas too became a full licensed victualler at The Stand Tavern in Newport Street. The Plants were now attempting pub domination in Walsall and not for the last time! This is backed up by the fact that in November 1885, just before  taking on The Stand, Thomas  purchased the Elephant & Castle on Wolverhampton Street for the princely sum of £700. He held the licence there until 1890.

The Stand is now better known as The Starting Gate and I was amazed to discover a previous albeit tenuous connection with this pub, as way back in my youth, I worked there for a short time at evenings and weekends. It was also the pub where I first came across the phenomena known as Space Invaders and Asteroids!

Elephant&Castle 1968 Courtesy of A Click in Time

Back in 1887 Thomas Plant was having problems with a different type of phenomenon, that of false pretences when 14 year old Charlotte Sadler obtained two shillings by way of a forged note asking for a loan. He wasn't the only one as it appears she to have used the same trick across town. To be fair to Charlotte she had been kicked out of her home and disowned by her family, so I guess she was just trying to avoid the workhouse in the only way she knew.

In 1887 Thomas also had the misfortune to lose his dog. Daisy was a white bull terrier (think Bull's Eye in Oliver twist!) who disappeared in November. Adverts were placed in the local paper and it would seem she was returned perhaps due to the reward being offered. I'm not sure if Daisy was a well loved family pet and guard dog or whether there were other nefarious reasons for advertising her loss taking into account her breed, she lived in a pub and Walsall had rather a bad reputation back then for dog fighting. Whatever the reason more adverts appeared six months later when she had gone missing once again.

The Stand Courtesy of A Click in Time

By 1891 Thomas and his wife had four children and were able to afford to employ a domestic servant but as we know, life was a precariously balanced existence back then and when poor Thomas died in January 1895 at just 45 years old, the  Walsall and District Licensed Victuallers' and Beer Retailers' Friendly and Protection Society were obliged to cover the cost of his funeral expenses and make a donation of £5 10 shillings to the family. Mr Maund attended the funeral of a seocnd Plant family member in less than twelve months.

The family you will be pleased to know did come through this and Thomas' son another George continued in the family trade by becoming the licensee of The Crown in Long Acre Street between 1920 and 1936.

So ends my historical connections with Walsall Pubs, well at least for the time being. You never know what diversions lie ahead however, it does amuse me no end that I have discovered three Plants that ran pubs and for while two of them must have dominated victualling in Walsall. Knowing how the Plants over the years have enjoyed an odd tipple or two, there's a great big smile on my face!

Freemasons Arms courtesy of A Click in Time

Ray Mason 1932 - 2019

Today we said goodbye to my Dad.

As we grew up he often told us that he wanted his last journey to be on the back of a Hayward's lorry. Today his wish was granted and I don't think I can thank J Hayward & Sons enough for everything they did to make that request come true. Thank you from all the family for making my dad's send off a truly special event.

In addition Emma from Floral Exuberance  came out with an outstanding floral tribute to Dad that he would have thoroughly approved of.  

I think it's fair to say that we gave Dad a really good send off. Rest in peace Dad.

This is the  eulogy I delivered today

"Dad, Ray, a Father, grandfather, great grandfather and as is widely accepted, awkward at times and totally his own man.

When putting this eulogy together I could only think that Dad was largely defined by his hard work and more importantly, the haulage business, hence the unusual transport for him today.

 Thank you to Haywards Transport and in particular Brendan Hayward for enabling Dad to have a wish granted, as we grew up being told that when he left us, he wanted his last journey to be on the back of a Haywards lorry.

Dad and his sister Margaret were born in Aldridge and sadly lost their Father when they were just 5 and 6 years old. They knew hard times growing up. With little money available for them Dad was expected to earn his keep from a very young age.

Age 7, he would rise early on a Saturday, get the first bus into Walsall and then two more buses to Dudley Port, to Hadley’s Dairy, owned by his ‘Auntie’ Amy. He worked all day  and then returned home to his Mom, handed over the shilling he had earned, receiving a penny back in return. 

On his 12th birthday during WW2, his Mom told him the time for schooling was over and he should get a job. He did, fetching and carrying parcels, large and small from Aldridge railway station and delivering them. So began his career in haulage.

