Dad fixed Spitfires — and was climbing trees at 80
WHeN I think about Dad now, I remember the ‘mystery tours’ of our childhood.
A devoted family man, most Sundays he would gather his four children — me, and my younger sisters Sue, Tricia and Karen — and take us for an afternoon out.
‘Wait and see,’ he would say with a twinkle in his eye whenever we pleaded with him to tell us where we were going.
Of course, we didn’t venture far. There were picnics, bluebell- picking, kite- flying and rock-pooling — all happy family times and typical of the zest for life of a man who as a young boy would dive off the roof of one of Broadstairs’ seafront restaurants (much to the harbourmaster’s irritation) and who as an 80-year-old was still nimbly climbing trees in his garden.
Dad grew up in that Kent seaside town, a butcher’s son who found that his own skills lay in carpentry.
It’s something he did all his working life and at home, too — usually at the kitchen table, much to his wife Dolly’s dismay. There was little his nimble fingers couldn’t turn their hands to: he once made a model of Salisbury Cathedral out of matchsticks.
His skilful hands were put to use during the war when, after enlisting in the RAF, he was set to work repairing Spitfires and Hurricanes.
Based in Wiltshire, he saw action in Normandy during the D- Day landings, and was recommended for a bravery award after trying to rescue a pilot from a flaming aircraft.
Typical of Dad: the same week he was threatened with court-martial after taking it upon himself to cannibalise three grounded Spitfires, using various parts to get two flying during an air battle.
‘There’s no pleasing some,’ was his verdict.
Dad met Dolly during the war, agreeing to be her date at the last minute when her intended suitor dropped out.
It says much about the man Dad was that, when he realised they were due to spend their first Christmas apart, he walked 40 miles on Christmas Day and slept on a bench just to be by her side for a few hours on Boxing Day.
Their chance meeting was obviously providential: they were due to celebrate 72 years of marriage the day after Dad passed away.
As children, we grew up hearing tales of Spitfires, interspersed with trips to Dad’s three allotments because he was a keen gardener, too. In fact, he was wonderfully creative all round: an avid amateur painter, he sold many of his paintings at the annual Broadstairs art show.
There was just one area where Dad fell short. He was slow to open his wallet, and if there was a padlock available he would have used it.
While he had stretched to ordering Mum a bouquet of flowers for their anniversary, we joked that he timed his passing to make sure he didn’t have to buy a celebratory drink on the day itself.
Dad would have chuckled at that too: right until the end he kept the sense of humour which all the family loved him for. ‘Just chuck me on the compost heap,’ he would say with a laugh when we asked him what he wanted us to do once he’d gone.
In the event he was sent off in style, his coffin decorated with the letters NLD, the wartime codename for the Spitfire he worked on. We did, though, ensure the handles were screwed on at odd angles — our way of teasing his artistic fastidiousness.
‘You can sort those out Dad,’ we all thought as we said our goodbyes. We like to think that wherever he is now, he will be joining in the laughter.