The extraordinary miner

MIKE: A few years ago my daughter asked me to write an account of my father's life, since she knew very little about her granddad Walter, and wished to have something meaningful to pass on to her own children, our delightful grandchildren.
Once I started, I soon realised how little I myself knew, apart from a rough outline. He had been a miner all his working days, had fought in WWI, surviving the Somme, had a passion for motorbikes and did not marry till his mid 40s.

My story is a mere 15 sheets of A4, chiefly detailing my happy childhood, an integral element of his life. The title I gave it was The Extraordinary Miner. Why? Well, Dad claimed to have worked in more than 100 pits throughout Britain, though, sensing a touch of hyperbole, I was unable to verify that figure. But that did not qualify him for the epithet "extraordinary". I chose that because of one simple fact. He told me adamantly, from an early age, that he would not allow me to follow him down the mines. In a Yorkshire mining area in the 1940s this stance was not only unusual, it was almost unnatural!

Most of my pals from primary school were removed from secondary education by their fathers as soon as the law permitted and sent straight down the mine to start life as a pitman. As it happened, I had no desire to do so, but even if it had been my burning ambition, Dad would have proved an immovable opponent. Education was all-important to him and he was determined that I should go as far as I wanted. For that I have always been grateful.

Young Mike rides pillion behind dad Walter. PICTURE / SUPPLIED

A further point of difference between him and his peers was that he never hit me, in a period when physical punishment, if merely a slap round the head or legs, was commonly accepted. If I did something I shouldn't have done, a few words would suffice to express his annoyance, or — more often — disappointment.

He had a lean, tough physique, his white skin marred with blue scars, a result of dust getting into cuts when he was working at the coal face. And he was strong! A party trick was to drop a handkerchief onto the floor, lower himself on one arm, pick it up in his teeth, then push back up on the one arm.

After he retired he took to breeding poodles and would often go for a walk, or to the pub, with two fluffy white dogs on leads. Remember, this was Yorkshire in the 1950s, in a no-frills, mining environment, so it looked rather incongruous! I once asked if anyone laughed or made rude remarks. His answer? "They'd only do it once, lad!"

Like all miners, Dad enjoyed his beer, and, when I was home from university, I would go to the local with him for a couple of pints. The regular method of serving was for the beer to be pumped over the top of the glass, leaving a creamy froth slightly protruding. One day the barmaid passed him his pint with a gap of a few millimetres at the top. Dad looked, then asked, "Do you think you could get a whisky in there, love?" She replied, "Of course, Walt." "Well fill it up with beer then!" He had a dry sense of humour.

After writing about my father, it seemed a good idea to jot down for my grandchildren various details from my own childhood and education. Recently I have been working through memories of my secondary education at Queen Elizabeth Grammar School, Wakefield, and would like to introduce you to a character called Norman Lambert. Two metres tall and solidly built, Norman was a star prop forward in the school XV. During one game I witnessed him trudge about 15m to the line, five or six desperate defenders hanging off various limbs, all to no avail, as he finally put the ball down! And therein, I say triumphantly, is an example of why I disdained that sport! Able to fulfill his duties on the rugby field due solely to his physique, Norman was completely unco-ordinated in other activities.

In his final year we were both prefects, one of the perks of that position being a Common Room, containing a table tennis table. On more than one occasion — this is the honest truth! — I saw Norman throw the ball up to serve and miss it completely! It was hilarious! He always attracted a good crowd, ready for a laugh. The thing was, it never seemed to bother him!

One talented player used to give him an 18 point start and still beat him to 21! But you couldn't lower Norman's high opinion of himself. Walking to school one day from the bus station, he asked me to wait while he went into a shop to collect a present for his girlfriend's birthday. On my asking what it was, he replied that it was a framed photograph of himself! I told him I couldn't believe how big-headed he was! His next words have stuck with me ever since, after more than 60 years. He said, "I'm not big-headed! Although I'll admit I've got plenty to be big-headed about!" Good old Norman!