Harry Leslie Smith, 1923: A Memoir

Birthday Greetings from 1941
By Harry Leslie Smith

Brit Writers would like to welcome Harry who will be contributing from his collections of memoirs regularly.  

Here is a small taster as an introduction to his works.

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I am quite sure that, this year, on my birthday there will be many good wishes, along with some cake. No doubt, there will be champagne because, after all, I am turning eight-nine. 

“That is very old,” a relative recently said to me. 

“It is an ocean of time,” I replied. 

On good days, I marvel at my advanced age and on bad I lament that so many have passed before me. Being a winter baby, I have felt February’s austere light ebb, fade and grow cold upon my face for close to nine decades. Time has marked my body with many scars from this marathon, I started in 1923. I hope my finish line is far off in the thicket and I have still lots more time to ramble along the river bank of existence.

When I began this sprint, in my life’s journey, there was little to mark the day of my birth from any other day. There were no parties, balloons or fancy sweets, just a passing greeting from my mother, while my older sister tugged on my hair and counted my years of life. Afterwards, she would give me a pinch for good luck.

When I turned eighteen, a squeeze of good fortune from my sister would not have gone amiss considering Britain was at war. I was certainly going to need providence, on my side, because I was scheduled to begin my induction with the RAF, the following day.

My birthday in 1941 was a quiet affair. My friend Roy had already left to join the Cold Stream Guards while my other friend Dougie Butterworth was ill again and had taken to his bed with a quivering heart. I did not want to spend my last birthday, perhaps my last days on Earth with Eric. His fast talk about the money he was making in selective war service sickened me. 

Instead, I decided to indulge myself with a visit to the public baths. They were located at the top of Boothtown Road. I arrived and paid an attendant 50p. It was a privilege to soak in a warm bath rather than a tin tub filled with tepid water in a kitchen. A female attendant led me along a narrow passageway until she found an unoccupied room. Inside the narrow, wood-lined space was a hanger for one’s clothes, and a deep, porcelain, bathtub. The attendant placed a plug into the bath. She turned the taps on until the bath was filled with warm inviting water. When finished, she closed the door behind her. I undressed and submerged myself in calm, cleansing hot water. I was empty of thoughts or cares until the water grew cold and it was time to dry myself, dress, and depart. 

Afterwards, I spent some hours with my sister Mary who had come down to Halifax to bid me farewell. We did not talk much. We sipped our ale. We held each other’s hands on the table. We looked into each other’s faces, seeing if we could read our past upon them. She joked and bantered more than me because I was withdrawn and frightened about what tomorrow would bring for me. I was as scared as I was as a child when the nuns beat me because my future was as ominous as my past. I experienced the same form of loneliness when Albert our father left us. There was no one and nothing which could ease my sense of apartness from the civilian world. When it was time for my sister to leave, she got up and kissed me. 

“Come back safe, Harry, just come back.”

The following morning, I awoke with a jittery feeling like it was a school morning. I dressed warmly and went to the kitchen. My mother was sitting alone, warming herself by the oven. Bill her lover had already gone to work and my half brother’s Matt and junior were at school. She made me a cup of tea and cut me a large slice of fresh bread. There was a generous lather of butter and jam on it. 

“Go on, tuck in. Well, lad, this is it. Keep your head down, Harry. Don’t do anything daft because life is short, my boy, life is short.” 

I hugged her with mixed emotions. I mumbled farewell and made my way to the train station.

The platform was deserted while I waited for my train to take me to Padgate for induction. It was cold, damp, and grey; sweet smoke from the McIntosh candy plant fell like drizzle across the station. I reached into my overcoat and found a near-empty packet of cigarettes. 

I placed one in my mouth and furiously struck a match, quickly inhaling the harsh tobacco. In the distance, I heard the whistle of the train. I smelled the coal burning off its engine. I breathed in the coal that had been dug from the pits of Barnsley, Elsecar, and Barley Hole. I tasted it in my mouth, around my teeth, and on my tongue. It was the soot of my father, my grandfather, and all my ancestors who laboured beneath the ground. 

As the train drew its way into the belly of the station, another passenger approached the platform. He was a man in his fifties, long past the time for war, and he was whistling the tune, ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run…”

See more of Harry Leslie Smith's here