Happy 80th Birthday Auntie Hazel

Actually she asked me to call her Hazel years ago, as she said being called auntie by a middle-aged woman made her feel old. So, Hazel is 80 today. She is not, I’m sorry to say, in good health. In fact making it to 80 has been an achievement. I love her, bluntest of blunt, no-nonsense Northerner that she is, although I still smart from some of her, perfectly justified, comments over the years. And this day has set me remembering not just Hazel but my grandparents and my own full-of-nonsense Mum, her elder sister.

What a good looking pair they were. How smart was Mum in her ration-book suits and perky little hats; how sophisticated with her Hollywood glamour make-up and Vogue model poses. How did she manage this soignée appearance dressing every morning for work  in the tiny, shared bedroom of a dingy little mill cottage? Hazel, nine years younger, had long golden ringlets then, Grandma used to wind her hair in rags every night. She had big eyes and rosy, pinchable cheeks.  She was the naughty one, the spoiled child, although they had precious little to spoil her with.

At the beginning of the War there was a plan to evacuate them both to the United States. Their passage was booked, they may even have been packed, but then a ship carrying evacuated children was torpedoed in the Atlantic and Grandma decided they were just as safe at home.

Mum was doing essential war work, as secretary in a firm that made motor parts. She would have liked to join the Wrens but Grandma said no. Grandma was a strong willed lady and what she said was law. Fortunately, she was also kind, sensible and humorous so her decisions were probably for the best.

Mum joined the Civil Defense Messenger Service instead, and as the only girl in a group of twenty young men, all either in essential war work, unfit or waiting for their call-up, she had a very good war. She said she became a champion table tennis player as that was how they put in the long hours of boredom between bouts of frantic activity when the bombers came over. Grandad was a Fire Warden. Mum remembered him throwing sandbags on the fire bombs and jumping on them to put the fire out. One night he called them all out into the street which was on a rise overlooking the greater part of central Manchester. ‘You’ll never see a sight like this again’ he told them. They looked out and saw the whole city ablaze.

But this should be Hazel’s story. She was a part of the first generation of women who always worked despite marriage and children and she had a long and honourable career while bringing up my cousin, the apple of her eye. She married Bill, a man the song ‘Just My Bill’ could have been written for. You might indeed meet ‘him in the street and never notice him.’ But I will always remember Hazel’s words ‘He’s made my life wonderful, that man.’ Sadly Uncle Bill has gone on before her; I have no doubt he is waiting with all his customary patience for Hazel to join him, but not just yet.

Hazel’s wedding (me with my fingers in my mouth)

My Mum