It must have been around this time that he learned to drive, as there is a picture of him driving at Kingstanding carnival,  with his trademark mop of floppy, curly blonde hair.

But I’ll let you into a secret. Dad never actually passed his driving test

Because he never took one.  

He was in Essex at 18 starting his National Service. Around that time the old Driving Licence Office in Essex burnt down and all records were lost, so Dad used this to his advantage and got a driving licence. 

In the army he learned to drive a lorry.

What I didn't know until  after his death, is that Dad actually served five and a half years in the army. 

Something he kept to himself but then Dad kept a lot of things to himself or rarely spoke of them, for example, he never talked about being the Army Boxing Bantamweight champion.

According to his discharge documents Dad was a good driver who displayed initiative and always had his vehicle clean and ready. Not so much himself though because there follows the  remark that he could be clean and tidy when he wanted to be.

Dad had the rank of Gunner in the army and saw service in the Korean War, something he never spoke about except to say that when the guns started you kept your head down if you could.

He made lifelong friends during that time too and they did get up to some high jinx. One of my favourite stories is how he and three mates went out for a drink one night and having imbibed a little too much found themselves in danger of missing their curfew. Opposite the pub was a post office delivery van. In the struggle to gain entry one of the van’s doors was removed. Dad being the most sober drove the four of them back to barracks in the van minus one door, where they abandoned it and made their curfew.

After  national service, Dad worked as a lorry driver but he was ambitious and decided he would seek his fortune in Canada. Passport duly obtained he went for a drink one night in Aldridge Labour Club and saw a young woman on stage singing. 

He told his drinking partner that he was going to marry that young woman. 

She was of course our Mom, out celebrating her 20th birthday on 23rd April 1957. Dad never went to Canada as just three months later, they were married.

They were together for 54 years before Mom left us in 2011. An event that Dad never got over.

Dad continued lorry driving for a couple more years before his potential was realised and he became the manager at Sammy Jones’ new office in London. A few years later he went to work at J Hayward & Sons in Walsall, a relationship that continued until the day before he suffered his stroke on 7th February, when he had gone in for his regular couple of hours to shred paper. It meant he kept in touch with the company and also with the girls in the office.

Dad was always busy and always out in the evenings. In his time he was secretary of the regional branch of the Institute of Traffic Administration, secretary of Aldridge Labour Club and also held other committee positions in various local clubs including the BRD and McKecknies and finally Chair at Aldridge Conservative Club. He also had a long association with Darlaston Town Football Club and we all shared happy times watching them play and usually lose, at grounds all around the Midlands and further afield too.

Dad was like a walking road map of Britain. If you said you were going somewhere he knew the best route. 

And

What he didn’t know about Aldridge wasn’t worth knowing. He had a story for everyone he had ever known who had lived there and he could tell you who ran what shops when, who had lived where and who was, in his words ‘yampy’ or not worth knowing. 

One day I was telling him about the 1939 National Register and he wanted to see who he remembered as living in Aldridge back them. 

Don’t forget he was just 7 in 1939. 

So I gave him the name of one person in one house in one road in Aldridge. To my amazement he then went along whole streets, telling me who lived where and who they were next too. As I followed his memory on the register, he got everyone right, nobody was missed. What a memory.

Dad loved animals and in particular dogs and horses. The ashes of his last dog Sam are being buried with Dad today along with roses from the garden where Mom’s ashes were scattered, so they can all rest together. 

My sister Nicola tells a story of learning to ride a horse at the farm of friends over in Essington one Sunday morning and Dad didn’t like the way she was being taught, so in his Sunday best suit, he climbed on the horse that was bare back and proceeded to show them all how to ride. 

That farm was also where another much loved dog called Snoopy came from. Mom had already said no to having the dog but Dad clambered up the hay in the barn where Snoopy had been born and he was brought home. On the way, Snoop did what dogs do and messed in the car and then he was placed on the floor in the kitchen, fleas jumping from every hair. Dad, Stewart and Nicola all waited with trepidation to see what Mom did. Mom fell in love with him as we all did.

