Torbay weblog davecathy

There is a recurring pattern to my life, which is sometimes almost too much to bear, and this is one of those times. Once again, I feel that I have been kicked in the teeth by someone I have devoted much time and emotion in, stabbed in the back by someone I trusted, and this on the day of goodwill to all men.

Some describe me as a loner, but that is not so. By nature and inclination, I am an extremely friendly man, and those who accept my friendship are offered total commitment and complete loyalty, while little or nothing is asked in return. But there comes a time when that friendship is abused and taken advantage of, or becomes surplus to requirements, leaving me devastated, but ever richer in experience.

 

I have known Glenn (47) for over 16 years, first as a work colleague and a neighbour, and latterly as a friend. For the last 5 or 6 years, Glenn has been on a downhill slope, abandoning his wife and 4 children, living in a grotty bedsit. His marriage to another woman with 2 children lasted less than a year, but cost him his job, and he ended up on sickness benefit, living at home with his aged father. Glenn leaves a trail of destruction behind him Very many people have tried to help him; His father, Danny the Union man, bosses at his place of work, doctors, psychiatrists, solicitors, counsellors, policemen, court officials, employment officers etc, etc. but all to no avail, and he is now addicted to the happy pills.

 

During this time, I have never turned my back on him, and my home has been open to him 24/7. I have spent many long hours talking him out of his depressions, dissuaded him from suicide, given up my bed for him when necessary, shared my food with him, cooked him countless meals, bought him many take-aways, made him thousands of cups of tea. My home, even my computer, was his to use; even his children had free use of my computer. I was ALWAYS here for him, and never lost patience, giving him unlimited time, emotion, concern, and in a sense, love.

 

For the last year or so, while living with is father and stepmother, he has felt uncomfortable there, and spent many evenings at my place, and I would always run him home late at night, no matter how ill I felt. Yes, I often offered him advice, tried to motivate him and cheer him up, but only when asked for, or when he was making things even worse for himself, (for all his problems are self-inflicted). The last time I saw him, he was again very depressed, because so many people were giving him conflicting advice, and he didn’t know what to do. My advice was that he should sit down and think just what HE wanted to do, and then do it. Most of the advice I have given Glenn was sound, sensible advice born of experience, but rarely taken notice of. People rarely take advice, and end up doing things the hard way, but that is in the nature of people, and to be expected.

When, a couple of months ago, I told Glenn that I would be staying home this Christmas, he immediately said he would be up, and I bought food accordingly. A few days before Christmas, I tried to confirm that he would becoming, and he was a bit evasive, saying that he would stay with his dad for lunch, but would be up later.

Knowing Glenn, I cooked him a meal anyway, and had bought him the Christmas present he wanted, but he never turned up. I sent him an e-mail asking what was wrong, and got a very snappy, unfriendly answer, in which he said he called, but I was out. That was not true, and my car was outside the flat all day, which he would have seen had he come.

It would seem that as his dad has now bought him a car, he no longer has need of me or my cups of tea. Merry Christmas.

 

All over the world, to kill in cold blood is murder.

To hire someone to kill on your behalf is also murder.

Governments have the right to govern us, but not to kill us.

To execute is to kill in cold blood, and is therefore murder, so the death penalty is murder by the state.

If the state executioner kills on your behalf, with your agreement, you also are guilty of murder. 

Civilised countries throughout the world no longer have the death penalty

Last year, 59 people were executed in the USA, a figure only surpassed by those enlightened countries China and Iran, while in the 30 odd countries of Europe, the death penalty was used not once.

From the religious point of view, surely only God has the right to give life or to take it, the first Commandment is Thou shall not kill. An eye for an eye is not the same as a life for a life.

 

When Pearl Harbour was attacked, America responded in an honourable way, and took on the wrongdoers, and fought with much bravery.

After the atack on the World Trade Centre, America again had the sympathy and understanding of the whole civilised world, yet what has happened since?

A free fire zone in Fallujah, in which maybe 5,000 civilians were killed, including many innocent women and children.

Abu Graid, a blot on the whole US military, not just a few soldiers of low intelligence, who remain the only ones blamed.

Guantanamo Bay is a blot on the whole US judicial system, and an insult to international law.

Extraordinary Rendition, by which political prisoners are flown to highly questionable ex Soviet eastern European countries for 'interrogation' puts the USA on a level with the terrorists it so despises. If they are not being flown abroad to be tortured, why are they flown there at all? Is America not big enough to house them?

