Hometown Tales: Yorkshire by Author

Author:Author
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

BEFORE YORKSHIRE

I CAME INTO existence because of a storm at sea in 1966. My dad was a deck boy on a German merchant ship making her way from Dagenham to Cork. Dad had run away to sea when he was fifteen and after a couple of days of throwing up on his first voyage out he’d learnt to love the life of seeing new places and meeting and working alongside interesting people. He also enjoyed doing work he felt good at. He’d run feral after the death of his mother and had stopped going to school because he was teased for being dirty. He’d got used to the idea of himself as stupid and troublesome but his practical talents came to the fore once at sea and he liked the discipline on offer. After a few months working alongside the mainly German crew he could speak their language fluently and thought he might not be so stupid after all. He also loved earning money. After years of poverty and humiliation – most of his early memories involve the pawn shop queue – he delighted in having his own money in his pocket.

The first time my dad saw Falmouth was when the ship had turned back from Land’s End to the nearest safe port after a force ten south-westerly had ripped the cargo from the decks. The storm had been forecast but the captain had hoped to get across to Ireland before it hit. My dad thought it was strange how the captain always set out for Cork whatever the weather, yet wouldn’t leave Cork if the forecast was above a force seven. Later he learnt there was a girl in the Laurel Bar who the Captain wanted to be with. Such are the coincidences that make us happen. Were it not for the Captain’s affair, my dad would not have seen Falmouth that day, not have fallen for the calm beauty of the place after the danger of the storm, and not have pledged to make time to go back there for a holiday.

He was eighteen when he made the trip back and my mum was fourteen. They met on Custom House Quay. She fell in love with him from the start. It was his voice that hit her first, a lilting mix of southern Irish with a continental twang from his time speaking only German on the ship. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. Most of her friends were dating boys from the grammar school, but he was older, working on a ship, had been to sea, and came from a different country. My grandmother was less impressed, and would have preferred Mum to be interested in a boy with parents and homework and rules, and not be besotted with this tattooed Irish sailor who drank in pubs, could hardly read and write, had long hair and drove a motorbike. My dad was love-struck too and painted Mum’s nickname ‘Moggs’ on the jetty at the docks in huge white letters, visible to everyone when the tide was right.

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