(65) 'Black Humour Memories'

[Ken]

Every morning the first thing I do is see what new emails have arrived.  Recently I received one from my sister Phyl, an event that always delights me.  I discovered that my forever young sister had been ill of late and, unusually for her, had been feeling her age.  Thankfully, she didn't feel so bad that her sense of fun had evaporated, and she told me an amusing story about her much loved husband, Lou.  It was what one calls a black humour story and it made Jenny and I laugh.  It reminded me of the many occasions in my life where humour has helped me cope in times of stress or hardship.  This tale tell of two of them!

The first event took place on Christmas Day afternoon on the twenty fifth of December in 1964.  My dad was in hospital and all of us visiting knew he had just weeks left to live.  I cannot recall everyone who was sitting around his hospital bed on that dismal afternoon but there were a lot of us.  My mother was there and I recall in particular the presence of my brothers Bob and Gordon and this long ago memory will reveal why.  That year the news had been full of the terrible troubles in what was then known as the Belgium Congo and I became aware, as I looked around, that this hospital ward had several employees of African origin.  My fathers reaction to these caring black people resulted in the eighteen year old me almost choking with repressed laughter.

Dad was on a high dosage of pain killers and as we all sat with him, I became aware of his sinking in and out of consciousness.  Sometimes, during his waking moments, he would converse with us in a normal fashion and then he would enter a mystery world of his own and it was then that his words made little sense.  It was during some of these confused times that I wanted to laugh out loud, for I found what he said funny.  In those moments of near delirium he would point at some of the black nurses and whisper, "they're Congolese rebel  fighters."  His voice was hushed as he whispered that it was him these mercenaries were out to get, but he was ready for them.  When he spotted a black Doctor he pointed at him and said, "last night that man tried to kill me."  I felt ashamed that at such a time I found much humour in his confusion.  

I was shaking with repressed laughter, for to laugh out loud would be awful, and somehow I managed to control my emotions.  But, thank God, brother Bob did not agree.  In a great roar of laughter he suddenly lost control, and this was followed almost immediately by Gordon's spluttering laughter and then I also joined in.  Bob had tears running down his face and then everyone there was laughing, including my dear mother. Dad seemed to suddenly regain his normality and asked what was so funny.  Somehow we were able, between chuckles, to explain and then he too was laughing, as he called himself, a silly old bugger!

That example of black humour was a much needed moment of relief during that saddest of Christmas days. We had all sat with our dying father and watched him open his presents.  I cannot recall what my last Christmas present to my father was but I do remember him opening a gift from my brother Wally.  It was a lightweight, lemon coloured, sleeveless pullover and dad seemed very pleased with it.  I recall thinking it must have been hard for Wally when he bought that gift, knowing that Dad would probably never wear it.  

"Dads Gone," were the words Wally said to me on the day our father died.  I was working in the cellar at Jeffery's sports shop when he walked down those ancient wooden steps with the news.  We brothers just stood together in silence in that underground stockroom, both of us with our private thoughts and finding comfort in the other being close.  There was no sense of shock at the news for our father had been ill for a long time.  It was almost the same for me twenty two years later, but this time it was my brother Gordon's voice and he said, "Wally's Gone." I had been expecting that phone call so there was no surprise, but the sadness was magnified by being so far away from my siblings.  I first told Jenny the news and then we told the children of their Uncle's passing.  I then went for a long walk with just my thoughts for company.

For miles I walked, across the fields that surrounded my Welsh home, and I reflected on my life with my eldest brother. I thought how, as a child, I would wait for him to come home after work on his motorbike. I'd be standing on the village green, close to the Chapel, and he'd stop to pick me up.  I would then hold on to him tightly as we rode the few hundred yards to our house,  We would pass the other children and for some unknown reason I'd feel so proud.  I thought of the weeks he'd go to work at Jeffery's Salisbury shop. By the time he returned home on those Saturday's I'd be fast asleep, but always on the Sunday morning there would be a present for me.  I'd creep into his room and he'd tease me for a few moments before telling me where my present was hidden.  Then there were his courting days and I'd plague him and his Phyl to tell me stories.  My favourite's were always those that involved Robin Hood and he'd read his adventures from a book he gave me.  For years to come that book was always next to my bed and close to my heart.  