Secretary Rice says that the Bush Administration upholds the law, and does not indulge in torture, as far as she is aware. Oldest trick in the book. Give CIA authority to do whatever it thinks is necessary, but just don't tell us what you are doing, then it is not our fault.

Another amazing aspect of America is when refugees from New Orleans crossed the bridge looking for refuge, only to be met with armed militia preventing them going further. Your own people. Likewise, when the military belatedly entered the city, they did so with drawn guns, like an army of occupation against its own people.

There is something very rotten and sinister in the state of US governance. 

It was 1965, and my first Christmas away from home. I was a rather green 16 years old, an Officer Cadet in the Merchant Navy, which sounds rather posh. In fact, cadets were the lowest form of marine life, cheap labour, and expendable, someone to carry the can in all situations, someone to take all your frustrations out on.

We were in Melbourne, Australia, and I had been appointed night watchman for the duration. When I came on duty late on Christmas Eve, the Chief Officer impressed on me the first vital role I would have to play that night; namely, to stand at the top of the gangway, dressed in immaculate white tropical uniform, and prevent the very tough Glaswegian crew from bringing any alcohol back on board ship. “How do I do that?” I asked, tremulously. “Assert your authority.” I was told. “Smash any bottles over the rail.” He instructed. Yes, well, I was a skinny (honestly) little runt, and the sailors were to a man twice my size and already well lubricated to the point of staggering.

I decided discretion was preferable to suicide, and merely urged them to hide their bottles about their person where they could not be seen, and I was more than once told that I would stick their bottles where the sun don’t shine. One learns a degree of diplomacy in these situations; hence I lived to tell the story. Santa Claus may well have visited the ship later on that night, but even if his sleigh made a loud noise on the steel decks, it would not have disturbed the loudly snoring crew.

My first job Christmas morning was to light the galley fire, a large ancient coal fired contraption similar to a stone age Aga. First you put paper in, then wood, and finally, after several attempts, you could put in some coal. As the range began to heat up, there was invariably a gentle frying sound as the marauding cockroaches began to sizzle. Next task was to wake up the day crew for their duties, no easy task. One would enter a crew cabin to the smell of many sweaty feet, and would have to get physical sometimes to bring them round, always being prepared to beat a hasty retreat

accompanied by some very educational oaths and the odd shoe. Waking the officers was a much more civilised affair. One would make them an individual tray of coffee, and knock politely on their cabin door before entering, and I always resisted the temptation to spit in the Chief Officers coffee before entering.

Next job was to go around turning all the deck lights off, then putting up all the flags, and then scrubbing the wooden deck of the wheelhouse. Cleaning all the brass, ships bell and funnel whistle included was my final duty of the day.

After showering and putting on a clean uniform, it was down to breakfast in the Dining Saloon. A merchant Navy breakfast was a memorable event, and Christmas day was no exception. Fruit juice, cereal, kippers and then a full fry up English style was the norm, followed by griddlecakes and syrup, toast and coffee kept the wolf from the door. Many years later, I tried to repeat this meal at home one Christmas Day, but never got beyond the cornflakes.

A few hours sleep followed, which is not easy when lying in a metal box without air conditioning or decent ventilation in the middle of an Australian heat wave, but you can imagine that Jack frost never got a look in on our porthole glass.

Christmas lunch was all that you would expect, plentiful and with all the trimmings, possibly with a garnish of roasted cockroach, and I still dread to think just what the cook put into the Christmas pudding, for he was a chap with a long memory and an inventive disposition. To him, revenge was sweet, (as in pudding).

After lunch, we all retired to the lounge to hear the Queen’s speech on the radio, which was listened to with sincere respect by everyone without exception, then on to the after deck, where the Scottish lads got out a set of bagpipes and treated us to a display of the highland reel, though a few were obviously showing the effects of a hangover, a sort of combined Christmas and Hogmanay.

In the evening the Officers held a party, and rang the local hospital to invite a few nurses down, which was quite traditional in those days. My duty was to act as disc jockey, and to try to stop any officers making any more of a fool of themselves than normal, but this was far from easy, because they kept on disappearing for long periods, always with a nurse, presumably to give them a tour of the ship and show them the ‘Golden Rivet’ whatever that was. In any event, the day went off well, and there were many smiling faces at the end of it

A Merry Christmas was had by all.       

