A Bit More Family History

My mother was born in 1908 in Sydney Australia and her name was Clyda.  Now, if you Google that name, it comes up surprisingly few times.  In fact I do not ever think I have heard the name before, except for the name of a watch and a Gaelic football club, so she is a rather unique person.

Her parents were Florence and Thomas Alfred Fletcher Lowe, she was just sixteen when she married Thomas who was then aged twenty four in Devonport near Portsmouth in England.

He was in the British Royal Navy and served as a Senior Electrician, she was described in her marriage certificate simply as a spinster, a not uncommon job title in those days! Although they lived close to each other in their home town of Bolton, which is in the north west of England, there is little evidence of their families knowing each other or communicating with each other, so I have been lead to assume that Florence ran away from home to marry Thomas against her, and presumably his, parents wishes or knowledge.  Apart from the fairly obvious fact that when they started to ‘walk out’ together she would have been very much a minor, I think the reason for my supposition will become a little clearer in due course.  

So, they were married in the UK and went to live in Australia. From here the story is a little bit blurred around the edges I’m afraid. All that I have are one or two stories from my mother, who died when I was eleven years old, and a variety of documents relating to the will of my grandfather Thomas and its’ apparent non existence in Australia.

When I was but a small and insignificant sprog my mother one day told me that she had been born in Sydney and that she came to England when she was four years old in the company of a lady from London. This was because her mother had died and at the time of the death of her mother, her father had already died in a shipwreck in the Pacific Ocean. She was brought up by her grandparents in Bolton where she had met my father, and they all lived happily ever after. Except they didn’t, but that’s another story.

So, when I started to do the research I was left with just a few documents. They included my grandmothers’ death certificate, a few letters dated back to 1922 from a solicitor in Sydney about his inability to find any trace of my grandfather, and a letter from a Mr G Kent of Sydney, New South Wales, and a couple of photographs of my grandmother and grandfather.

The letter from Mr Kent is perhaps the most interesting because of what it does not say, rather than its actual content. In the letter Mr Kent tells my great grandmother that Florence had been ill for some time, almost since the birth of her child (Clyda –my mother), and that regrettably she had died in a hospital in Sydney and then buried in a local cemetery. 

 

He undertook to look after the child until suitable passage back to England could be found. This passage back home took place some ten months later when my mother came back in the company of a single woman who lived in London.

I have been able to trace the movements across the world of both my grandmother and grandfather through various shipping lists, and have managed to almost pin them both down to dates and places. All except one that is. My grandfather did not die in a shipwreck in the Pacific. He served in the Royal Navy until 1926 when he took a pension. He served in one of the RN Battleships during the first World War and was injured when his ship sank at the Battle of Jutland. I hasten to point out here that the sinking of the battleship was nothing to do with him, it wasn’t his fault!

By the time my mother came back to the UK her father was somewhere in the Navy either in the UK or abroad and my great grandmother was trying in vain to find traces of his will and in fact his death up to 1922. From the tone and content of the letters it is clear that she believed that my grandfather was dead, but he wasn’t. He was keeping his head down and out of sight in the Royal Navy, and may in fact have remarried in Australia and left there in 1910!!!

Which then beggars the question, “Who was my grandfather?” Was he Thomas Alfred Fletcher Lowe or maybe the enigmatic Mr G Kent? 

 

Answers on a postcard please.

 

Road Accident After Effects

This piece isn’t funny, so if you are looking for a sting in the tale at the end of it, just pass on by.

The last time I had a melt down caused by PTSD was about eleven years ago. I’ve had small flips now and again, but nothing like the one I’m about to recount.

I was driving back home from Manchester late one afternoon, the rush hour was just about starting. Traffic was fairly heavy on the main road out of the city, nose to tail but moving, and the weather was dull, cloudy and miserable. I’d been to see a consultant rheumatologist for constant pains in muscles and joints which I had been suffering for several months. My GP refused to refer me to a consultant as I had recently been diagnosed with cancer, so my dear sister paid for me to see one privately.

