David James Jones Seaman aged 16 HMS Sharpshooter
serving in the 7 years Battle of the Atlantic WW!!
12 June 1924 - 12th October 1991
I wrote this piece simply and honestly about not only a beautiful man who was my Father, but a man who gave and continued to give , love and care and am completely unashamedly proud to be his daughter. This may seem a sentimental piece but I wrote it straight from my heart.I have missed my Father since the day of his demise and will continue to do so until we meet again when I too go on the next great adventure.
My Father was a good man. In many ways that is all which needs to be said. He provided for his family, never raised his hands against a single member of us, a kind and loving man.
His entire being was focussed on each and every one of us being loved, cared for and always;we his children; came first. My Mother was his Queen, the love of his life.I do not remember a single incident when I ever felt less
than loved by either of my parents, in my Fathers case I know I was his
Princess.
He bought my sister and I tiny little trays when we where toddlers.
Those trays where his delight as he would lay breakfast on each and serve them
to us in our beds, waiting on us, loving us, amazing us with magic tricks,
making us laugh and giggle and above all, every day we had a hug, a kiss on the
cheek and a loving remark which told us he was proud of us.
He made my sister
and I beautiful dollies cots,drew accurate technical drawings to add to my
homework,grew lovely fresh food in his garden and his greenhouse. Made a garden
the envy of the street with its Dhalias the size of my sisters head, though he
did once plant grasseed just before we went on holiday and when we came home he
had a prize lawn of Lettuce !
Yet the man, my peaceful and gentle Father came from a
violent background, a family torn by many cruel incidents. When he was a baby
he was left with his grandparents David or Daffyd Jones and his wife my great
grandmother Jane Ellen Hodgekinson. His own parents, Arthur Jones and his
Mother Hannah Margaret Lister both went to Liverpool taking Clara and Jessie
with them to find work. In the following 7 years Hannah gave birth to two more
children,Joan and Billy, returning now and again to see Daffyd and Hannah and
baby David.
The family story which I cannot substantiate at this time,
is that Daffyd was the Gardener for the St Winifreds Church and Monestary and
Nunnery. Hannah apparently worked within the same complex. My Great Aunt Dolly
(Parry) wrote to me years later to tell me her husband was also, at that time,
the Gaurdian of the Holy Well and my father told us tales of his times there.
He also mentioned a Grandmother whom he named as Granmother Lister living 'up
in the hills' though I can find absolutely no proof whatsoever of her address.
His favourite story was of falling into the Holy
Well...'right over his ears' and was no doubt the reason why he claimed he
would be the first Protestant Pope ! He had a great sense of humour and regaled
us with tales from the sad to the sublimely ridiculous. Though he was , once,
scared literally so badly he still had occasional dreams of it. As a small boy,
wandering around the village, clambering in and out of fields and hedgerows as
young boys do, he observed a file of Monks walking through fog, carrying a
coffin. The imagery and the occasion made a very scary impression...he 'ran
like hell' for home.
It was apparent he did visit a Grandmother Lister who could
only have been Mary McEaton, it is also apparent that he visited several of his
Aunts and as the eldest boy, the 'Welsh one' despite being born in Liverpool as
he told the tale 'by accident' on a weekend visit of his parents to view their
new lodgings to be.
He was very favoured by his Welsh branch of the family,
something which caused a lot of upset between his brother and his father. I
know through some of Dads stories that the family visited Aunts and Uncles and
cousins in New Brighton where the Hodgekinson families had settled. It is there
he was told the tales of one of his great great grandmother; running away from Scotland with
her new husband and claims that they belonged to a rich family.
Jeannie Graham was indeed from Moffat Scotland, a widow who
married a man many years younger than herself, (John Hodgekinson) and gave him
three sons. Two of those sons survived and evidence is shown that both boys
could read and write at a time when this was rare for a working class family.
Jeannie herself could also read and write and kept records of the residents of
the Poor House .Which she either ran or was some sort of housekeeper for.
Many years after my fathers death , and by strange
coincidence I met a lady,in Harlech Wales. Her sisters name was Jeannie Graham,
they trace their family back to Moffat, when 'our'Jeannie left the family, her name
was given, in every generation down through the years (from 1852 or thereabouts
when she moves to England) to one of the girls in 'their'family ;who remain for
the next century in Scotland.
This branch of the family go as far back as the
12th Century and William de Graham. In this ladies family, the story was that Jeannie
ran off with the gardener, in our family story her husband was a gardener and
they married apparently against the wishes of others, though Mary (Little) her
mother is living with Jeannie after Alexanders death.
At the age of 7 my Great Grandparents (so it is told) turned
from Protestantism to Catholiscism and my Grandfather in a fit of rage (he was
an Orangeman) caught the train to Holywell carrying a can of petrol with which
to set fire to St Winifreds...whatever the truth of that tale, he did one thing
which was truly cruel. Giving no time for goodbyes he dragged young David from
the happy home he had with his beloved grandparents, from a little village in
Wales, not speaking a word of English.......to live in Liverpool. He hated
every minute of it.
