FOREWORD

 

SOME WOULD SAY, HULL, WHERE I hail from, is distinctly a second-division place. And if you’re from Grimsby, Scunthorpe, Leeds, Sheffield, or umpteen other nearby places, there’s a good chance you might say far worse. As a proud native, I will never agree with any negative viewpoints about my home city. To me, its people, landscapes and blustery North Sea coastline evoke many memories – all of them positive and wholesome. But whatever your perspective, the truth is that by the time the 1970s rolled in, my birthplace had certainly seen more prosperous days. Unemployment was rife after the fishing rights to the North Atlantic had been ceded to Iceland at the end of the bitter ‘Cod Wars’. It was a political act that decimated a proud seafaring heritage in an instant, leaving Hull on its knees economically and many proud East Yorkshire men and women believing they had been betrayed by the national powers that be. To this very day, many remain resentful and will never forgive.

 

In August 1977, a few short weeks after Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee festivities had come to a successful conclusion and Hull continued to be enveloped by a financial slump that would last for many years, none of this mattered a jot to me. I had just celebrated my twelfth birthday and, as I had done for the last three years, I was looking forward to the prospect of staying with my beloved Auntie Kathleen and uncles Jim and Fred at their home in Cottingham, where they lived together in harmony.

 

Auntie Kathleen was born into an old Cottingham family called the Fosters. She was one of several children raised during the years before, and after, the Great War. Emma (my grandma) was the eldest of the brood, Jessie was the middle child, while Kathleen, who had been blessed with a positive outlook on life, was the baby of the bunch. Although they had other siblings, this trio would become inseparable throughout their adult lives.

 

Uncle Jim was Auntie Kathleen’s husband, and Uncle Fred her brother-in-law. They were two men who were bonded by blood, shared experiences and spirit, albeit they had very differing personalities. They came from the Burgess clan, and there had been unhappiness during their early years, so the wider family didn’t ask questions that would open up painful wounds. It wasn’t a perfect policy – not by modern standards – but it worked for us. Whereas Uncle Jim was quite outgoing, Uncle Fred was a man of few words. If you got “good morning” out of him during a full day, you were doing well. Physically, they looked similar: both were in their fifties, short in stature with receding dark hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow; they always dressed in green or grey Tweed suits (even though one was a bricklayer and the other a labourer), and they would never be seen outside the house without an obligatory flat cap perched on top of their heads. They both cycled to work: Uncle Jim had the shorter distance, riding to Hull and whatever building site the city council dictated he should be at, while Uncle Fred negotiated a thirty-mile round trip every day, as he pedalled all the way to RAF Leconfield and back. But, while they were different in so many ways, the loyalty these brothers had for one another shone through, forged as it had been through the turmoil of the tempestuous 1930s, the ravages of the Second World War, and everything that followed during a protracted period that saw Britain fall from the lofty position it had held in the world for more than two hundred years. During one of the most difficult periods the country has known, they, and Auntie Kathleen, spent more than thirty years creating a home that always offered a hearty welcome and a hot cup of tea. It was a place my mum loved to visit. And I did, too.

 

Mum and I had left Cottingham in 1974. Until then, we had lived just four doors away from Kathleen, Jim and Fred, sharing a house with my grandad and grandma, whose surname was ‘Longbone’. But that year, noted for two general elections, a state of emergency in Northern Ireland and the three-day week, we moved to a small village in Leicestershire. It was a place I quickly grew to dislike; within weeks of arriving, I would be set upon by lads who were often two and three years older than me. My crimes? I had a strong East Yorkshire accent and stood almost a full head and shoulders above my peers, two things that singled me out as being different. Supporting Hull City, a team dubbed by the locals as “crap”, only added to my woes. I have since learned that if you speak differently, there is a golden rule: make sure the football team you follow impresses others and gives you some credibility in the playground! City were a struggling Second Division side whose players were deemed unfit to lace the boots of the likes of Frank Worthington, Keith Weller and Jon Samuels, who starred for Leicester City. And because I steadfastly refused to swap allegiances and turn my back on the Tigers, and I spoke a Yorkshire dialect many of the locals struggled to understand, I was often at the centre of trouble not of my making. Thankfully, every year there was a light at the end of the tunnel, for I visited my aunt and uncles so mum could have a couple of weeks of respite during the school holidays. In truth, I also needed to get away. The Leicestershire move had not been a success for mum and had taken its toll; her marriage to my stepfather had ended acrimoniously a few months earlier, leaving her with several emotional mountains to climb. As a result, she suffered from anxiety and depression, and as a single, working mother she needed time to herself to recharge and refocus. Thankfully, she could think of nobody better than Kathleen, Jim and Fred, into whose loving care I was entrusted.

 

There were many reasons why I enjoyed going to Cottingham, a place I will always think of as ‘home’, not least the laughter that flowed easily in the scullery and front room of my aunt’s modest home in Brockenhurst Avenue, the card games that were often played, the characters who lived close by, and the opportunity to go and support my beloved City. More than anything, however, Auntie Kathleen had a joie de vivre that was infectious, and she also spoiled me rotten, making the best cream cakes and trifles I have ever tasted. These were two of the reasons her diabetes, which required three insulin injections every day, could never be brought under control. Another factor was the pan of beef and pork dripping that permanently sat on the gas cooker, providing a delicious accompaniment to the giant doorstep slices of toasted bread that were consumed daily. For Auntie Kathleen, a portly woman who liked to smoke her own roll-ups at least twenty times a day loved nothing more than indulging in life’s small pleasures. She would not be denied them, even if doctors insisted she was in mortal danger by refusing to adopt a healthier lifestyle.

 

“These medical people don’t know what they’re talking about,” she would often say, as she tucked into a seductive slice of homemade Victorian sponge cake and puffed on a cigarette. “I feel fine. And I make sure I eat plenty of fruit every day to compensate for my little extravagances.”

 

With a smile that was never far from her face, my aunt was a woman who was delighted to share good things with those around her. Thankfully, it is a blessing I only visited once a year, for I fear my waist would have grown substantially if I was subjected to the diet imposed on my uncles. Even Sweep the dog, the result of a one-off amorous liaison between a Standard Poodle and a Labrador, was the size of a small outhouse! The truth is, however, happy memories are made by such people, who are natural ‘givers’ not ‘takers’.

 

That August, many were created – but not all of them strictly for the right reasons…