Chapter Three: Mr. Father Goes on Holiday.

In later years, I would address my dad as “Mr. Father”. He enjoyed this sobriquet and would invariably use it to sign letters and greeting cards to me. With his passing, the name has devolved to me.

Now. Hang on a minute. Let’s pause for a moment here, shall we?

Ask any wordsmith sweating it out over a hot keyboard & they’ll tell you that one of the difficulties of authorship is knowing where to start. Give the reader too much ‘in the weeds’ detail early on & they start getting restless and glancing at their wristwatch whilst quietly muttering to themselves.

Go off like a bullet from a gun on the other hand & the reader may become befuddled and confused. “Hold on” they cry, “Slow down a bit. What are you talking about?!”.

And you see, if I have a fault, it’s that I’m too hasty. I don’t think things through. Forward planning is anathema to me. An idea pops into my head and I’m up and at it like the aforementioned b from a g.

“I know” I’d said to myself “I’ll write my memoirs. That’ll keep me out of trouble.”

And before you know it, I’d loosed off two chapters and unleashed them on you, dear chum. Having now taken a breather to think things through, I realise there’s stuff coming up later in my story that might take the reader aback.

“My goodness, Jules” you may find yourself saying “that’s interesting. What made you do, say or think that?”

Given that each of us is only equal to the sum of our parts, perhaps a bit of family background might help to add context later on. I’ll try to keep it light. I may throw in the odd gag here & there if it all gets too heavy. This sort of thing:

Did you know I once spent 2 years with a travelling circus? I didn’t have an act. They kept me on because I was the only one who could get the tent back in the bag. Whilst working there, I picked up the odd shift performing as the human canonball. I was paid £60.00 a time plus mileage.

Other than our personal relationship, I know remarkably little about Dad or his family history. Much of what follows is gleaned from the interweb, conversations with Tim and my late mother patched together with half forgotten personal memories.

Dad’s grandfather, George Harry Hirst was born in 1879 in Elsecar, a village in the Metropolitan Borough of Barnsley in South Yorkshire. He became a miner and, later, a checkweighman at the Dearne Valley Colliery. A member of the Yorkshire Miners' Association he served on its council. He joined the Labour Party, and was elected to Darfield Urban District Council, becoming its chair, and also served as a magistrate.

At the 1918 UK general election, George was elected as Member of Parliament for the new constituency of Wentworth, South Yorkshire, a seat he held until his death, aged 54, in 1933. He married twice and had 16 children, 12 by his second wife. How on earth he found the time and the stamina for all that lot I’ll never know. If I’d had 16 children, I’d be walking with two sticks and a stoop.

Dad was an only child, and his parents, Gilbert & Hilda, both died when I was still a babe in arms. I believe Grandad Hirst had a white collar job in the mining industry. Dad was a Bevan boy – one of the young British men conscripted to work in coal mines between December 1943 and March 1948, to increase the rate of coal production, which had declined through the early years of World War II. I believe he worked under his father.

Although an only child, Dad must have had a large number of uncles, aunts and cousins but strange to say neither Tim nor I recollect any mention of them.

As you might expect given his antecedents, Dad was a lifelong socialist, member of the Labour party and a passionate, leading light in the Berkshire branch of National Union of Teachers.

During the 20s & 30s, the Hirst family would take their annual holiday in the popular, genteel resort of Scarborough on Yorkshire’s Northeast Coast.  There was a swimming pool at Battery Park, donkey rides, miniature golf, bandstand entertainments; all the usual seaside fun. And lo, it came to pass that, amongst the many diversions on offer, was a Punch & Judy man who also performed magic tricks. This wonder worker would, starting at the north end of the beach, give three performances each morning, relocating further south along the promenade after each one. At this point I daresay he would repair to a nearby hostelry for a reviving ale & a spot of luncheon. Nothing fancy I expect. Maybe a shrimp or two and perhaps a relish? Post luncheon he would reverse his progress by setting out northwards to give three more shows. Doubtless he would have employed a bottler, hat man, or pitch man to collect money from the audience and to discourage over enthusiastic brats from inveigling themselves into the back of the booth during the Punch & Judy element of the show. Each morning, the boy Wilfred would be issued with six bright, shiny pennies by his doting parents, one to be thrown into the bottler’s receptacle at each performance thus enabling Dad to spend the day following the show.  I’m not saying this was Mr. Fathers daily ritual but, assuming that the performer didn’t vary his presentations very much (I know I wouldn’t have done), by the end of a fortnight, Dad would have had the patter & routines pretty much off by heart.

Back home in Darfield, well and truly bitten by the performance bug, Father set to work. Utility magic props and effects that came with full routines were freely available by mail order from London based dealers such as Davenport & Co, located opposite the British Museum in Russell Square or Ken Brooks’ Magic Place in Wardour Street. Ken Brooks is long gone but Davenport’s still trade from the underground shopping precinct below Charing Cross Station. Being a crafty sort of bloke, Dad constructed himself a puppet booth. He also manufactured & painted a set of puppet heads which were then dressed by Mum, Hilda. Eh viola! Dad had himself an act.