He told us many tales of being bullied for speaking Welsh,
for being small, dark haired, a Jones,ad infinitum until in a fit of his own
frustrations he began to fight back.Memories that my Father spoke of included;
His Father had shaved his head almost bald because he had curls, he had beaten
him for crying to go home,his Father tried to drown my Fathers pet dog and so
on, petty malice and spite.
Yet equally my Grandfather could be extremely sentimental. His power over my fathers young world was often one of extremes. He had discovered my father had a good singing voice and would drag Dad around the local pubs to sing. The men would give my father money, especially if he sang Danny Boy and the money would end up in Arthurs pocket. Once he had enough he would send Dad home and go off to drink the proceeds, coming home later roaring drunk.
He told us of the many times both Clara and Jessie
protected him from his fathers violence, just as, when he was older, he would stop his father from
hitting little Joan.He spoke very fondly of his sisters. He and Billy however
fought often and Grandfather Arthur encouraged it, delighting in his sons being
'proper men'.
( it is entirely through researching the family tree that I discovered the horrific injuries my grand father suffered inWW1 which may, in part, explain his extreme mood swings and the now understood PTSD which possibly made him such a violent man.)
At 12 my Father won a scholarship to a Grammar School.
Prestigeous in those days it was also beyond the financial means of the family
to afford the necessary uniform....or indeed the years without a wage while he
studied and at 14 my father became a Call Boy at the famous theatre The
Empire.
His many tales where amusing but he had two special stories
he loved to regale us with. His times with the dancing girls who where on tour
from The Windmill, they loved him to bits and from his rather heavy hints
apparently they 'educated him' in many aspects of growing up.
He also had a real
and genuine respect for several actors and in particular Alistair Sim who did
sign an autograph ( more of a note ) which mysteriously went missing in our
house move in the 60's, which is sad because apparently Mr Sim didn't sign many
autographs in his lifetime. He was (my Father said) a great Mentor and gave my
Father a lot of good advice.
My Father told me himself he couldn't wait to escape
Liverpool and intended returning to Wales to stay with Daffyd and Jane as soon
as he could but the war began. He was 16 years old and lied about his age and
attempted to join the army, his deception soon found out he was advised the
only force he could join was the Navy and so he did.
I will write of my Fathers Naval career in a separate story.
Following the war my Father returned to Liverpool. He had
been denied leave to attend his beloved Mothers funeral and he had been given
some disturbing news by his siblings concerning the stress and the upset his
Mother had been subjected to prior to her demise.
She had suffered dreadfully from Asthma for many years and
her heart attack was possibly as a result of an Asthma attack, we will never
know. What is known through the family is that my Father held his own Father
responsible and wanted a confrontation.
It took place in a bar, where Dad found Arthur steadily
getting drunk. As my father told the tale, he wanted nothing more than to
'whale the tar' out of 'the old sod', he stood alongside Arthur and bought a
pint of beer.As he told it to me he confessed that as he lifted it he had the
intention of hitting Arthur with it in his mind.However Arthur calmly turned
towards him and smashed his own glass alongside my fathers head and they
fought.Arthurs'one comment was said to be' you'll have to be quicker than that
lad' as he left my Dad in a heap and wandered off to the next bar.
By 1939 my Fathers world was an isolated and bitter place,
his Mother, Grandmother, Great Grandmother and Grandfather had all died within
12 months of each other, every member of his Welsh immediate family had gone
and he could no longer foster the dream of returning to his beloved Wales. He
was hurt and devastated by his Mothers demise and as he said, he was in a dark
place.
Within the next few years each and everyone of Arthurs
children made their way out of his home and into their own.
Dad met my Mother
and his world became changed beyond recognition. My Mother was reckoned 'a
catch' as they used to say. With auburn hair and sea green eyes, an absolutely
stunning figure and the youngest of 7 children, her life had strange
comparisons with my Fathers. He was inordinately proud that someone of my
Mothers standing had fallen in love with him.
Mothers family had all done well
in school, in life and her Father held a prestigeous job with Lewises. He remained
for the rest of their married life, besotted with..'His Little Do'. She was his
Queen, his beloved and never missed an opportunity to tell her he loved her,
make her laugh, and kissing her on the cheek he would say he 'Adored his Dora'.
My Father married my Mother in 1951 August 4th and I was
born precisely 9 months later a Honeymoon Baby.
Work was difficult to come by after the war. Many servicemen were bitter about their situation. Dad had managed to get work in a Colliery in St Helens Low wages, poor conditions. None as vile, as dangerous as working 'down pit'. Knee deep in freezing water, with nothing but a singlet and a pair of shorts to work in and a miners lamp to see with...it was cold, dark and dangerous work.
During the early years of marriage my Father walked 11 miles to work and 11 miles home after a gruelling 12 hours 'down the pit'. In all weathers and all season for two and a half years. Eventually he obtained a house on one of the Mining Villages and My parents and I moved to
Parr in St Helens, coming back to an area I have since found out has many of my ancestors as residents during the late 19th century.
Father continued to work in
Collieries around the area for the next 20 years. he was a Shotfirer and First
Aid man. He was also the Safety Man, responsible for keeping the pit aired and safe during the two week holiday period suring summer when the mines shut and all the colliers took their holidays.