As I’ve said, Dad always worked hard, providing for his family, being prudent with his money “How much? I aye payin that!” 

I remember him doing a long day at the office and then going out driving lorries at night so that he could pay for me and Nicola and Stewart to go on school trips abroad. We never wanted for any of the essentials whilst growing up, we enjoyed good holidays and he was always there for us when we were older and a crisis occurred and we needed a bailout loan.

It is fair to say that Dad wasn’t very good at showing his feelings but we all knew how much he loved Mom and in later years when finances allowed, he showered her with gifts of beautiful bespoke jewellery which she adored. They had their bad times but somehow always came through them and I remember that on holidays, when Dad was at his best (well except for the palaver of finding free parking spaces because he would never pay for parking) they were always laughing together.

Dad was forthright with his views and opinions and was never scared of voicing them. As one person said to me recently, he called a spade a spade. As a consequence, everyone knew where they stood with him. This was in marked contrast to how he was after his stroke, that robbed him of his speech for such a long time. Several nurses on the ward asked if he had always been so placid, which amused me no end, as placidity was not a word ever associated with Dad. Grumpy git maybe but not placid!

The other thing everyone commented upon was his smile and how lovely it was. Just like Mom. They both had incredible smiles.

In later years his Grandchildren brought much joy to his life. He loved seeing them all. He always had advice at the ready for all of them but with Jack, the youngest, he took a keen interest in his footballing exploits, telling him that he needed aggression when playing, not just in his feet but in his head.

And in the final two years of his life Dad had the pleasure of enjoying his one Great Grandchild, Zion. Zion brought a lot of joy to Dad who was a different man after seeing him, whistling, singing and telling me time and time again, what a lovely lad he was.

There are many things I will miss about Dad. Sometimes his requests were weird. ‘Erm Linda?’ ‘Can you get Aiden to pop to the chippy and get me roe and 7 chips’. ‘7?’ ‘Yes, 7, are doh want more’.One day back in April when Dad was starting to regain some of his speech he wanted something. It took us half an hour to understand what he wanted and yes, it was roe or fish and 7 chips.

Dad was decent, hard working man who could be cantankerous and argumentative but he had a kind heart and would always help someone out if they needed it. Last Christmas at Dad’s request I put together a hamper of Christmas goodies for a friend of his who had been and was seriously ill. Dad got a taxi and took it around to him just before Christmas Day.

He was a one off and we’re all going to miss him but at least he is now reunited with his beloved Barbara. Long may they both rest in peace."

They tried to make me go to Stroke Rehab - I said no, no, no

It is with an incredibly heavy heart that I am writing and publishing this deeply personal blog about a local service, which is not just found wanting but is in fact, failing.

Starting on a couple of positives. My Mom died at Walsall Manor Hospital in the Intensive Care Unit. The care she received was fantastic. She had been a patient on that ward and also the High Dependency Unit there previously and again, her care had been faultless. My youngest has been a patient on the children's ward several times, again the care was good.

Dad had a stroke on 7th February. Within an hour of him having that stroke he was in A&E at New Cross Hospital, Wolverhampton and he was given the best possible chance of making a recovery from the stroke because of the quick and efficient response of West Midlands Ambulance Service and the quick and efficient actions of the staff on A&E.

The morning after the stroke I was chasing him around the ward because he kept going walkabout. He was mobile and it seemed as though recovery had begun.

He spent the next two weeks on the Acute Stroke Unit at New Cross and the care he received there from nurses, health care assistants, ancillary staff, speech therapists, occupational therapists, doctors, everyone, was fantastic. (There was minor wobble but this was quickly resolved.) There was always someone available to speak to, nurse or doctor. Not once did I have to play hunt the medic.

On the 21st February he was transferred to the Stroke Rehabilitation Unit at the Manor Hospital, Walsall and immediately it all began to fall apart. I totally understand that patients when transferred have to be isolated for the purposes of disease/infection control but Dad was placed in a room on his own for a whole week. It was a rare event for a member of staff to enter the room. He was left alone  for hours and he began to deteriorate.