Based on my own experience 20 years later, Mr Father would doubtless been in demand to perform at pie suppers, church fetes & concerts, fund raisers, school Christmas parties and the like.

I know he did at least one broadcast on the BBC Light programme from their studio in Leeds. The concept of ventriloquist on the radio may sound totally bizarre today but please remember that in the 1950s one of the most popular shows on radio was Educating Archie, featuring a doll named Archie Andrews operated by ventriloquist Peter Brough. The programme regularly attracted over 15 million listeners.

In those days, no script could be broadcast without having been vetted by the office of the Lord Chamberlain who could censor or forbid parts of a performance altogether if they did not feel the subject matter was appropriate for the broadcast. Reasons for censorship could include reference to sexually explicit themes, poor taste and the use of expletives. Scripts had to be submitted in advance, and anything deemed unsuitable would be returned with offending passages scored through in blue pencil.

I am delighted to say that one Dad’s scripts was ‘blue pencilled’. The set up of the dialogue was that George (Dad’s doll) was in conversation with a waiter (played by Dad) in the dining room of a seaside hotel. The waiter has just set down a portion of dressed crab.

George: I say waiter, this crab smells off.

Waiter: I can assure you sir that crab is extremely fresh. In fact, this very morning it walked out of the sea, crossed the promenade, entered our kitchen, went straight into the pot and on to your plate.

George: Well, all I can say is it must have trod in something on the way.

Dad (and George) continued his broadcasting career appearing on “Carroll Levis and his Discoveries”, a latter day Simon Cowell type whose radio talent shows were broadcast by the BBC from 1936 through to the late 50s. Among the performers "discovered" by Levis and sharing the bill with Dad were comedian and actor Jim Dale, comedian Barry Took, and actress Anne Heywood.

You’ll notice I don’t refer to George or any other of my vent figures as a ‘dummy’. It feels disrespectful somehow. George and his sidekick Jerimiah are both older than me and have been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. Retired from the business we call show, they both live with me now. George currently resides in his case under my bed but occasionally, because its lonely under there, he joins me for breakfast or to watch the odd tv programme, not to mention frightening the bejesus out of casual visitors. Whilst Jerimiah (a skull figure) sits on my bookcase next to a photograph of the three of them in action. I’m looking into his sightless sockets as we speak. Creepy? Some may think so, but they are old friends and a comforting, proud reminder of my extremely talented dad.

Whilst training to be a teacher, Dad was summoned to an audience with the college principle. At this meeting, he was thanked for raising a ton of money by performing at the recent college fete. It was also pointed out to him that, as he was about to embark on a teaching career, it would be considered unseemly and not quite respectable to have any association with the entertainment industry. Teaching was, after all, considered to be one of ‘the’ professions along with being a bank manager, a solicitor or a doctor. To continue wasting his time ‘playing with puppets’ could only have a detrimental effect on his career prospects.

Thus, was born the character of comedy conjurer “Thomas Henry”. Named after the owner of the corner shop in Dads childhood village, Father carried on regardless but wearing a ginger ‘fright wig’, glassless spectacles, a top hat, an outlandish dinner suit with red gingham lapels & trouser stripes, and with his denture removed. Adopting the accent of Lancashire comedian Frank Randell, the transformation was complete. You’d never know it was the same bloke! Until that is he came on to do his vent routine in the second half resplendent in white tie and tails, his hair slicked back, glasses removed and teeth restored. By the way, his calling card strap line as a vent act in those days was:

Thomas Henry, Ventriloquist.

The man with his tongue in the other fellow’s cheek.

How do you like them apples my Lord Chamberlain?

Away from the stage my dad was just a lovely, lovely, kind man. When he retired from a long & distinguished career as a head teacher, a child wrote in his retirement card:

“We love you Mr. Hirst. You’re like everybody’s Grandad. xxx”

The memory that haunts me still is when, at the age of six, Tim & I came home late from school, having been to Ian Beckett’s house for tea. We arrived just in time to see Dad putting suitcases in the boot of the car.

“I’m going on holiday for a little while” he said to Tim and me, as Mum stood teary eyed in the hallway.

With that he drove away. We didn’t see him again for about a year.

But there were still many happy times to come with Mr. Father.

In all my childhood & teenage years, I never recall him being cross. Random memories: his silly voices, silly walks and random silly noises. Lying in bed at night listening to him roaring with laughter at comedy programmes on the wireless. Watching him in amdram plays with the Pittshill Players. Holding hands crossing the road but not letting go at the other side. Sitting quietly with me when I was sad. Standing backstage at the Brighton Pavilion reading punchlines he’d scribbled on the back of a manilla envelope and desperately trying to help him remember what the set-up of the joke was. His many, many appearances as Sir Joseph Porter in HMS Pinafore (a story for later on I think). Seeing him pop up as a supporting artiste in tv programmes such as “The Bill”, “Murder Most Horrid” and several episodes of “Men Behaving Badly”.

Right George. Breakfast? I’ll put the kettle on.