Father's Last Joke

By David Mason

Christened Martha Sophia, officially registered as Estelle, called Pat from teenage. Born 1902 in USA, back to UK in 1907, she always wanted to say 'Califormia here I come'! Eventually she did, but what a lifetime in between. I am her son, and I am still amazed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Mason
• Release date: Nov 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458111234

David Mason

David Mason grew up in Bellingham, Washington and has lived in many parts of the world, including Greece and Colorado, where he served as poet laureate for four years. His books of poems began with The Buried Houses, The Country I Remember, and Arrivals. His verse novel, Ludlow, was named best poetry book of the year by the Contemporary Poetry Review and the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. It was also featured on the PBS NewsHour. He has written a memoir and four collections of essays. His poetry, prose, and translations have appeared in such periodicals as the New Yorker, Harper’s Magazine, The Nation, The New Republic, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Times Literary Supplement, Poetry, and the Hudson Review. Anthologies include Best American Poetry, The Penguin Anthology of Twentieth-Century American Poetry, and others. He has also written libretti for operas by Lori Laitman and Tom Cipullo, all available on CD from Naxos. In 2015 Mason published two poetry collections: Sea Salt: Poems of a Decade and Davey McGravy: Tales to Be Read Aloud to Children and Adult Children. The Sound: New and Selected Poems and Voices, Places: Essays appeared in 2018. Incarnation and Metamorphosis: Can Literature Change Us? appeared in 2022. He lives with his wife Chrissy (poet Cally Conan-Davies) in Tasmania on the edge of the Southern Ocean.

Book preview

FATHER’S

LAST

JOKE

Pat.

Published by David Mason at Smashwords.com

Copyright David Mason 2010

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Chapter One.

The scene was set in a big old clapboard house, built around the mid 1800's in Bridgeport, Connecticut, U.S.A. There was little to keep out the draughts and bitter cold of the winters in north east America. Set on the Atlantic coastline, there was nothing to slow down the harsh northeast gales. Double glazing, insulation, and central heating were all unknown. The only place in the house where you could take your coat off was either in front of the sitting room fire, or near the kitchen range. Jack Frost made his elaborate patterns on both sides of the windows, even the heat from the sitting room fire wasn’t enough to discourage that. This was the venue, and in March of 1902 I was going to be the centre of attention.

Frederick.

Mmmm?

I think you need to go for the doctor.

Already?

Yes.

And you are sure? It is mmmmm, oh my goodness. It’s three o’clock in the morning.

You should know by now that babies take no notice of time.

Oh. And it’s snowing again.

So wrap up well.

Very well, my dear. After this is over we really must agree to keep our promise.

Which one was that?

Not to have any more children after this.

Ah. Yes. I suppose so. In the meantime.....

Yes, yes. I’m going.

As happens so often on these occasions, in real life as well as in novels, I was about to be born during a heavy snow storm, and at the worst possible time, three o'clock in the morning. My poor father was a real star, he had to dig his way out to bring the doctor. Can you imagine what that must have been like at that time? No waterproof or windproof anoraks; ten steps outside the house the snow would be over the top of his boots, his trousers would be wet, and a trickle would have started inside whatever heavy coat he wore. I was their eighth child and I suppose there is a point of view that says 'He deserves it'. This time, the experience would have made a big enough impression for him to make good the promise he made quite some time ago to mother that there would be no more children, I think they could barely afford me.

My mother was what you would call ‘well built’. The stays and corsets that were worn then would easily conceal any ‘bump’. In those days the eldest daughter automatically became ‘mother’s little helper’. So it fell to my eldest sister Annie to help to bring up all these children; she would be upset if mother didn't come down for breakfast, that was the sign that there would be another baby to care for. So father and mother promised her that there would be no more babies after me, the eighth one. Two had been still born, or had died very young, I don’t really know what happened to them, they were never referred to; five was still quite a handful for her. There was a belief among the children, that father only had to hang his coat on the end of the bed for mother to fall pregnant again. I have always been told that I was my father's last joke.

1891 was the year my father, Frederick Dean married my mother, Mary Whittaker, in Accrington, Lancashire. They intended to join his brother in America. Glowing reports of the opportunities over there had been received, and they determined to emigrate. This idea particularly appealed to my father, he was a skilled craftsman, a tool maker, and there would be a good demand for them in any upcoming industrial country.

Mary’s mother was not entirely sure about this, and expressed herself to them. I have to tell you that there are some things which you cannot do. You have married in haste, which is not a good thing. And now you are expecting a child. Surely now, the idea of going across the ocean is out of the question?

I don’t think so, replied Frederick. America is where our future lies, of that I am certain.

Oh. I suppose you brother has told you all about it?

