Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill (34 page)

‘What a wonderful view,' I said, sighing and turning to the glum-faced couple on the next table.

‘It's a bit too chocolate-boxy for my liking,' observed the woman. This reminded me of an anecdote recorded in the
Countryman
magazine when a Sheffield couple was asked: ‘Did you enjoy your holiday in the Lake District?'

‘There were nowt but watter and scenery,' was the blunt reply.

I related the story to the proprietor of the Cliffemount when we went in for lunch.

‘There's no pleasing some people,' she said. ‘I have had guests who seem to make a career of complaining. One resident grumbled that the sunshine was too bright in his room, another that the toilet was too noisy and a third that the birds sang too shrilly in the morning and woke her up.' Short of arranging an eclipse, inventing a silent flush and shooting all the seagulls, there wasn't much the proprietor could do.

The report on holidaymakers' genuine complaints, by the travel agency Thomas Cook, makes amusing reading. There are complaints about the beach being too sandy, the local store in Spain that didn't sell proper biscuits like custard creams and ginger nuts, and the sea being a different colour from that in the brochure. One traveller complained that the flight from Jamaica to England took nine hours but it only took the Americans three to get home. Perhaps you can guess which country
this
next tourist had visited: ‘There were too many Spanish people. The receptionist spoke Spanish. The food was Spanish and there were too many foreigners.'

There was the sightseer on honeymoon with his new wife, at a game park in Africa, who spotted a very amorous and visibly aroused elephant and complained that the beast made him feel inadequate. A guest at a Novotel hotel in Australia grumbled that his soup was too thick and strong, only to be informed that he was eating the gravy. ‘My fiancé and I booked a twin-bedded room,' complained another holidaymaker, ‘but we were placed in a double-bedded room. We now hold you responsible for the fact that I find myself pregnant. This would not have happened if you had put us in the room we had booked.'

At the Cliffemount Hotel, we had a magnificent meal of fresh Whitby fish, sitting at a table overlooking the bay and served by a smiling and friendly waitress. The chef emerged from the kitchen to ask if we had enjoyed his efforts and, when settling the bill, I was asked by the proprietor if everything was satisfactory.

‘How could it be otherwise?' I asked. ‘It was splendid.'

She smiled. ‘You would be surprised. One guest remarked that she felt the place had no atmosphere.'

‘How do you manage to deal with such people?' I asked.

‘By being polite,' she said, shrugging. ‘What else can one do?'

There is the story (probably apocryphal) about the man at the check-in at the airport, who berated the poor member of staff for a considerable period of time. The young woman behind the counter answered him calmly and politely and checked in his bags.

‘How do you stand for this sort of thing?' asked the next passenger. ‘It's disgraceful the way that man spoke to you.'

The young woman smiled. ‘The gentleman is going to New York,' she replied, ‘but his bags are going to Beijing.'

The Photograph

My sister, Christine, arrived for lunch one Sunday with the family photograph albums, which she had taken charge of when our parents died and which had been in her loft ever since. That afternoon, we spent a good couple of hours looking through the contents and reminiscing. In one album there was a collection of photographs of our father, taken before and during the last war, when he was a despatch rider. I had never seen the photographs before and was intrigued. There were two portraits, taken in a Cairo studio, of this striking-looking, serious-faced young man, his hair neatly parted and his beret tucked in regulation fashion under his epaulette, a couple of him standing to attention by a motorbike and sidecar, a group photograph of a squad of fourteen smiling soldiers in full uniform, sitting straight backed and cross-legged at Catterick Camp, and several of my father astride a horse.

‘What's he doing on a horse?' I asked my sister. ‘I never knew he could ride.'

‘He was in the army equestrian team,' my sister commented casually.

‘I never knew that!' I said, astounded.

It occurred to me that Sunday afternoon that I knew very little about my father's war service. He never spoke of it. For that matter, nor did my Uncle Alec, who was a warrant officer in the Royal Air Force and flew bombing missions over Germany, or my Uncle Jimmy, who served with the Irish Guards. My Uncle Ted, a sergeant in the Army Medical Corps and a Dunkirk veteran, only once told me about the panic and the horrors he had witnessed on the beaches as the British Army retreated. Perhaps these men had seen things that they wished to forget. I was very proud of them and still am and their medals are on the wall in my study.

When I was a lad, my father, a great storyteller, amused and entertained me with the exciting exploits of the Three Musketeers and Biggles, Long John Silver and Rob Roy McGregor, Huckleberry Finn and Robinson Crusoe, but he never told me anything about his time in the British Army. I guess the subject was never raised. Perhaps it was too painful for him to recall or that he just wanted to return to his home and family and get on with his life; then again, he might have considered it such an ordinary, uneventful few years of his life and therefore of not much interest to a boy keen on adventure stories.

I do remember my father's last Remembrance Sunday, when I accompanied him to the war memorial with my three young sons. He was in a thoughtful, sombre mood during the service, and stood a little apart from us. Richard, my eldest son, noticed as the Last Post was being played that his grandfather was in tears.

On that special Sunday we should all, especially the young, remember those who fought and those who died in defence of our freedom. My poem is dedicated to all those brave men and women, members of today's armed forces, who are still fighting in those ‘far-off lands of blistering heat and burning sand' in defence of freedom, justice and humanity.