We were approaching a set of traffic lights on red. Traffic going in both directions on the main road had stopped and was waiting for the cross traffic to clear and the lights to change to green to get going once more. Suddenly I heard the sound of an emergency vehicle, it’s sirens blasting away. I looked forward to the junction and watched as a Police car followed by an Ambulance came through the junction on the wrong side of the road. Headlights on, blue lights flashing and sirens whooping and screaming. The two vehicles slowed as they came through the lights when the cross traffic had stopped and then accelerated hard down the road towards us quickly regaining their correct side of the road. The whole incident lasted no more than ten seconds.

As they came past us I felt myself welling up inside and gripped the steering wheel hard, and burst into tears. Traffic started to move and I drove off, still holding the wheel for all I was worth, and pulled into a side street and stopped.

For a few minutes I sat there, my heart racing, my breath coming in hard gulps and tears flowing down my cheeks. Finally I settled myself down and carried on with my journey.

Later that evening at home I re-played in my mind the incident and the memory which had triggered it.

I was riding a Police motorcycle as escort to an ambulance carrying a twelve year old girl. She had been eating her evening meal sat on the floor in front of the television when her parents came into the room and found her collapsed. She suffered from epilepsy and had started to choke on the food. By the time her parents found some minutes later her she was lying on her side shaking and vomiting. They had called the ambulance and police. I turned up, and she was taken to hospital.

Except it wasn’t true.

It was a combination of the memories of two incidents separated by several years, and my mind had combined them into one fearful incident at the traffic lights.

I was quite shocked to realise what had happened in my own mind, it was so convincing at the time.

The part about the girl was true. I was 21 at the time and had been sent to the house where the ambulance was attending the twelve year old girl. Her parents were hardly concerned. It was obvious the girl was in a very bad state. The ambulance driver asked me to ride in the back with the girl to help steady her as his colleague worked on trying to resuscitate the lass. It was a hair raising ride to the children's hospital about five miles away. I remember looking down at her as she gradually went into a foetal position and became increasingly silent. When we arrived at the emergency door to the hospital I hopped out of the back and helped wheel her into the hospital. She died later that night.

The other incident was a few years later when I was riding Police motorcycles. My colleague Jim and I were tasked with escorting an ambulance from the local hospital to a major hospital in Manchester. We flew along the road, leap frogging from one set of traffic lights to the next, overtaking first the ambulance then Jim on his bike to get to the next set of lights. Speeds were ridiculous. It was a scary ride.

Somehow my mind had combined the two memories at the traffic lights in Manchester and produced the melt down.

Strange what your brain will do to you, isn’t it?

 

Death of a Gypsy woman

Taking written statements from people involved in or witnesses to a road traffic accident was the norm when I was a Traffic Officer. The only time when one was not taken, generally speaking, was when the person refused to make one. This would normally be taken as an admission of some degree of guilt.

About fifty years ago I attended the scene of an accident on a main road in a busy northern town. It was late afternoon in the middle of November and the weather was horrible. Cold, drizzle, dark and not at all nice. I was the second traffic car to attend the accident and had a colleague, Pete, with me. The driver of the other Police car, John, asked me if I could take over dealing with the accident as he was going on leave at the end of his shift and the accident had all the hallmarks of becoming a fatal. An old woman had been knocked off a pedestrian crossing and into the road.

She had been crossing from left to right as I approached the scene and carrying two heavy shopping bags. She was on her way home which was about four hundred yards away, on a small estate of terraced houses.

The car which had hit her was parked on the left hand side of the road about fifty yards away. It was a one year old Nissan Micra, a small two door saloon car. The driver was a young man of 18 years, a mechanic who had been servicing the car that day and was simply doing a road test on it prior to the owner collecting it from the garage where the young man worked. He had left long skid marks on the road, indicating that he was travelling at some considerable speed.

The old woman had been taken to hospital and was undergoing major treatment. At that stage it was felt hat she would not survive and so from the outset I decided that we needed to deal with the accident as though she had already died. What I heard from one of the witnesses at the scene convinced me that the driver would be facing trial at the Crown Court as he appeared to be guilty of dangerous driving, and if the woman did die, then the charge would be Causing Death by Dangerous Driving. Trial by jury.

After taking details of a couple of witnesses to be interviewed later I arranged for the car to be taken to the Police garage where I would go over it with a fine tooth comb later. As we booked back on watch prior to leaving the scene we had a radio message to return to the station where a witness was waiting to speak to us.