Yes, and has offered us a place to stay when we arrive. The factories over there are looking for workers with experience, and they pay more than anything I could get here.

But what about the child? Do they have proper schools over there? The whole country just doesn’t sound safe to me.

Mother, exclaimed Mary, You surely don’t believe all those stories about red indians? They are hundreds of miles away in the west. And before you mention it, the civil war is all over now. Believe me, I am quite sure we are doing the right thing.

They were sufficiently determined to emigrate, that this brave couple boarded the M.V. Scythia apparently with only a violin, a three month old baby, and what few things they could carry, arriving in Boston on Easter Sunday 1892.

Although there was a later Cunard passenger liner named RMS Scythia, their vessel would have had a much more basic standard of accommodation. Most of the immigrant trade was carried out by smaller, often adapted cargo ships, offering a barely primitive standard. There was never much mention of father's family, apparently his father was a labourer, but mother had a positive host of relations in and around Accrington, she was leaving so much more behind.

They stayed with father's brother in Providence, Rhode Island, he had left England some time previously, and would have encouraged father to make this epic journey, knowing that father would have no difficulty getting a job in a local factory earning more than he did at home. The next year Sadie was born, being followed in due time by Jack, Jim, and two miscarriages. By now, I suppose the house in Rhode Island was starting to fill, and with babies appearing at this rate capacity would soon be reached, if not already passed.

This would be enough to prompt his brother to say, Now come on Frederick. We are quite happy to put you up till you get yourself somewhere, but it’s been a few years now.

I know, you’ve done all a brother should, and more. I think we have got to the stage where we are nearly pushing you out of house and home.

I was getting close to saying that. I heard today that there are some new houses to rent in Derby, not that far from work, and from there you might be able to buy somewhere.

You’re right. We have a fancy for Bridgeport on the coast, so we can look out for a place there if we get to Derby.

So the decision was made to move to Derby, Connecticut, where another girl was born. This must have been a fairly short stay, probably a rented house, as the next move to Bridgeport, Connecticut, was made just in time for my arrival.

I was a very sick baby for the first year. I nearly died. The bracing sea air was not helping at all. It seems I had to live for some reason, perhaps for a very interesting life that followed.

In those days doctors would take the birth registrations and the name of the child. He was told my name was Martha Sophia Dean and I was later christened as such. Five years later when we were preparing to move back to England, my birth papers were sent for. Father opened the official looking envelope to exclaim, Look what they’ve done. This is someone else’s birth papers.

Estelle?, mother protested, Estelle? Where on earth have they got that from?

Goodness only knows, but they are going to have to go back. Accordingly, they were returned to say that my name should be registered as Martha Sophia. They came back again to say that my name had been registered as Estelle Dean and, whatever I had been christened, that must be my official name. We came to the conclusion that the doctor must have had two births that morning and got the names mixed up. Being called out at three in the morning to two births, he could hardly be blamed for not thinking straight when it came to the register office.

I wonder where Martha Sophia is. I hope she likes her name. Maybe my doctor was sorry for me and changed my name to Estelle. Whoever you were at the time of my birth, I thank you for changing my name. Fate being what it is, this didn't really matter, since my sisters decided to call me Pat, so I've been Pat all my life. Apart from the times, even after I married, if I did something silly, there would always be someone to say, Now then Martha! I guess there are some things you just can’t live down.

Like most sisters, and brothers, there was always a sort of love/hate relationship. On one famous occasion I was in a pram being watched over by sisters playing on the front lot, when a passing lady stopped to admire the playing children. Before moving on, she fished into her handbag and brought out a sweet, saying, This is for a beautiful child, handing it to Alison; looking into the pram, she went on, and here's a banana for the monkey. It might be an old joke, but I got to hear it often. I guess a thick mop of jet black hair, half covering my face did not help. During future falling out occasions this would often be related with glee. Somehow, I always seemed to come out second best; even when I knew just what I wanted, there always seemed to be someone there before me.

When I became five years of age my mother gave me a birthday party, and all the children who lived nearby were invited. Two weeks afterwards, two sisters who had been there died of some kind of fever. They were not particular friends, just neighbour's children, and as was normal, all local children were invited to all local birthday parties. Typhoid had been going its dreaded rounds at the other end of town, and now it was much closer to home. Although we didn't know exactly what it involved, we did know that people who caught it spent a long time in a sick bed, and more often than not, ended up dead. This was a shock us to all, and, not surprisingly, caused my mother to have a nervous breakdown, or certainly pretty close to one.

My grandmother and an aunt had fairly recently visited us from England, I don’t think Grandma ever really believed that we were all doing well over here. But this typhoid scare was something that really upset the apple cart. I started to worry when typhoid was first reported on the other side of town, said mother, But those poor children only lived a few doors away. I’m nearly passed myself with worry thinking about the children. I just don’t know what to do.

