Les and Isabel

My parents, Les, as he preferred to be called despite his real name being Alfred, and Isabel proved an often strange, yet well-matched pair. They were both eccentric in their own ways but, temperamentally, complemented each other well.

In her late teens, Isabel was committed for three months in a sanatorium following a serious nervous breakdown. Thankfully, the wedding day did not put her back there! This commitment was not kept a secret from me, instead Mum would tell me tales of her time there as though she had been on a wonderful adventure. She was very good at spinning interesting stories out of otherwise mundane events.

As my childhood progressed, I was soon to recognise the highs and lows of her mood swings. I came to realise that her nervous breakdown was the prelude to the bouts of depression that were yet to plague her life.

She was loving and caring and we spent times together in immense fun. At other times she was distant and morose, posing melodramatically, as though acting the part on stage in a picture of misery. There were times when she would disappear for hours at a time without a word to anyone as to her whereabouts or how long she would be gone.

It was early on during these times that I would panic and worry and search for her, often finding her in a neighbour’s bunker or I would come out of my search empty-handed. In response to my panic, Les would say, with exasperating nonchalance and calm, “Don’t worry—she’ll come back in her own time. Just wait and see.”

On the occasions when my search went in vein, sure enough Les was right. She would return as though all was well and without explanation. Soon, I began to see my father's nonchalance as a welcome, soothing feature. This I think was the beginning of my calm acceptance of things throughout my life, a reflection of my father’s attitude toward my mother at ‘high tide’.

My father’s eccentric ways stemmed from his teen years. He was the eldest of three and was a ‘sickly child’ by all accounts. As a result of this ill health, he was sent away at the tender and vulnerable age of eight or nine to live with his mother’s prosperous relatives, who owned a farm near Kidderminster in England. He had a good life and was happy there and, by the age of 15, was attending art school, which he loved.

Suddenly, his mother insisted on his return to Walsall to obtain employment in any field that would take him. He never forgave his mother and felt that he was an outsider in what should have been his home with his younger siblings. It was painfully obvious to him that his brother, Frank, and his sister, Hilda, were the favoured ones.

He began to shun family mealtimes, instead eating alone in the kitchen. This was the beginnings of the man Les was to become. He was a man who did as he wished and often did not follow social protocol. He refused to dress up for expected visitors and would continue to tinker in his shed long after they had arrived.

The eccentricities of my parents were also physically obvious in our house. My mother loved all things modern while my father loved all things old. As such, Les had a room filled with antiques and old wares. “Junk,” my mother used to call it.

Amongst the antique furniture and gramophones, was also a complete suit of armour and a monstrous eagle, easily the size of a man. Many of the antiques were given to him by poor clients who found they couldn’t afford to pay him for his work done as an electrician, particularly during war-time.

His work took him from small cottages, to farms and to grand manors. I now own a riding crop that was given to him by the Earl of Leicester.

If the farmers liked children, Les would take me along with him. His work on the farms was to convert them from gas mantles to electricity. Although it was the 1930’s, many of these farms were still catching up with modern conveniences.

Isabel’s room was known as ‘the front room’. This was decked out as modern as she could get it and looked just like a 1940’s ice cream parlour. The piano was in one corner and, in the centre, were three round, glass-topped wicker tables in pale green with matching chairs. I felt that this room was embarrassing, childish and frivolous but my friends thought it was wonderful. It was perfect for birthday parties.

As my childhood progressed, I became increasingly aware of the way in which my parent's personalities offset and complemented each other. With each of my mother's spells of depression, my father refused to pander to them, instead patiently waiting for normality to return with barely the bat of an eyelid. With my mother's efforts effectively falling on deaf ears, her spells were probably shortened and the affect on me was lessened.

Of course, there were times when my father's exasperation was made evident, which is only human when such a situation occurs with great frequency. At these times, if he arrived home to witness Isabel in one of her poses of theatrical misery--perched awkwardly on a stool, head bent and leaning an elbow on her lap, hand curled to her forehead--he would say "Oh--it's Joan Crawford today is it?" or "You're doing your bloody Joan Crawford today, I see." But that would be the extent of it--a slight release of frustration--and he would continue on as normal.

My mother's social side was put to the test by Les' refusal to conform but this probably made her more the perfect hostess, to make up for her husband's shortfall in social etiquette. She was an effervescent entertainer and made people love to be around her. Where there were times of great moroseness, there were also times of great fun and I, too, loved to be around her.