 

Remembrance Sunday

On Remembrance Sunday Grandpa cried

For his two brothers, who had died

In some forgotten far-off land

Of blistering heat and burning sand.

He touched a medal on his chest

Which sparkled brighter than the rest:

‘The Africa Star,' he gently sighed,

‘A badge of honour, of those who died,

A symbol of our Ted and Jack

Who never made the journey back.'

We watched old soldiers stride on by,

Straight of back and heads held high,

And we clutched our poppies of brightest red

And we wept for the brothers Jack and Ted.

A Real Hero

Like many in this country, I was appalled by the pictures in the newspapers and on the television screen of the homecoming parade of the soldiers from the 2nd battalion, The Royal Anglian Regiment, returning from serving abroad. ‘Butchers of Basra!', ‘Cowards!', ‘Killers!', ‘Extremists!', the placards proclaimed. I was deeply saddened by the sight of the grieving parents at the funeral of their son, Sapper Patrick Azimkar, murdered in Northern Ireland, a young man who pulled his friend to the ground and saved his life before he was killed. These men and women who serve in our armed forces are dedicated to help bring peace to war-torn lands and are abused and sometimes maimed and killed for trying to do so.

That same week, I was privileged to share a platform with Doug Beattie at the Manchester Literary Luncheon. One of a tiny contingent of British troops, the Royal Irish Regiment captain went to help Afghan forces recapture the town of Garmsir – known as the Taliban gateway to Helmand Province. For two brutal and bloody weeks, he and a few soldiers, who shrunk to just three men, faced a ferocious enemy in impossible conditions and with inadequate supplies. For his repeated bravery, Captain Beattie was decorated with the Military Cross.

There was a strange hush in the audience, and a good few tears, as this brave soldier told us with heartfelt honesty about his experiences and of the resilience, courage and humanity of the British soldiers who served with him. At one point, when serving in Iraq, he was responsible for forming and running the holding pen for 1,500 enemy soldiers with a small defence platoon to contain them.

‘It was a tense period,' he said. ‘I understood why my men's frustrations might so easily boil over: the heat, the physical exhaustion, the real danger and the imagined danger. But I was clear in my own head. We would treat the prisoners correctly and with compassion. It was what I asked of the men under my watch. The response was fantastic. Not only did they do what was requested but they often did more, giving up their own water and food so at least some of our charges could be satiated. I was, and am, extremely proud of them.'

The morning after the literary lunch, I travelled to London with a heavy case in tow. As I struggled to lift my burden off the packed luggage rack, a young soldier took it from my hands.

‘OK, pop,' he said, ‘I'll give you a hand.'

Doug Beattie would have been proud of him.

Someone at the Door

I have to say that I admire the sheer persistence and determination of Jehovah's Witnesses. Near where I live, their bright modern church has been built, and many a weekend I have received the attention of a couple of zealous members of the congregation wishing to debate their beliefs with me. Without exception, I have found these visitors smartly turned out, courteous and good-humoured but, sadly for them, singularly unsuccessful in converting me to their way of thinking. I was brought up to be polite to people who appear on one's doorstep so have, unlike some, I should guess, never been discourteous to these dedicated proselytisers.

However, one weekend I was not in the mood for any disturbance. I had a deadline to meet. My long-suffering wife had departed on the Friday evening for a weekend with her parents in Shipley, to give me some peace and quiet to complete a book I had been struggling to write. The final manuscript had to be on my editor's desk first thing Tuesday. So, nine o'clock Saturday morning found me on a roll in my study, rattling away happily at the keyboard, making real headway. Then the doorbell rang. I decided to ignore it. The wretched bing-bonging continued so, hair a mess, unshaven, barefooted and in my old green towelling dressing gown, I stomped down the stairs and threw open the front door. On the doorstep were two well-dressed, smiling individuals. The middle-aged man held a briefcase and his young woman companion held a clutch of papers.

‘Good morning,' said the man cheerfully.

‘Morning,' I grunted.

‘Beautiful day, isn't it?' said his companion. ‘Don't you feel glad to be alive?'

‘Look . . .' I began.

‘Might we interest you in what we believe?' said the man.

‘No,' I replied bluntly.

They both were clearly taken aback. This was somewhat surprising to me since I should think they often receive such a response.

 

 

‘I do not wish to appear churlish,' I told them, ‘but I am exceptionally busy and have not the time, nor indeed the inclination, to debate your beliefs this morning.'

‘We would welcome the opportunity of explaining our views,' said the man, undeterred by my sharpness.

‘And what we stand for,' added the woman.

‘I am fully aware of what you stand for,' I said. I pointed to the clutch of papers in her hand. ‘I have read all about your beliefs and have debated them a number of times with your colleagues on this very doorstep and I am not interested. I shall never be converted to your way of thinking.'

‘Really,' said the man, looking very interested.

‘And I have to tell you,' I continued, ‘that the only thing you and I have in common is God.'

The man looked at the woman, smiled weakly and then turned his attentions back to me. ‘So I take it, then,' he said, ‘that you won't be voting Liberal Democrat?'

Consulting the Doctor