When we got there we discovered two deadlegs waiting in the front Enquiry office to see us. I’m not certain who was the more surprised, them or us. It was not often these two minor criminals would voluntarily enter a Police station. Most unusual. Normally shouting and fighting was their usual way. Their story was even more unusual. They had witnessed the accident, had in fact been standing by the side of the road close to the pedestrian crossing and seen everything. They were so appalled by what they saw and the speed of the car as it approached the crossing that they felt compelled to come to the nick and make a written statement. So we took statements from them both, and from what they said it confirmed what I had already thought. The driver was driving far too fast prior to hitting the old woman.

After the statements Pete and I went to the hospital to get an update on the woman's condition. It wasn’t good. Severe head, leg and back injuries. She was in her mid seventies and not likely to last much longer. Her son was in the waiting room. We went to speak to him. He was about mid thirties and a well built man, sporting an ear ring. These days that would not cause any comment. In those days it was very unusual and marked him as a gypsy.

We talked to him and as gently as we could broke the sad news to him. He was a gypsy and lived locally with his mother, his wife and teenage son. Needless to say he was very distraught. As best we were able we tried to give him what solace we could, but it wasn’t easy.

About an hour later the woman died of her injuries. Pete and I went to the address of the driver. His mother came to the door and ushered us inside to confront him. He was sitting on a sofa with his father standing by his side. Before we could say anything the father started to tell us that it wasn’t his sons fault, the old woman ran across the road, and his son would not be making a statement.

After listening to him I turned to the son and asked him how old he was. He told me he was eighteen.

I stood by his side looking down on him and slowly took out my official notebook. I made a note of the time and the address where we were. I then cautioned him and told him he was going to be reported for causing death by dangerous driving. He said nothing, but his father had already given us a good idea what his defence was going to be. The father asked us if we were going to take a statement from his son. “Don’t need one” I said, “I know what happened. Don’t need your son to tell me a pack of lies. He’s going to court. Get him a good solicitor.”

The old woman ran across the road. Yeah sure. Mid seventies, loaded with two heavy shopping bags, and sprinting like Linford Christie. I took his driving licence details and without another word Pete and I left. This guy was not going to get away with this.

Over the following two weeks I interviewed the remaining witnesses and put together a prosecution file for the court.

Four days later the main ringroad around the town was blocked with cars, vans and lorries owned and driven by gypsies from around the north of England. There were over one hundred vehicles. I was on duty that morning and stopped the traffic at one of the junctions to allow the whole procession to pass through. It was very moving.

Several months later I was warned to attend Manchester Crown Court for the hearing. Our Barrister spoke to me before the case started and said he could not understand why the guy was pleading not guilty. The evidence was overwhelming.

We filed into court and the youth was called to the dock. The charge was read to him and he was asked how he pleaded. “Guilty” he replied.

And that was it. Sentenced by the judge and given a bollocking for not having notified the court of his change of plea before all the witnesses had been called. His Barrister got a bollocking as well.

A year later the woman’s son telephoned to speak to me. I went to see him at his home.

He was sat with his teenage son – he was about 13. The lad had been up to some sort of mischief and the gypsy’s son wanted me to put the fear of god into him. So I did.

After, we were talking when the son had been sent to him bedroom. He explained that because of the way I had dealt with him, his mother and his family, he respected me and so felt happy to have me talk to his son.

This gave me a warm glow after what had been an horrific time for him.

It's a Fair Cop

 

Many many years ago, when I was a Traffic officer I learned fairly quickly to judge if I was going to book a motorist for an offence or not. For example. If someone was speeding and was only a little over the limit and there attitude when I stopped them was civilised, then they would get away with a caution and not be taken to court. However, if that same offender was stroppy, argumentative or rude, then they would get themselves a summons and their feet wouldn’t touch the ground.

Now. I’m six feet two inches tall, and have been for many years. Actually, I’ve shrunk a bit as the years have caught up with me so I’m a little under that now. I digress, sorry.

Stick me on a motorcycle wearing a big white crash helmet and a white reflective coat and for people with fairish eyesight it should be fairly obvious that I am in your vicinity if you are keeping your wits about you.