I can understand that, and I think you are right to worry about the children’s safety. Why don’t you take the children on a visit to England? Father suggested, We can afford it you know. If you stay for about six weeks, I’m sure this typhoid business will have cleared up by then, and you can all come home.

Mother was so pleased to be able to take us all somewhere safe. Of course, for us children, the idea of going on a big boat all the way to England was exciting.

I will never forget the day we docked in Liverpool. What a horrible introduction to England; it was raining hard, and all we could see were drab grey buildings. Before we even ventured outside, the damp chill of the late English spring seemed to have penetrated through to our very bones. Now then children, don’t make your minds up too soon. It might be a bit wet at the moment, but I know you’ll all love it when the sun shines. We all knew mother always looked on the bright side, but we could only look at each other, and nobody said a word.

With each of us carrying our own belongings, luggage was not a problem, apart from me having put too many things in my bag. We boarded the train without much difficulty, and avoided the worst of the rain. Most of us were feeling so miserable we could hardly bare to look at the unchanging scenery half covered by the unremitting mist and rain. Only one change of train was needed for us to arrive in that small Lancashire town which had been my parent’s starting point. Maybe this country will look better in Accrington.

When we got out at the station, it didn't look much better than Liverpool, a miserable blur of wet and grey, enough cold and damp to last anybody a lifetime. With much shuffling, and having people and baggage on each other's knees, all seven of us managed to pack into a cab, and arrived at Grandma's house. It was only a three bed roomed terraced house, with a small bathroom that held only a bath. We were to be introduced to the ‘privy’. This was at least a proper water toilet, even if it was in a cubby hole out in the yard. Later, when we heard the stories about people who didn’t have a water closet, and how a man used to call every few days to empty the bucket, we all agreed that perhaps it could be worse. But there still only three bedrooms, and this was to house twelve people? We couldn't believe it. To top it all, it was raining harder than ever, this was all too much for us, we children started to cry, we all hated it so much. This must be some sort of terrible country where the sun just didn't ever shine.

Grandma and Grandpa Whittaker were about sixty years old. Grandpa went to work at five o'clock every morning and worked again at night. In the mornings he was a knocker-up, tramping the streets, sometimes long before dawn. He had a long pole with wire strings on the end and he would hit people's bedroom windows with it until they answered, All right. I guess he parted more couples than the local courts and Judges did.

In the evenings he was a lamplighter. He must have walked miles every night to light the street gas lamps; there was a lamp on every corner, and sometimes one or two halfway down the street. For children, these lamps had a very different purpose. There was a cross bar just under the lamp cage, this was to hold the ladders of the maintenance workers steady, but for us it was to hold a length of rope for the local rope swing. Grandpa must have been a very healthy man, he had to be with so little sleep at night, and just an afternoon nap to keep him going. He lived till he was nearly ninety, a very likeable fellow.

I guess mother must have felt so much safer being with her family again that she didn't want to return to the USA. As our spokesman, Annie would ask mother, When are we going home?

Mother would always answer, The time isn’t right yet, I don’t want any of you to catch anything.

But we all miss father so much.

I miss him as well, but we must wait a little longer. This answer gradually changed, and she would say, I miss him, but I think he might be coming to join us soon.

The proposed six weeks stay passed and there was no sign that mother was going to return; in fact, it stretched to almost two years. Father now had no choice but to sell the house and all their belongings, then make the necessary arrangements to join his family in Lancashire. The only things he kept were the sewing machine and his grand piano. He brought them over because he knew mom wanted to sew our clothes and my older sister was learning to play the piano. How much he regretted leaving his new life, we never knew. I believe he understood mother's feeling of security being back among her kith and kin; he gave no sign of resentment by word or deed, he was that kind of man.

We moved into our own house when father came over. I can not remember where it was, it was not much different to Grandpa’s place, but it was ours. As a skilled workman father once again very quickly got a job in a factory. The older girls went into a weaving factory, they didn't like it, but they had no choice, money had to be earned. As I grew up I decided I wasn't going to be put into a weaving factory.

I left school at the age of twelve, and for two years I did half a day at school and half a day at a workroom to learn dressmaking. After that it was full time, I remember my sister and I had to walk two miles to work at the workroom, and we worked from 8:30 am until eight o'clock at night six days a week. And there were no breaks, it was work, work, work. Saturday was an easy day, only half a day's work. We used to work two nights a week overtime until ten o'clock, I was fourteen years old at the time, and was able to work without supervision. At that time we were supposed to be sixteen before we were allowed to work all those hours. One night I was working, and about nine o'clock the factory inspector came to have a look round. Pat, come here quick. It was the foreman. There’s a fellow just come in downstairs, and I don’t want him to see you, or we’ll all be in trouble and probably lose our jobs.

