Grandad Burridge

My mum’s dad was of a generation that no longer exists. Born in the late 1800s he lived through two world wars and hardships we have never experienced. He was a gunner in WW1 and was struck by a deadly mustard gas attack that severely burnt his lungs. Doctors didn’t expect him to live beyond his 20s but he kept going well into his 80s. To make matters worse, whilst he was lying injured on the battlefield, one of his fellow soldiers ran over his leg with a mule and cannon and broke it.

He loved to tell us tales of his younger life. I can see him sitting in his armchair smoking his pipe and the Robin Redbreast tobacco he loved whilst he entertained us with his stories. He spent his early life in Barnoldswick, a small mill town in Yorkshire. His father was the caretaker at the local Baptist church. Grandad told us of the times when he was a child and used to operate the manual bellows that powered the organ pipes. He had to sit inside a small cupboard and wait until the organist was ready to play and then start pumping. One day, bored of waiting, he fell asleep and failed to pump when it was needed. He got a severe rollocking from the irate, red-faced minister and organist.

His stories sometimes had a slightly risqué element or naughtiness that we loved to hear - like the one about the fair that came to town. He spent several hours there and won a heap of coconuts, which he ate with delight, until their laxative qualities started to take effect. He had to run for home but unfortunately didn’t make it in time leaving an embarrassing and messy trail! At this point in the story, grandma would chip and give him a telling-off for being so rude in front of us. He would just give one of his devilish chuckles.

After the war he took a job as a postman. The doctor thought the fresh air and exercise would be good for his damaged lungs. He and his young family moved to Dartmouth in Devon, thinking that the milder climate would be beneficial too. He told us of the day when he accidentally got drunk on his round. As he delivered his mail to various farms and homes, he was offered glasses of home made scrumpy cider. It was thirsty work so he accepted them all gratefully, not realising it was pretty potent stuff. Somebody eventually found him sitting on the grass verge, smashed out of his head on scrumpy, with his mail strewn all around him.

He sometimes seemed quite stern, as did most of that generation but on the whole he liked to have a little fun, entertaining in his own simple way. I’ve already told you about his alter ego ‘the cuckoo’. He also performed occasional magic tricks for us. One involved drawing the curtains to darken the room. When we ventured in, he would be sitting in his chair with arms outstretched. In front of him was a metal poker, apparently floating in mid air. He could make it rise and fall or move from side to side just by waving his arms. Fantastic. It took a few years for me to figure out he had it suspended between his hands on lengths of black cotton threads.