Di.Poppitt
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Jesse Thomas Worrall was my dad. He was the second son born to a mother who all her life disliked him. He was difficult to love, moody and awkward, he kept my mother short of money and I don't remember him ever kissing either of us girls. He would send us to the shop to buy him a mars bar, and sit and eat it with us watching him.
His childhood was shared with three brothers, and he adored them all, he was never happier than when he was in their company. They lived n a back to back in Lozells, my grandfather drank and there was very little money after a week-end in the pub. No blankets on their beds no leather on the soles of their shoes, and very little food in their bellies.
He was afraid to spend his last penny, and made sure that he always had money in the bank. But like his father he liked the sauce, and could down eight pints and walk in a straight line. Luckily he only did it on Saturday night, and I dreaded him coming home, because he was either the happiest chap in Witton, or roaring mad. Occasionally he would completely forget himself and give us money, and boy we took it. Then next day he could be seen counting the notes in his pocket, muttering that he seemed to be short.
He was a good looking man, and was very particular in his dress. He always looked imaculate, but needed us to tell him that his new suit fitted - the trousers were long enough - the jacket wasn't too tight, because he was totally without confidence.
As a teenager I was full of life as we all were, and he let me do pretty much as I wanted. He never questioned me, welcomed my friends at the house, and gave me a much easier time that mom did. We had rules, I had to be home by ten and I had to wash the dishes before I went out. But in his funny old way I think he was glad to see me enjoying my life.
I didn't understand him, couldn't get to know him or let him know me. He treated mom very badly, and that stood in between us.
The day we buried him I cried for what could have been. I stood in church thinking what a sad life he had had. If he was here now I wonder would it be different.
His childhood was shared with three brothers, and he adored them all, he was never happier than when he was in their company. They lived n a back to back in Lozells, my grandfather drank and there was very little money after a week-end in the pub. No blankets on their beds no leather on the soles of their shoes, and very little food in their bellies.
He was afraid to spend his last penny, and made sure that he always had money in the bank. But like his father he liked the sauce, and could down eight pints and walk in a straight line. Luckily he only did it on Saturday night, and I dreaded him coming home, because he was either the happiest chap in Witton, or roaring mad. Occasionally he would completely forget himself and give us money, and boy we took it. Then next day he could be seen counting the notes in his pocket, muttering that he seemed to be short.
He was a good looking man, and was very particular in his dress. He always looked imaculate, but needed us to tell him that his new suit fitted - the trousers were long enough - the jacket wasn't too tight, because he was totally without confidence.
As a teenager I was full of life as we all were, and he let me do pretty much as I wanted. He never questioned me, welcomed my friends at the house, and gave me a much easier time that mom did. We had rules, I had to be home by ten and I had to wash the dishes before I went out. But in his funny old way I think he was glad to see me enjoying my life.
I didn't understand him, couldn't get to know him or let him know me. He treated mom very badly, and that stood in between us.
The day we buried him I cried for what could have been. I stood in church thinking what a sad life he had had. If he was here now I wonder would it be different.
