VICTOR RAY, MY FATHER, PART 4: SOME UNUSUAL INCIDENTS...

Victor Ray, my father, part 4: some unusual incidents:

Contact by telephone...

My father introduced fear and capitulation into my life from a young age. Mum was meek and naïve, whilst dad made all the decisions and I mean ALL of them. Yes, he entertained folks elsewhere and spoke glowingly of his wife and son to others, who in truth were more like possessions. I realised that was true when I collected insurance premiums for him during his vacations. Total strangers would know all about me. 

TIES: COMMONPLACE...

Dad refused to have a telephone installed until he had retired because he reckoned that his policyholders would be ringing him too regularly. Interesting situation, for he was hardly ever at home anyway but due to the fact that there was no line of communication, mum couldn’t be contacted by my dad and more importantly, she of course was ignorant of where he actually was. Clever, I guess…

A RARE 'NATURAL' EXPRESSION BY MY DAD, FAR LEFT.
HE'S NEXT TO CAL & BILL (HIS BROTHER), ALSO THEIR DAUGHTER NORMA & HUSBAND TONY SHORTMAN, WHO BOTH DIED BEFORE THEIR TIME IN BUCKLAND MONACHORUM, DEVON...

Of course though, mum wasn’t able to communicate with her two sisters by telephone until my dad had retired. Also a clever ruse by my father…

A RARE SMILE FROM MY DAD BUT MUM WAS NEVER ABLE TO CHAT TO HER SISTERS IVY, FAR LEFT, OR GHRETA, SECOND FROM LEFT, UNTIL DAD FINALLY HAD A TELEPHONE INSTALLED IN 1985...

Hoarding...

Dad hoarded wood. And nails, screws and tools. He acquired them, stored small items in tins and Brylcream jars which lay on shelves in his shed with rusting lids. He kept locks, handles, hinges and old items of sporting equipment, like footballs, cricket balls, golf-balls found at the local park, cricket stumps and tennis-balls. He used his woodwork bench to make things and after I had had little contact with him during the week when I was a young lad, his Sundays in and around his shed left the seeds of hate for woodworking and metalworking deep within me. 

DAD'S BRICK-BUILT SHED FULL OF HOARDED ITEMS IS ON THE LEFT OF THE PICTURE... 
MORE USE OF A TIE BY ME. IT WAS LIKLEY MY BIRTHDAY AND I'D BEEN TEACHING DURING THE DAY...

He swept his own chimney too. Conversation around the house on chimney-sweeping day was even more at a premium than usual, as mum set about covering furniture with old sheets and removing fireplace ornaments, so that dad could hang one sheet from the mantle shelf. This was held in position by stones and spare bricks. A slit in the sheet allowed the brush-pole to go through, preventing too much soot from drifting into the room and settling. Each rod was screwed on in turn and heaved up and down by dad until, spotted by the watchful me in the garden, the brush appeared and pushed clear of the chimney. Reversing the activity, dad dragged the rods down the dark chimney until the brush reappeared in the fireplace and then mum would begin to clear up, shovelling soot from the grate and vacuuming in a sullen manner, as befitted a wife whose job it was to ‘keep house’. I hated chimney-sweeping day and it was such a thrill when a gas-fire was eventually installed in the house.

ARRIVING AT BULMERSHE COLLEGE IN READING, DRIVEN THERE BY MY FATHER. MUM TOOK THE PHOTO.
BOTH OF US ARE WEARING TIES AGAIN...

Playing football with my father…

Football with me at the local recreation ground was keenly contested by dad. My schoolfriend Brian Kensit joined us on a number of occasions and did well in goals but he was no outfield footballer. If only dad and I were playing, I kept goal like I figured it was meant to be done, by narrowing the angle of the shot for the striker of the ball but dad, ever the ‘winner’ would chip the ball over me. If I stayed nearer to the goal-line, he would come closer himself and fire powerfully at goal with an expression of glaring desperation to score and so I simply couldn’t win. I saved some shots, he missed others of course, including some of his lobbed attempts but his uncanny penchant for scoring goals off the goalkeeper’s right upright was irritating in the extreme…

BRIAN, DAD & ME, ABOUT TO GO & GET MUDDY AT THE PARK...

When it was my turn to be the outfielder, I made most of my shots from eighteen to twenty-five yards from goal and dad simply stood on the goal-line, finding it fairly easy to get across to cover a number of my efforts but I would never take the ball closer to lash a simple goal. I was an idiot. And I learned to be a loser…

He didn’t watch me play Sunday football when I was an adult but he certainly did watch my son Jamie play when he was growing up. Unless I was playing on my own school’s pitch on a Tuesday evening, dad didn’t watch me play when I was a schoolboy either. My mother did though… If I saw dad on some Sundays when I was an adult he might ask how I had got on: “Won 3-1!” 

“Did you score?” 

“One!” 

“Why didn’t you score two?” 

Thanks dad.

