Old Soldiers...

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Just look at this.

Isn’t it beautiful? What a glorious field, brim full of poppies. I passed this on my way to Scarborough, at Staxton, and had to stop and take some pictures – even though it meant parking up in the muddy entrance of a field. Can anyone look at a field of poppies without starting to mind surf?

I can’t.

Mind surf? Oh, you know, when you see something and it makes you think of a connection and that kicks off another connection, then another, and another, like this - Poppy – that tea set my mum used to have – the Great War – Wilfred Owen - Flanders field – Poppy day – Frank.

Frank.

Frank was my wife’s mother’s partner. We never had an easy relationship, we came from very different places on just about everything – politics, religion, race, country, duty, work, food, we may have agreed on beer – but we had some terrible arguments over the years usually culminating in him storming off - he never waited to be beaten.

I didn’t know what I thought of Frank, at the time I could take him or leave him - but I did know one thing; he worshiped my daughter from the minute she was born and she worshipped him back in turn, always.

He was her friend, Uncle Frank, her ‘honorary granddad’ - as she used to say. To me he was a bit of a pain, but he loved taking Holly out and he took her all over. He used to take her into Manchester almost every day when she was a baby – pushing the buggy to the tram station, into the centre of town. By the time Holly was three she knew Manchester better than I ever will. Frank and Holly were in the centre of Manchester on the 14th June, 1996, the day before the IRA bombs exploded – for some reason they didn’t go the day of the bombing, I can’t remember why – perhaps it was her guardian angel keeping her safe, maybe it was even Frank’s.

Frank had done national service and been out to Egypt, but by the way he spoke you’d have thought that he’d been in the army his whole life, instead of an ambulance driver invalided out due to his badly worn hips. I think his army days must have been a very special time for him, maybe he found a niche for a while, he was ruled by routine – packing his bags a whole week before he and Joan went away on their annual holiday to Jersey, and Holly went with them – she loved it, two ‘being spoilt’ weeks with Uncle Frank!

Frank was a big believer in duty. Every November he’d polish up his medals, put on his beret with full colours, polish his (already polished) shoes, don his regimental blazer and tramp into town on his tin hips with his box of remembrance poppies. He’d stand outside Boots all day in the cold and rain, saluting everybody who donated, until every single red paper poppy had gone, then tramp back home – duty done.

He died from cancer a few years back. I was there for a while by his bed on the morning of his death, he looked old and tired – he was old and tired.

‘I’ll get the drinks in ready’ he’d said.

‘Make it a gudg’eon’ I’d replied.

He always called it a ‘gudg’eon’ when he bought a round of whisky, he was ‘careful’ about his rounds but always played it fair – it was his way.

So there was I standing in that glorious field, brim full of poppies, car sinking in the mud, taking pictures and mind-surfing to Frank - Poppy – that tea set my mum used to have – the Great War – Wilfred Owen - Flanders field – Poppy day – Frank.

All those poppies… I guess I must have liked him more than I knew.

Old Soldiers…
Odd isn’t it?
In life not eye to eye.
With this or that,
Or that or this,
That when they simply die.
You remember
As best they were,
And wish…

Frankie Boy was a soldier
He never fought in war
He did his time in Akabar
National service, a single tour.
He so proud to ‘do his bit’,
Not easy, he and I.
But ask my child
Of Uncle Frank
And watch the memories fly.