My grandfathers were very different men, yet, paradoxically, very similar. Both men were called up to serve in the great conflagration of ’39-’45 – one a Royal Engineer and the other a Desert Rat under Montgomery.
I know nothing of their time at war. I have seen a faded photo of Rob, surrounded by the company he commanded and served with – young men, serious of face, but full of humour. Of Stanley all I have is a silver eagle that sits on my bookshelf, which, according to family legend, was ‘liberated’ from a Staff car. Who knows for sure? I have no idea what these men went through, how, or if it changed them – I did not know them before their experiences. I only knew the men that came home, and then only briefly.
Both men fully engaged in the serious activity of, ‘getting on’. Rob turned his talents to nurturing life, growing all that was needed to sustain body and soul – vegetables for sustenance and flowers for the eye and heart. He filled his home, and those of others, with life, the source of life, and the beauty of life – he created and sustained life. He surrounded himself with life and its joy – in the magnificent walled garden, the vegetable and flower beds, and the rows of wonderful greenhouses. Even now, when I step into my own greenhouse and smell the lush, damp, greenness of growing tomatoes I am transported to Bayham Abbey and my grandfather’s greenhouses. He was a very quiet man, who seemed satisfied with his lot in life, not wanting or needing more than he had – and, his home reflected this; it was warm and cosy, safe and secure, with an abundance of fare laid out on the table at meal times, or so it seemed.
Stanley was different, but, in his own way, he created and gave. He built homes for people to live in, grow up and grow old in; in which to start families and set off on journey’s to who knows where! He had a booming voice that carried out from under his deerstalker and commanded attention. He ventured out into the world, never happier than when he was out and about, the aroma of a cigar infusing his clothes and the space in which he moved. In the evenings he would enjoy a good meal and then sit in his favourite armchair in front of the fire and savour a glass or two of Teachers whiskey.
To me, as a child, the only thing they had in common, apart from being soldiers, was that they were consummate story tellers. They were always happy to sit and spin a yarn for young eager ears, and were quick to smile, gentle of speech and full of life. Their stories were awash with adventure, danger, good deeds, and magical but worldly settings, always ending happily with the young protagonists coming out on top. One of the storytellers always managed to include a veracious wolf, which had an insatiable appetite, for naughty little boys in particular.
I have been thinking of these two men more and more in recent years and pondering them, their lives, their place in the world and how they dealt with it. I used to think they had little in common, but now I know they were more similar than dissimilar – they were two sides of the same coin, and the product of their time, what they saw and what they did.
They were ordinary men, who did extraordinary deeds in extraordinary times. Though ordinary in stature, they were truly giants, lions amongst men – not just because of their service, but more so because of what they did with their lives and how they lived when they came home. They were the true embodiment of stoic strength, love, gentleness and kindness; they displayed a joie de vivre I rarely, if ever, see anymore. Story tellers with real stories to tell, and the truth of who they were laid bare for all to hear in the tales they told to a child.
They are of the same substance.