     

 

Mr. Fredrick Arthur Willis (MM) lay on a trolley in the Accident and Emergency Department. He had been there for hours, at least it felt like it. He had fallen on his way home from the shops. Silly really, he had sort of tripped over his own walking stick, and just went down in slow motion. Next thing he knew was the ambulance man standing over him. Called himself a para something. Anyway, here he was. They said he had probably broken his hip, but would have to wait for an x-ray. They gave him something to ease the pain. Now he kept drifting off to sleep, then waking up, as if in a dream.

“Suppose this is it then.” Thought Freddie. “Had your chips now chum. This is one you won’t get away with.” He had a vision of the Sunnybank Retirement Home, his idea of Hell, smelling of decay, piss, and disinfectant, all dribble and gaping mouths and of being yelled at; a living death. In his despair, he cried quietly and deeply. The tears blinded him but went unnoticed by the hurrying procession of medical uniforms.

Freddie had been born on Empire Day, 1920, and Mum always told him that all the flags were put out specially for his birthday, all the big houses with Union Jacks hanging on a long pole from the upstairs window right down to the ground, and the terraces of houses with lines of bunting hung across the street. All for him.

He had done well at school, and became Ink Monitor, and when he left at 14 years and 9 months, he had certificates for woodwork and metalwork, and was highly commended for football. This all stood him in good stead, and Dad managed to get him a job in Mr. Brown’s Blacksmith’s and Garage. It was a good job, paying 10 shillings a week; 5 bob for Mum, 4 to spend any way he liked, and a shilling put away for a rainy day. He saved and saved, then when Mum’s birthday came round, he paid for a permanent wave for her. She was so thrilled, saying that she had never been able to afford one before, well, only on very special occasions.

He enjoyed his job, and he began to learn the intricacies of the internal combustion engine, and his woodwork was useful for car body work.

Then Adolph bloody Hitler raised his ugly head, and before he knew it, Freddie found himself in Belgium, fighting in the Expeditionary Force. Some bloody Force, the tanks were light and old, and were completely outgunned by the Wermacht and Panzers. Bloody Huns. They didn’t stand a chance, and then it was a headlong retreat to the coast. The evacuation beach was mayhem. Thousands of soldiers all lined up in long meandering lines, with nowhere to go. Sure, there were a few big ships offshore, but too far away, and there were lots of little boats coming right into the beach and picking a few soldiers up at a time, but it would take forever to get everyone away. They were being shelled all the time by the German artillery and tanks, which had stopped a few miles from the beach. It was just a killing ground; and then the Stuka dive bombers came, with their sickening screech as they dived right towards you before releasing their bombs. Poor bastards didn’t stand a chance, and Freddie, like everyone else, was shaking with terror, cold, and exhaustion.

Ginger, his mate, was beside him. They had waded waist deep into the freezing sea, and began to hope that they may be rescued after all, because Mr. Churchill had sent every small boat in England, some not much bigger than a rowing boat, over the dangerous English Channel to take them home, and they were being picked up 4 or 5 at a time. There was an almighty explosion in the water close by, and Freddie was lifted off his feet, and remembers to this day flying through the air, seemingly for ever. When he landed in the sea, he was winded and sank to the bottom, and took in much water. Somehow, he managed to regain his feet, the survival instinct he supposed. He became conscious of a loud and unending screaming noise. Gathering his wits, he realised it was Ginger screaming, a noise he never managed to forget. Freddie made a grab for his mate, just before he sank below the waves, and kept his head above the water. Ginger’s foot had been blown clean off, and the flesh of his lower leg was hanging like a piece of cloth, and the bone beneath the knee was sticking out like a shiny stick of chalk. Freddie was sick several times, but he hung on to his mate for grim death. Ginger stopped screaming eventually, and lapsed into unconsciousness, and after what seemed like an eternity, they were both picked up. Ginger lived, though   he had to lose an arm as well as his leg, but Freddie was awarded the Military Medal for “Bravery in the Field”. Bravery had nothing to do with it, he was just looking out for his mate, as you would, and he was embarrassed by the medal, and ever after refused to wear his ribbon, despite all Doris’s blandishments.

