Visitors invariably comment on my photographs. I have five collages in frames around the cabin with pictures of the family. I need them because I have a habit of not thinking about people unless they’re standing in front of me. This is odd, I know….
But one small portrait stands out—the only sepia print. This is my Uncle Dudley, and I think it would be nice to tell you about him.
Dudley was my father’s older brother. There was Dudley, then two girls, Clarice and Peggy and then my father, Trevor – although he was always known as George. Dudley was born in 1908 and George in 1916 which means there were eight years between them.
Eight years is a lot when you’re that age. Many 16-year-olds would not have had much time for a little squirt of a younger brother hanging around, trying to come into their bedroom, asking questions…
But Dudley had all the time in the world for George.
“He was wonderful to me,” said my father, misty-eyed as you can become sometimes when you reach your 80s and find yourself thinking about the old days as if they happened just after breakfast. “He let me help him make a crystal radio set. We had a lot of fun with that…”
In the photograph, Dudley looks older than 16 – maybe 18 or 20. But that was the photo my father kept on his dressing table all his life. I think he had a habit of not thinking about people unless they were standing in front of him, too.
It may have been because his father didn’t have a great deal of time for children. Fathers didn’t in those days – at least, not if they were successful lawyers with extensive investments and a Rolls Royce waiting outside.
But the old man did make sure he did the right thing on Dudley’s 21st birthday. He gave him an MG. I’ve looked up MGs of 1929 and it would probably have been the new M Type with a canoe stern for a back end.
Dudley got into it that morning with his girlfriend to go for a test drive. I don’t know much about the girlfriend – not even her name. I remember once seeing a picture of them – Dudley looking like the cat who got the cream and the girl with bobbed hair and a cloche hat, very à la mode but essentially just a nice, homely girl-next-door.
They were both killed about 45 minutes later, trying to overtake on the Kingston by-pass and running head-on into a lorry.
No seat belts in those days. No air bags. No driving tests, come to that.
They are buried together in a churchyard somewhere in Surrey. I never visited; never tried to find the grave. It would probably be hard to find after all this time.
But I like to have his picture on the bulkhead. I don’t suppose anyone else is thinking about Dudley.
There is a time to think of one’s friends and loves, and comrades-in-arms, who have passed.
‘Dulce et decorum est….’
No-one is truly gone, while someone still says their name.