As I walked I thought of my big brother's marriage and of my sadness at his leaving home.  But then the trips to Whitemore Road began which I enjoyed enormously and the sadness stopped.  My memory went to the five years we worked together in the 1960's and, weirdly, I recalled how surprisingly good at arm wrestling he was.  My mind touched on the times we weren't so close, during the SupaSports years, when the warmth between us cooled.  I then thought of how pleased our mother was when she saw that coolness fade as the warmth between us returned.  On these, and other, random memories my mind reflected as I walked those fields near my home.  I thought of the night Wally heard of President Kennedy's Assassination when I watched the colour drain from his face, this made me think of how he'd always show concern when he heard of a strangers illness, or of a wrong done to someone he didn't know.  My thoughts then told me that on this sad day a drink was required and the lure of a pint took my footsteps to the Lock and Key Pub.

There were just two customers in the pub, one a man called Jack who I knew, the other was a stranger I had never seen before.  I acknowledged them both and then ordered a pint from the landlord, a lovely man called Gwyn Richards.  I recalled as he pulled my pint that his wife, Brida, had been ill and I enquired about her health.  He informed me that she  was upstairs in bed and was still very poorly.  In a concerned welsh voice he confided, "I'm very worried about her Ken, very worried indeed."  I cannot remember my reply but turning to the customer called Jack, I asked what he was doing out, for he had once told me he never drank on a Sunday.  He replied he was out drowning his sorrows for that morning his sister had passed away.  I obviously told him about my brothers death when the stranger at the other end of the bar spluttered, "Bloody Hell, I'm out because this afternoon I had a phone call telling me my mother had just died!"  It was probably a stupid thing for me to say but I immediately turned to the landlord and said,  "If I were you Gwyn, I'd go upstairs and check on Brida"  The total silence that followed my words was long and deafening!

We've all seen those old western films when at a dramatic moment we see tumbleweed silently blown across the prairie on the silver screen.  That was the atmosphere that descended upon the pub at my bad timing and inappropriate attempt at humour.  It's fortunate that I don't feel embarrassment easily for everyone just looked at me with mouths agape and expressions of horror.  The total silence continued for what seemed forever but thankfully this was broken by Gwyn.  He gave us a gentle smile and said he'd go and check on Brida straight away.  As we heard him clumping up the stairs, the man who'd lost his mother asked how old my brother was and I replied sixty two.  Jack then told us how old his sister was and suddenly we were all talking about our lost loved ones.  The landlord re-appeared to say all was well with Brida and he bought us all a pint as he offered his commiserations to us all.  What then followed was a strangely pleasant evening as we three people, united by our grief, swapped stories about ourselves and the relatives we'd just lost. I do not believe that would have happened if I hadn't started the conversation flow with my misjudged levity. Looking back over my life I've come to find that black humour can be a good thing.

I told the above to Jenny as soon as I got home and we agreed it was an amusing and strange coincidence. I've relayed the story to some friends over the years and they've chuckled and asked what were the chances of such an event occurring.  My sister Glad laughed out loud when I told it to her way back in 1993, but I've never told any other member of the family until now.  I suppose I was concerned it may offend but I now feel the opposite.  Both of the above black humour memories are full of love, as well as laughter, and if they helped me get through some difficult times, then where's the harm.  Police Officers, Fire fighters, Doctors, Para-medics, Nurses, Prison officers and those within the Armed Forces, all use black humour to help them get through difficult times.  If they're looking down now at me now I bet my dad and my oldest brother the two Wally's from Shamley Green, are sharing a chuckle at the above black humour memories.  

       

         

[Ken]

Black humour can be offensive and hurtful.  It can also ease sad situations and at times make things better.
These memories tell of two events where black humour helped me cope.  I hope you judge me kindly.