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| Sporting a tan |
After the war was over and I’d spent an additional year afterwards in various driving, transport and cleanup activities, the RAF let me go home.
Mind you, I’m not saying they discharged me, because that didn’t happen for several more years.
In fact they tracked me down in the mid-1950s when seeking recruits during the Suez Crisis. By that time I was living in Canada with my wife and children and was a constable with the Metropolitan Toronto police force.
A sergeant at the station confirmed to the RAF that I was a valued member of the force and couldn't possibly be released. That gave me a chuckle, seeing as this same sergeant had recently called me on the carpet for not issuing enough traffic violations.
Speaking of the Suez, my journey to the Far East had been a much longer voyage since our convoy had to skirt the Mediterranean with the Germans, who were occupying the Suez at the time. Now, sailing home, we took full advantage of passage through the Suez Canal.
I clearly remember the “Boat Bums” paddling out to the troop ship in their little dinghies filled to the brim with merchandise for sale. A dutiful son, I bought a tankard for Dad and a handbag for Mum.
I’ll admit to mixed feelings when packing up my kit for the long journey home. Although I was anxious to return to England, it was difficult leaving surroundings that had become so familiar and comfortable.
I particularly loved Ceylon and could see why it was known as “The Gem of the Indian Ocean”.
War is a terrible thing, but how else could I have had the opportunity to cross the ocean to the other side of the world, explore new cultures, fly over glistening seas and majestic mountains or experience adventures that a post-depression, working-class youth from a London suburb could only dream about?
As our ship neared England I noticed an officer standing at the rail with tears streaming down his face. Approaching to see if he needed assistance, he shared his fear of the changes that awaited him back home.
I tried to lend comfort by saying surely things hadn’t changed too much in just a few years, but he told me he’d joined up pre-war and every time his three year term of service had been up he’d be promoted and a new stint would begin. He was now going home to a land he hadn’t seen in over a decade.
Eventually we reached Mersey Dock in Liverpool. Of course they let officers and VIPs off first, so by the time the rest of us had disembarked we were gutted to find that the local pub had already closed - at the ungodly hour of 10 p.m.
However, the local constabulary prevailed by bending the rules and allowing the innkeeper to stay open later - much later.
Naturally I ended up missing the last train to London and had to take the “Workman’s Train” the next morning before daylight.
I got off at Carshalton Beeches and then grabbed a taxi to my house at 41 Stanhope Road. The cabbie asked my name and remarked “Oh, everyone knows your father”. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
Turns out that Dad, a bricklayer by trade, had quickly realized there was no time like the present to commence rebuilding and started a construction yard. He was rapidly working his way up in the world.
The front door to the house was locked, so I went around back, knowing that door was always open. While it wasn’t light yet, I figured Mum would be up – in those days mothers always got up first.
I was greeted by a young lad who turned out to be my brother, Michael, who'd been born while I was overseas. He stared at me blankly before yelling to my mother that the gasman was at the door.
Mum took one look and shouted up to my sleeping father “Teddy’s home!” There went my hope, after having left home a callow youth and returning a seasoned veteran, of being called the more grownup “Ted”.
I'd returned to England in wintertime and being used to more tropical temperatures, Mum brought some sort of oil heater into my room that first night, seeing as we didn’t have central heating. Unfortunately it ran out in the night and filled the room with smoke.
Next morning, as I came down the stairs, Mum was proudly informing the milkman that her eldest lad had just returned from the Far East.
Taking one
look at my deep tan and sooty face, he remarked “Yes, I can see that”.