Whilst watching young Jamie playing in goals, he would stand close to a goalpost and waft his umbrella at defenders, threateningly and he was asked to move away on more than one occasion. He would bellow for the team, however, in a booming, quite frightening voice…  

My dad and his vehicles…

He parked his car in a council-owned lock-up garage, two or three hundred yards from his house, which he had eventually bought from Birmingham Council with a very low mortgage, arranged by his own assurance company. The garage was a ridiculous thing to rent I always believed because of the walks back home in darkness, whilst carrying so much collected money but he persisted for many years, until he changed the layout of his considerable front garden to enable parking in front of the house. He would carry his keys with one protruding between the forefinger and tall finger of his right hand, in case he was attacked and was forced to punch out… 

DAD'S SECOND CAR, AN AUSTIN 1100, IN CHIPPING NORTON...

He used a locking device on the steering-wheel and had a switch installed, out of sight of the driver, which prevented the car being started. This was a great idea but whenever I was forced to drive his car, I found locating the switch a real case of detection. Once, when his car was in the lock-up garage, someone did break in and manage to roll the car out but of course, failed to start it. Dad’s most intriguing ploy though was to display a rectangular piece of wood upon his steering-wheel, which featured a hand-written message: ‘Do Not Move, No Engine Oil’… People saw dad driving that car around regularly though, yet he reckoned it had been a great deterrent and when I laughed at that, he retorted, “Has my car ever been stolen?” I responded “No, but…” And he interjected, “Well, there you are then…”

I WASN'T JOKING...
I KEPT IT.

He was rather obsessed by his rear-view mirror, too. He spent many moments re-positioning it, altering it, often becoming severely irritated by it. One was never allowed to touch it but when I drove his car, I needed to alter it, being taller than my father and he would cuss me at length. 

I also recall driving his Mini, before I was seventeen years old and using the old runways at Castle Bromwich aerodrome, now Castle Vale Estate. On another occasion, minus ‘L’ plates, he encouraged me to drive the vehicle towards Lea Hall on a quiet Sunday morning, just to get the hang of steering and using the pedals. However, after turning onto Packington Avenue near a police-station, a police-car suddenly appeared behind me. Dad became apoplectic. 

“That’s it, they’ve got us, pull over…” 

I didn’t. 

“No, I’ve done nothing wrong…” I retorted. 

I drove on, navigated a roundabout and continued home without a problem. I received no apology. No surprise there…

THAT FAB MINI ON THE WAY TO A HOLIDAY IN PLYMOUTH...

He would drive to his insurance office on Wednesday mornings and that route included Bromford Road, which houses the Hodge Hill schools and there is a junction along it with Brockhurst Road. From Brockhurst, it had always been a T-junction onto Bromford Road but eventually a mini-roundabout was created there. My father had apparently driven along Bromford Road one day, after he had retired from work but had careered straight across the new roundabout, ignoring it, fortunately without incident, or accident. 

He told us afterwards that someone had spilt a load of white paint on Bromford Road…

DAD'S LAST CAR BEING TOWED AWAY.
IT WAS BADLY CORRODED BENEATH AND DAD WAS UNABLE TO DRIVE BY THEN ANYWAY...

Falling out…

He fell out of a tree. He had retired against his wishes and one day he decided to saw some upper branches from the oak he had originally planted with just one acorn at the bottom of his garden in the 1950s. He fell backwards from the ladder. He had injured his back and was unable to get up unaided but whether he called my mother, or whether she eventually just realised that he hadn’t be seen for a while I’m not sure but she went to look for him, discovered him prone on his back and helped him up to the house. He was not referred to a doctor, he refused any further help from mum and ordered her not to tell me… Mum eventually told her sister Ghreta in a telephone conversation though, who told their older sister Ivy and then finally, the information was relayed to me. His eventual hip replacement surgery was certainly as a result of the fall.

A falling-out occurred in the 1990’s too. Not from a tree this time, however… My son Jamie had played football one Sunday morning, my marriage had already failed and it had been my turn to take Jamie to his game. We were due at my parents’ house to enable Jamie to bathe then we were due to collect my daughters and find somewhere to eat together. Jamie had been awarded the ‘Man of the Match’ award for his goalkeeping heroics. Heroic was his season in truth but the award was generally shared around. 

JAMIE WITH ONE OF HIS MVP AWARDS...

He was about to take a bath and we became involved in a conversation with my dad about Aston Villa’s most recent game, which they had lost. A neighbour had told dad that they needed Simon Grayson in the defence. Dad relayed that to Jamie and me and we cringed somewhat, finding the idea ludicrous. We had seen the match but the neighbour had stopped watching Villa, thus hadn’t witnessed Grayson’s poor form that season when he had featured in the team. Jamie and I disagreed and said so but my father simply scowled: 

“Oh, go and lecture the children at the Museum about it…” 

I was shocked. I picked up Jamie’s muddy togs and took him home. I didn’t visit, or contact mum and dad for several weeks and mum was banned from ringing me. I saw my children but avoided my dad. One day, I took them to see my parents and waited outside for them but dad waddled out to see me. I genuinely thought he was going to apologise to me but instead I heard the scowl again, “Don’t be spiteful to your mother…” I drove off. 

AGILE & WITH GOOD CATCHING HANDS FOR HIS AGE...

A meal was eventually arranged for mum’s birthday in the month of May, we all went to it and it was as though nothing had happened from his point of view. Until he died, dad failed to apologise to me about that incident and although mum remained disgusted with his behaviour, she was still very frightened of him…