There’s nothing I can do about that, I replied, I can’t just disappear".

Oh yes you can clever cloggs, you can disappear into this cupboard and keep as quiet as a mouse. Grabbing my arm he pushed me into a small cupboard where odd bits of cloth were stored.

Half an hour spent in a musty store cupboard full of off cuts and the ends of rolls, was not something anyone would enjoy, much less a young girl. Luckily he remembered to switch the light on. There were lots of scraps of cloth lying around, all much too small to be of use in adults clothing. But I thought I could make children’s clothes from most of them. When I came out I asked the foreman in charge if I could try and do something with those bits and pieces. He was pleased at my idea, and he even let me take some cloth home. I remember my pay was so little they only paid me every two weeks.

By 1914 Annie was manager of a branch of the Maypole Dairy in Blackburn. That was one of those dairy produce shops which had a branch in every high street. One skill which, fortunately, has since been lost, is patting the butter. Each time a fresh tub of butter was opened, one of the assistants was given the wooden patters, about the size of an oblong table tennis bat, and had the job of working the butter on a marble slab, softening it, and gradually adding almost a pint of water to each tub. There’s tricks in all trades.

Suddenly, the First World War was upon us. I was going to work one morning and there was a battalion of soldiers marching past me. Their wives were running alongside them crying. These men were on their way to France to fight in the trenches and would not come home for many months. I so well remember the military band playing 'It's a long way to Tipperary'. I was too young to realise this unhappy scene and the anguish these wives were going through. This may well be the last time they would see each other.

I heard tell of this story about two soldiers. They were in the trenches in France, they had been there nearly two years. One of them got a letter from his wife to say she had just given birth to a beautiful baby boy. He told his friend in the excitement, Hey Bill, I am a father. The wife's just had a baby. Isn't that wonderful? His pal replied, That can't be true. You haven't been home for two years. Joe blissfully replied, Oh, that's all right Bill, You know there's two years between me and my brother.

I worked at dressmaking until I was fifteen when my older sister and I opened a dressmaking and tailoring shop. I made myself my first costume at the age of fifteen. I was sure proud to wear it. At the time the hobble skirt was in fashion. One had to be very careful how one walked.

By now my father and brother Jim worked in London on munitions, earning quite good money till the end of the war. My older brother Jack, had joined the army, in the Lancashire Fusiliers, we were all so proud of him when he came home in his uniform. Later, we were told that he had died of a war wound. Eventually we learned that he had been riding a horse and it had fallen on him, crushing a leg badly. Father had been to see him in hospital and could see that already the leg was badly infected. He begged the doctor to amputate. Not for you, or for King George, was the reply. Inevitably poor Jack succumbed to gangrene. There are times when even good nursing just isn’t good enough. They said more men died from disease than from bullets.

Before the war was over, my father became the licensee of a very nice hotel in Accrington. It was a stone built three story building, more than three rooms wide on the impressive frontage. With so many rooms upstairs, there was ample room for the family, and still space for guests. Called The Hargreaves Arms, it is now known as ‘Grants’. In the meantime, Sadie had married Eddie Crawshaw and they had decided to follow in father's footsteps, or perhaps were looking for the sunshine in America. They moved back to live in Bridgeport, USA. Perhaps there were more happy memories there, I think that applied to all of our thoughts. America worked it's pull more strongly on Annie, who left her job, and went by herself to stay at that excellent staging post, Providence, Rhode Island. Those left helped out, in the general running of this, the Hargreaves Arms; but father needed someone with a more mature head on her shoulders, and begged Annie to come back and help him. Like the dutiful daughter she had always been, she returned.

There would have been a fairly regular number of the Whittaker clan to help the bar and snug trade. A roaring fire in the public rooms in winter, and a well kept cellar all year round always attracts the customers. A large back room was a Masonic Temple, bringing a regular income in rent and the meals. A smaller front room was used for the new fad, moving pictures. Entry here was one penny or two clean jam jars. There was always an eager group of all ages waiting for opening time. Some saw the same film several times. When talking pictures arrived, the owner of the equipment decided to build a cinema in Accrington, and offered father a partnership. He turned this down, after all, it was just a passing fancy!

Running a successful hotel was more important than anything I was learning at the work room, so we all now worked full time there. I think my skill with a sewing machine was good enough by then. Meeting customers made me conscious of my accent, and I was trying to improve it, I suppose trying to sound more posh. During a conversation with a new customer who I was trying to impress, I was really putting on the