If I explain, Dad is blind, deaf, elderly and of moderate frailty. The stroke took away is speech. He is therefore unable to communicate in a meaningful way, although now he can respond with a yes or no. At New Cross he smiled an awful lot, in his own way he interacted with the staff and us and he was making progress, he responded well to music and various members of staff would pop a CD in his player so he could enjoy listening because his hearing aid was on. He was fully mobile and continent until unfortunately another health problem meant he had to be fitted with a permanent catheter.

Can you even begin to imagine how he must have felt being isolated for a whole week and being unable to communicate his needs and his unhappiness? He was to be fair, depressed prior to the stroke but I hate to think just how that depression has grown since arriving on Ward 4. His CDs were ignored, he didn't even have his hearing aid on a lot of the time. The first time I arrived on the ward he was unable to arise from the chair he was sitting in because his urine bag had just been thrown on the floor thereby causing a trip hazard for a blind person.

He wasn't helped to eat, we didn't even get a menu to choose his food. He went days without being shaved and even longer without being showered. He withdrew and showed open signs of deep unhappiness.

I played hunt the medic every day to bring attention to staff the shortcomings in his basic care.

Just a few days after arriving on the ward and whilst still being left alone in his solitary room, I was given a discharge date for him. Unbelievable. He was so far from being medically fit for discharge (and remains so) it was untrue and there had been no planning together with therapists of his rehabilitation programme and what realistic targets could be set and hopefully achieved. No, nothing. Just a discharge date. A date at that time that was less than two weeks away. Nobody had bothered to speak about personal circumstances or take into account just how devastated we were feeling or if there were other problems that could perhaps affect how we could handle the situation being presented.

I complained to Patient Liaison. That was a complete waste of time. Things improved for a whole day and then it all returned to how it had been prior to the contact with patient liaison. So I returned to playing hunt the medic and attempting to get Dad the care he needed. I cannot tell you how the stress of this, day in, day out affected me and members of my family. I dread visiting him, not because I don't want to see him but because I know what faces me when I walk onto that ward  I felt as though I was banging my head against a brick wall. I was. I still am. Nobody listens. Well that's a little unfair, some listen, some of the staff care. Some of the staff are incredible but they work on a ward that has a toxic atmosphere and eventually that must drag them down to the level of those common uncaring denominators.

Dad was moved to a bay and seemed to improve a little. At least there was company and more bodies coming in and out, he wasn't being left to rot but basic care was still lacking and there was still no sign of menus. Eventually I pinned this notice behind his bed, hoping to shame staff into attending to the bare necessities.

PLEASE

PUT BOTH DENTURES IN MY MOUTH SO THAT I CAN EAT MY FOOD

PUT MY HEARING AID ON (AND MAKE SURE THAT THE BATTERIES ARE LIVE) SO THAT I CAN HEAR YOU WITHOUT YOU NEEDING TO SHOUT

PUT JUICE INTO MY WATER. I HATE PLAIN WATER

TAKE MY BELT OFF MY TROUSERS WHEN UNDRESSING ME SO THAT I HAVE IT TO KEEP MY TROUSERS UP THE FOLLOWING DAY

MAKE SURE I HAVE SWALLOWED MY MEDICATION

LEAVE A MENU ON MY TABLE FOR MY FAMILY TO COMPLETE SO THAT THEY CAN CHOOSE FOOD THAT I LIKE TO EAT

Dad now refuses food. This is probably because he has lived on corned beef hash or shepherds pie for over a month. He LOATHES mashed potato and yet it is still served up and still no menus arrive to be completed. For two days, they were popped on his table and I completed them. Guess what? They were never collected. Some staff have tried to help by asking about what he likes to eat and trying to obtain it for him (I applaud them)  however, when they are not on duty the toxic attitude returns.

Dad can no longer use his right hand, He can barely lift a drink (still plain water when we are not there) to his mouth and as a consequence he has been treated for dehydration several times in the last two weeks, yet he is left to manage his food alone. I know from his clothes if he has been left to attempt feeding himself because I wash them. If the clothes are reasonably clean then he has been helped, otherwise the food lies in lumps all down his clothes because more has landed on him than in his mouth. Perhaps the only thing he has to look forward to his a decent meal but 9/10 he is denied that.