A Shotfirer would lay the charges which blow the 'Face'
where the coal seams are, he was also an Overman and Deputy and as First Aider
he dealt with anyone who was injured and many men in those days suffered
horrific injuries and where left with terrible disablities following a cave in.
There where times when the sirens would go off in the pits and as we lived in
the Mining Village close by, we would sit nervously waiting, hoping to hear
Dads voice soon, very soon.
Many nights we sat knowing a cave in had happened
and Dad would come home upset someone had died, or weary from an emergency that
had meant all the men had worked overtime to help someone.
My father was badly injured when I was 16 years old.I worked
as a trainee nurse at that time, known as a Cadet Nurse I had been placed on
duty in X-Ray and the first I knew of my Fathers accident was the sight of his
feet and a pair of dreadfull green socks which I just 'knew' where on my own
Fathers feet. His head was being X-rayed, his arm and his leg. I processed the X rays with shaking hands and a trembling bottom lip as I saw the damage to my Dads body. He was a mess down the whole of his left side.
I can remember
the Doctor asking Dad what had happened and Dad muttering a piece of coal had
fallen on him. The piece of coal was 12 foot by 8 foot and weighed many tons
and he had been pushing someone away from it and got caught himself when the
face fell in. He suffered from headaches for weeks until the hospital found a
hairline fracture of the skull was bleeding and the blood had welled under his
eye, he was a lucky man to survive and he took that particular accident to
heart.
He became convinced 'she' meaning The Pit, was out to get
him. Many of the Miners carried a conviction that the pit itself had a
personality and feelings or anticipations where something the men did take
notice of.My Fathers conviction led to him taking work with Pilkingtons
Factory where he worked in the Sulpher tanks for the next 12 years and moved
from the mining village to Carr Mill in St Helens to the now current family
home.
Eventually the hard physical work in the factory became too
much and Dad sought different work.
He worked originally at Fazakerly Hospital as an
Occupational Therapist but found the middle class snobbery amongst some of the
staff very difficult to deal with. He was a man who was friendly, cheerful and
easy going, he had no prejudice or ego to speak of and was an honest and open
person. He had never worked in the corporate world or indeed in the elite uber
female hotbeds of malice that can thrive in some areas of life. It both
confused and upset him Fazakerly was not a place he felt comfortable with. After 20 years of honest mans talk, he couldn't deal with the two faced and the
often sarcastic female world he found himself part of.
He applied for and
became a Hospital Porter at St Helens Cottage Hospital,a job he
absolutely loved to the last day of his
employment there. Sadly Dad had a major heart attack while working and though
his work colleagues made record time with all the equipment needed for his survival
to reach him and the best of care was given him it proved too much for his
health and he retired from work.
After his retirement my Father dedicated himself
to his garden, his beloved greenhouse, his beautiful woodwork and cooking fish
twice a week for my Mother. He also brewed amazing wines and kept a Rumtopf and
loved every minute of being at home with his beloved wife. He read his books
and Mother didn't dare say she liked something because my Father would go and
buy it for her immediately.
He loved and lived for his family and welcomed the
addition of grandchildren where once again he could tell his fantastic tales weave his little magics and Gurn through the window at the
children who invariably fell about in laughter. He never wavered in his delight in the children, no one was loved more or less, he simply adored all four of them . He would plan Boxong day tot he last detail for their Christmas visit, from the presents they received to the film they would watch after dinner...it was his delight to do so. Mum could and did have her say....but it was Dad who was as excited as the children, the child in his own heart revelling in the happy smiles and the laughter he would all too often have instigated with one of his little rhymes or a remark crafted to cause merriment.
Sadly one day, he felt pain and it was discovered he had
Cancer and within a short while of that discovery he died.
He left behind a legacy which continues through the family
to this day. Gramps as he had become known as, was a funny, kind, caring man.
He was a passionate defender of the weak and the underdog, protective of his
family and loved each of us wholeheartedly. He had a raging temper if roused
sufficiently but mine and other members of the family remember him most for his
laughing, smiling face, his terrible jokes and eyes that could warm you as he
looked at you with love.
There were times my Father couldn't cope with his memories of the war, in those times he would quietly walk upstairs to his bedroom and take out his harmonica. He could play as fine as Larry Adler when he wanted too but in those dark moments he would play the Last Post, Danny Boy and a haunting refrain I cannot name. Tears would well into my Mothers eyes, I would gulp, my sister would stare off out of the window and when, eventually, he came down stairs, nothing was said, we would just hug him.
Little memories are playing across my minds eye, 'seeing and hearing' once again the gentle smile , the warm brown eyes that all four of my children inherited at birth. His joy in brushing my sisters hair, gently massaging a little Silverkin oil into her curls and saying 'just like spun gold' . It has been a real happiness for me to write about my lovely Dad.
He was a gentle man, he might not have been a saint
but he was definatley not a sinner. The pride I own with all my heart is that I called him My Dad, mine with a wonderful sense of genuine heartfelt appreciation.
David James Jones, gentle man, gentleman, a
man amongst men.