So. One Saturday morning I am sat on my Triumph Saint by the side of the A627 Rochdale Road, Oldham watching the world go by and listening to my stomach rumble as I waited for lunch time to arrive. Coming towards me I could see an MGB sports car. British Racing Green and it’s got its hood down. Bit brave of the driver as it was winter time and a bit nippy around the nether regions. I could tell that it was pushing the speed limit a bit even though it was some distance away to my left as the driver pushed on towards Rochdale. I kicked the bike into life and waited for him to slow down. He didn’t, just kept his right foot down on the accelerator. This was a 40 mph area which changed to a 30 mph area about half a mile down the road. He came past me looking somewhat like Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows, hood down, cloth cap, scarf around his neck. I could just imagine him humming to himself, blissfully unaware of me, the road, and life in general. I pulled out to follow and see what speed he was doing.

I sat on his tail, about 50 yards behind him, and checked my speedo. We were doing 55 mph. Naughty. But we weren’t far off the 30 mph area so I left him to it to see how it would be reflected in his speed. It dropped to 45 mph as we came into the new speed limit area and he kept to it, nice and steady. This was a bit too much, and no matter what his attitude was, he was going in the book.

After about three quarters of a mile I pulled him in and pulled my bike up on its stand in front of the car. I indicated to him to turn off his engine. He did. Now, the reason I mentioned my height earlier on in this story is now becoming apparent I hope. The driver didn’t get out of his car, he just looked up at me. His neck must have been killing him. An MGB is not big and he was almost sitting on the floor as I loomed over him. I didn’t want to hear any excuses from him so started right into my spiel straight away.

“Good morning Sir. I’ve followed you along this road for over three quarters of a mile. In the 40 mph area your speed was 55 mph and then in the 30 area you dropped it to 45 mph. You are not obliged to say anything but whatever you do say will be taken down and given in evidence. You are going to be reported for the question of a prosecution to be considered for exceeding the speed limit. Do you wish to say anything?” He paused for a moment then grinning looked up at me and said,

“It’s a fair cop.”

I blinked and was stuck for words for a moment or two.

“You can’t say that.” I said. He carried on grinning.

“It’s a fair cop” he repeated.

“Oh come on, you can’t say that.” He said nothing more, just grinned. He realised that if this went to court I would have to say those words when telling the court what happened. I would look a complete fool.

The bastard.

Anyway, I took his driving licence and insurance details and left him to carry on with his journey.

Later that day in the nick I wrote up the speeding report and plonked it in the Sergeant’s in tray. Then sat back and waited. It wasn’t long coming. I heard the Sergeant laughing his head off and then his head appeared around the traffic office door.

“He didn’t say that?” the Sergeant asked.

“He bloody did. The sod.”

“Let’s hope he pleads guilty in court then.” I nodded my head.

Some months later I was warned to attend court. The driver had pleaded Not Guilt and was being represented by a solicitor. Together with the Sergeant and Inspector we went over ever detail of the offence report. We could find nothing wrong with it.

Came the day of the court hearing and luckily we were in one of the minor ‘motoring’ courts. Not many people there to watch and listen and only one member of the press, a very young reporter.

Sure enough the guy pleaded Not Guilty when the charge was put to him and I was called to give evidence. I went through the whole thing and came almost to the end. It went something like this. I kept my voice down as it was a fairly small court room. No need to shout.

“I told him he was being reported and he replied, “It’s a fair cop.””

Magistrate looked up. “Sorry officer. I didn’t hear you. Could you repeat it please?”

“He said, “It’s a fair cop” your worship.”

Instant laughter all around the court. I look across at the defendant who was sat by the side of solicitor. The pair of them were grinning widely from ear to ear. The three magistrates were choking trying not to laugh.

His solicitor rose to his feet.

“May it please your worships. In view of the evidence the officer has given my client now wishes to change his plea to guilty.”

Fined. Licence endorsed.

I met the pair of them outside the court room. They were waiting for me. The driver held out his hand as I walked towards him.

“I’m sorry officer. I couldn’t resist it. As soon as I saw the look of disbelief on your face when you booked me, I knew I had to take it all the way. My apologies.”

I still don’t know if his speeding that day was deliberate or not. Either way, he had enough money to throw away on a solicitor and a day in court.