He was moved to a solitary room again, apparently he had 'sickness and diarrhoea'  He had definitely been sick as his clothes were placed in a bag, unrinsed and rancid, for me to collect but diarrhoea? Not according to his stool chart. It took another complaint to Patient Liaison to get him moved back to a bay.

Recently I have discovered that staff new to the ward have actually been told to just leave his food in front of him. No wonder so little food is being consumed. No wonder he is losing colossal amounts of weight. His cheeks are hollow and you can see and feel his bones. His skin is dry. He smells because he never gets a shower. He rarely gets shaved. He is still being left with plain water. The menus have never arrived. His dentures are not being cleaned and they are not always in his mouth. His hearing aid is frequently left off. He is so frail now he cannot shift his wait in his bedside chair and therefore slips down all the time, trapping his useless right arm. A slip mat was provided to prevent slipping but it is not put in place.

He is deteriorating rapidly due to a lack of care, care that he is entitled to. What do we have to do to elicit any response from senior staff other than a shrug of the shoulders or a grunt? Sometimes they promise to sort things out but it never happens. The ward is a toxic bad joke. I apologise to the good, kind and hard working staff on that ward that do care. Unfortunately you are a minority. If you were a majority I wouldn't be writing this.

By the time my Dad was 7 years old in 1939, his father had died. On Saturdays at that age he used to take the first 3 buses of the day, on his own, from Aldridge to Dudley Port to spend a day working at Hadley's Dairy for which he was paid the princely sum of a shilling (5 pence in new money). He was probably overpaid as there was a family connection. When he had taken those three buses home, he would hand over that shilling to his Mom, my Grandmother. He was given a penny in return for his efforts. He was working full time by the age of 13 and the day before his stroke he had gone to work for the two hours a week he still did. A proud man. A hard working man. A man who has paid his dues all of his life and is entitled to decent healthcare.

I have asked these questions so many times since 21st February. How would you feel if this was your Father being treated with such a lack of care and respect and compassion? Why do you rob him of dignity in his final days?  Why do they feel it is OK to treat my Dad like this?

The emotional toll this is taking is incredible. How this is being allowed to happen on one ward I don't know. Why nobody cares, I don't know. How some of these people keep their jobs, I don't know. It's almost as though they feel so safe and protected they can treat those in their care badly and never feel the consequences. I am in despair.
Why do I publish such a personal thing for everyone to read? The story has to be told. Publishing is the only way anyone takes any notice. So many people suffer in silence and their story is never told or known. This sort of story should be told. People should be aware. Complaints are treated with disdain. Lessons will be learned they say. They never are. Cynical yes. Be aware I love our NHS, the care, compassion and treatment by the majority is second to none anywhere in the world. Unfortunately sometimes you discover little pockets of rot. When you do, you have to speak out in order that the rot does not spread.

Perceptions of ageing

First blog of a new year and definitely a rambling rant.

Maybe it's because 60 doesn't seem old to me anymore and so my perceptions and ideas are changing but isn't there an awful lot of ageist claptrap spoken about anyone over the age of say 50? I have seen 50. It was glorious to reach 50. Old enough to not care what anyone thought of me any longer and to allow what I thought to be said even if during those 50 years lived I had never exactly been diplomatic. Free from expectation, knowing it was not me being objectified by wolf whistling idiots. At 56, 60 is a booming reality for me and my thoughts turn to my Grandparents at that age. They had lived through two world wars and a depression in between and their bodies had known many privations. I believe that generation grew old well before their time to do so because of the times they had lived through.

It's not just the claptrap either, there are still in these supposedly more enlightened times, the most awful stereotypical thoughts and comments that gush from the mouths and keyboards of those who appear not to see that it is only in the blink of an eye that they too will soon be one of those that they scorn so. I suppose around about your late thirties is when you realise full on that it has been twenty (yes 20!!!) years since you left school and in that same space of years you will be approaching retirement and perhaps pension age if it isn't meddled with further. Then suddenly a few more years down the line, 50,60 and even 70 is not old anymore. Hey those perceptions apply to everyone else, not me. Look at me I am still young, relatively wrinkle free, fairly firm of body and sound of mind. Then by the early forty's things have changed again, the body isn't quite so firm, even if you work at it, certain health issues might start to creep in and you are there thinking to yourself, hey was it only x years ago I was still being asked to prove I was over 21?