After the miracle of Dunkirk, they sent him home on leave, as the powers-that-be did not know what to do with all these soldiers without so much as a rifle between them. Back home, he was a hero, feted by the neighbours and the local girls. Mum sent him shopping for the rations in his uniform, and some of the shopkeepers added a bit extra food to the rations because of it; Mum wasn’t daft. One night, he and a few of the lads went to the dance at the local church hall; he in his squaddy uniform, all the others in their sailor’s bell-bottoms.  After a lot of persuasion, he danced, sort of, with a young girl called Doris. He had known her vaguely when they were at school, but she was different now, all sort of soft and warm, and he fell in love with her that very night, though not as quickly as she had. They started going steady, and spent long terrifying hours huddled together in the tin air-raid shelters during the long nights of the May blitz. You could sometimes hear the bombing getting ever closer, till you were sure you would be next, but people said that you never hear the bomb that kills you, How could anyone know that?  Night after night the bombs kept falling and the people kept dying. Freddy felt sometimes that there would be nowhere left when it was all over. A bomb blew up 3 houses and killed 4 people just in his street. In the mornings, people would pick their way through the rubble to go to work, short of sleep and food, sometimes only to find that their place of work had been blown away or burned down. It was a desperate time.

Freddie and Doris had a long courtship, what with the war and everything. He never did get round to proposing, it just gradually came to be accepted by everyone that they would spend the rest of their lives together, though there were few opportunities for a little cuddling and kissing on the way.

Freddie survived the 8^th. Army, right through North Africa and Italy, and as soon as he was demobbed in 1946, he and Doris were married in the little chapel at the end of the street. There was still a hole in the roof from the days of the blitz several years before, and most of the windows were still missing, boarded up by plywood, but the service was wonderful. Doris was the most beautiful bride ever seen, and he the proudest man in all Liverpool. Mum put on a smashing reception; there was boiled ham, Spam, and even a bit of tongue. The wedding cake had taken up all the family ration of eggs and sugar for months. They had been very lucky to get a bedsit in town. A bit rough, to put it mildly, but at least they would be together.. Their honeymoon was spent scrubbing the room clean, and putting a coat of distemper on the walls. Oh! Life was bliss. Their love life turned out to be a bit of a problem, and took a while to materialise. Doris knew nothing about sex whatsoever, and took a bit of persuading. Mind you, Freddie was not much better, he only knew what he had overheard from others, so there was much fumbling and experimentation, but they got it right eventually, well, enough to suit them both. Neither of them had ‘known’ anyone else, and neither of them would ever think of loving anyone but each other. A marriage made in heaven.

Doris and Freddie had a long life together, and came to love each other more with each up and down, and there were more downs than ups. Poverty, illness, unemployment, even the death of their second child, a boy, only served to bring them closer together. Alice, their daughter, grew up into a lovely girl, just like her Mother, but when she took up with that no-good Harry, there was an almighty row. Harry was a spiv if ever there was one, and the more Freddie and Doris pleaded with Alice to stop seeing him, the more she defied them. Eventually, there was a final split, and Alice married Harry against their wishes, and they went to his hometown to live. Freddie was convinced that it would all end in tears, but it didn’t, just the opposite in fact.

Doris, God love her, had developed cancer, and had several operations. There was not much left of her, and she seemed to just melt away slowly. In 1985, the doctors said they could do no more for her, and sent her home to die. Freddie nursed her with a tender passion, hiding his grief as best he could. After much suffering, Doris passed away in her sleep just 2 weeks before Freddie was due to retire. It was a merciful release, at least for her. For him, it was the most intense agony he had ever known, and he longed to die, to join his Doris wherever she was. Alice and Harry turned up for the funeral, which was good of them he supposed, but much as Alice tried to comfort him and make amends, Freddie was too deep within his own grief to take much notice.

But time, as they say, is a great healer, and Freddie, being a strong man, slowly pulled the threads of his life together. He was independent, and had a good set of friends down at the club, and he took up gardening, having promised Doris that he would keep her beloved garden pretty As he grew older, it was sometimes very tiring work, but he enjoyed it. And felt close to Doris when in the garden, and talked things over with her, constantly.

 

The operation was over. Freddie lay in the recovery room, replete with new hip joint, still sleeping. The doctors were pleased with the result, and hoped for a full recovery, providing he did not lose his spirit. He had a visitor, who sat patiently beside the bed, waiting for him to come around. In time, his eyes began to flutter, then opened.

 

“Dad?

“Alice?”

“Oh, Dad” she repeated, crying.

“What are you doing here Alice”

“We’ve come for you Dad. We’re going to take you home with us and never let you go again.“

“Oh, Alice…………….”