In the last ten years ageing has proceeded at a fast pace for me. The hair has greyed, the lines have become more wrinkly and my skin amongst other things, is definitely going south. Gravity - what a pain!

These last few years have seen my face age considerably. It shows around the eyes and the mouth  but hey, am I so internally insecure that plastic surgery, botox, fillers and implants must be the answer in order to maintain a youthful appearance? No, I am bloody well not. I stand here now and say I am proud of every wrinkle, line and grey hair because they all prove that I HAVE LIVED and am still alive!

Those who leave this mortal coil at a young age stay with us forever as youthful and vibrant because that is how they were and that is how they were when they were taken so cruelly from us. They didn't get the opportunity to grow old either gracefully (or disgracefully as I am trying to do) or to feel the regret of youth passing. No.

The signs of life are those wrinkles, lines, grey hairs, saggy skin and bodies. Those signs say, hey I am alive, I have lived, I have enjoyed, I have done something with my life and thought through more than the vanity of trying to keep some perception of youth that in all honesty probably disappeared at 20 only wasn't realised at the time.

Of course it is not just the older people who are subject to disparaging claptrap. It is anyone who is different in some way but that is for someone else to write about. I feel for the young people now who are subjected to a barrage from media outlets and the internet on conforming to certain looks in a constant way that my generation never was and perhaps it is this that also informs those who blast contempt at anyone with grey hair, wrinkles and saggy skin

So I say to all of those who write such disparaging words about anyone older than them, go and get a good and true life that is not composed of obsessing over appearance but at reflecting upon the inner self and growing, maybe even gaining wisdom and then maybe you too will learn to appreciate the beauty of looking at someone who has truly lived and been allowed to live.

A Journey of Remembrance

Back at the beginning of the month we made our own personal journey of Remembrance to mark the centenary of the end of The Great War. The first part of our journey is recounted HERE.

Following the emotional visit to Sivry, we drove back into France and up to The Guards Cemetery at Windy Corner near Cuinchy, to lay a wreath on the grave of my Great Uncle, William Plant whose life I recounted HERE and who died in a bloody battle on 10 March 1915. It was late in the afternoon and the light was fading fast. It was also pouring with rain and it felt so very bleak at Windy Corner. We laid the wreath and two more of Len's poppies were planted and I thanked William for his sacrifice and reminded him that he is not forgotten either by me or by the people of Aldridge.

We then took a walk around the cemetery and came across this touching tribute to men from another continent who had travelled so far to fight for the Empire and who never made the journey home. The stone reads "To the memory of these six soldiers of the British Empire killed in action in 1915 and buried at the time in Indian Village North Cemetery Festubert whose graves were destroyed in later battles and to the memory of these four Indian Soldiers who fell near Givenchy. Their glory shall not be blotted out".

The wind was howling around us, the rain soaking us and we felt so very cold. My heart went out to these young Indian soldiers who left their warm homes and families for what must have been considered an enormous adventure and have lay for so long now, in the cold hard earth of Northern France, a land that must have seemed so alien to them. I thanked them for their sacrifice and told them that I would not forget them.

Sanctuary Wood

Next morning we arose early and once again crossed the border into Belgium, travelling across Flanders Fields towards Ypres. First stop was Sanctuary Wood just off The Menin Road. Sanctuary Wood was right on the front line of the Western Front and saw fierce fighting throughout The Great War. When the farmer who owned the land returned to it in 1919 he decided to leave part of the trench system exactly how he had found it and although some restoration work has been carried out over the years, you are still left with a complete trench system and relics, more or less how it was a hundred years ago. Of course, trees have grown and when we visited leaves carpeted the ground but it did not require much imagination to see how it would have been.

We visited for several reasons, one of which was that Aiden's Great Grandfather RSM Herbert Goulding of the Lancashire Fusiliers spent his very last Christmas on earth there. Aiden writes very movingly of what the visit meant to him HERE.

We spent a good few hours at Sanctuary Wood both inside the museum and outside in the wood and trenches. Standing in the trenches and looking out over the ground, seeing the craters from bombs and the remnants of barbed wire, it felt desperate, despite the fact that it was so very peaceful and quiet and it would have been anything but just over a hundred years ago. This was the first place that mustard gas was used during the war and inside the museum are 3D photographs that give graphic, amazingly real life vision to the effects that that invisible menace had upon men.

We then followed the Menin Road towards Ypres but taking our time to make a detour to the largest Commonwealth War Graves Commission Cemetery in the world; Tyne Cot. There are nearly 12,000 soldiers buried there of which, only a quarter are identified. That is sobering. This is the site of the infamous Battle of Passchendaele and so those buried here had died here.  On the Eastern Boundary stands a memorial wall, gently curving around the boundary. It bears the names of some 35,000 men of the British and New Zealand forces who have no known grave, nearly all of whom died between August 1917 and November 1918. It is relentless.

Name after name. Regiment after regiment. Such sorrow and suffering represented on this memorial.
It is far too much to comprehend.
All you can do is thank them for their sacrifice and say they are not forgotten.

The first sight of the Menin Gate takes your breath away. It is a magnificent memorial.  During the Great War hundreds of thousands of men from Britain and the Commonwealth marched through the old Menin Gate on the outskirts of Ypres, on their way to the battlefields of the Western Front. The Menin Gate or Ypres Memorial, now stands as a reminder of those who died and have no known grave.  It bears the names of 54,000 men, yes 54,000  who died before 16 August 1917. Again, just like the Tyne Cot memorial, it is unrelenting, columns upon columns of names, in regimental order.

One of those name belongs to my Great Uncle, Lance Corporal Charles Mason of the 4th Battalion, King's Royal Rifle Corps who died on 10 May 1915. Charles is an interesting man whose complete story I have not yet uncovered but I do know that following his brother John Mason's  exploits in the Boer War, Charles left Aldridge where he had spent most of his childhood and he too joined up to fight in South Africa. Unfortunately at barely 16 years old, Charles was unable to cope with military life and twice deserted going absent without leave. Following the second occasion, he was given a dishonourable discharge and returned to Aldridge and civilian life. He moved from Aldridge to Derbyshire between then and the outbreak of the Great War, marrying in 1912 and fathering a son who was born just a few months before the outbreak of war.

On 7th August 1914 a Royal Proclamation was issued offering a blanket pardon for all those who had previously deserted providing they surrounded themselves prior to 4th September. Charles duly did this and was immediately sent to the Western Front. On the 8th May 1915, his battalion were heavily involved in fighting near St Elois. Their trenches were destroyed and Charles was one of the 493 killed between the 8th and 10th of May 1915. He has no known grave. His name was far too high overhead for me to reach out and touch, so I placed a poppy in a ledge as close as I possibly could to where his name is etched. I thanked him for his sacrifice and told him he was not forgotten.

We walked outside of the memorial onto the ramparts that surround Ypres to be confronted with a heart stopping sight. Thousands of handmade wooden poppies, each with a message from someone in the UK, to say thank you to those named on the memorial and to show they are not forgotten. It was a beautiful memorial to commemorate the centenary of the end of the war.

We then took a stroll around Ypres, a town that was destroyed during the conflict of the Great War but was rebuilt as if it was still the medieval  town it had been and now you cannot tell that actually, the buildings are all less than one hundred years old, such a wonderful job has been done.

Just by the famous cloth hall stands Ypres own war memorial to their own dead from the town. In a place where so many foreign men passed through and then lost their lives, where those foreigners have memorials and cemeteries at virtually every corner, it would be easy to forget that the Belgium people had their own army fighting alongside all the others. They suffered threefold. They were invaded first by one foreign army and then were joined in defence and attack against those first invaders by other foreign armies. They were occupied and they suffered and they lost their own young men. I stood and looked at the memorial to those local men and I acknowledged their sacrifice and remembered them.