life – The Letters

Peter

Last year my Uncle, Peter Mabey, died. In truth, he was the last of the Mabeys; that family heralding from the Isle of Wight that I have made the subject of these posts.

Peter was the last person living who knew the letter writers; his grandparents John and Jane, his aunties and of course his brother Albert. Yet in that big box of letters that I inherited, there were none from Peter, save a few childhood notes to his sister when they were separated through wartime.

Uncle Peter was not an enthusiastic or reliable communicator; he seldom replied to my Mother’s letters and did not like to speak on the phone. But he did engage with these posts, which I knew because he would post a comment, or add a like.

So, I have thought to add something about my Uncle here, important as he was to those who wrote and those who read. The following is a an edited version of the eulogy I wrote for his funeral.

Peter Hedley Mabey was born on 21^st March 1926, in Southampton. He was the second child of John and May Mabey. Peter was a clever but shy boy, who looked up to his older brother and shared many hobbies and interests with him.

When living in Southampton Peter, like his brother, had won a scholarship to attend Taunton’s Grammar School. When war began, he transferred to Sandown County School, on the Isle of Wight, where he excelled academically. He took his Matriculation early at 15, and his examination results were of such a high standard that he was awarded an Open Exhibition to Cambridge, which meant that his fees were paid for, so this award was life-changing for Peter. His achievement was such that it was reported in several local papers.

So, aged only 16, Peter went to Cambridge University to study Mathematics at Selwyn College. In 1944, whilst Peter was still studying in Cambridge, his brother Albert, who was by that time a Flying Officer in the RAF, was killed in a plane crash. Peter felt Albert’s death keenly. I recall speaking to him, around the time of the 80^th anniversary of VE day, when Peter told me that he could not attend the college’s victory celebrations, because for him, the peace felt hollow without his brother. It was clear to me, hearing the emotion in his voice, that Albert’s death saddened him still.

After graduating, between 1944 and 1945, Peter was employed by the Royal Aircraft Establishment and trained in structural engineering. Peter then moved to Cheltenham and worked for Gloster Aircraft, developing the Meteor, the first British jet-fighter. By 1962 he was their Chief Structural Engineer. Peter then moved to Hawker Siddley Aviation, working in the ‘Advanced Projects Group’. He spent time working on designs for a Mach-5 Hypersonic Ramjet – a type of ultra high-speed aircraft that is still, decades later, on the drawing board.

Peter tried for a job at CERN, working with the large Hadron Collider, and was invited to Geneva for an interview, but they were “looking for a better mathematician than me”. In 1966 he finally got into computing full-time and joined STC Research Laboratories in Harlow, as a Software Engineer, his skill being, “an ability to pick up a language sufficiently quickly to be pretty good at debugging”. Peter remained at STC until his retirement.

Peter was, and remains, the cleverest person I have ever met. He was fortunate enough to be a young man during an age of great technological achievements, when people with mathematical and logic skills such as his were making many innovations in the realms of computing and telecommunications. He worked in computing, designing and writing software at a time when most people regarded computers as the stuff of science fiction. Which leads me to talk about his great love of Science Fiction and the societies and conventions that celebrated this.

Although Peter was actively involved in what’s known as ‘Fandom’ for 60 years or more, we as a family knew almost nothing about this aspect of his life. But, if you type Peter’s name into Google, you will find plenty of information on the conventions and societies he was part of. One post regarding Peter describes him as, ‘One of the Backroom Boys’: “Britain has produced those patient, inspired characters who’ve come up with some of our greatest scientific and technical ideas. And without knowing a great deal about Peter Mabey’s real-world life I get the feeling that he’s been one of those boffins, working away in backrooms on truly ground-breaking stuff. Peter has been around for a long time but because he’s a steady, conscientious, reliable sort of chap he’s not the sort that usually attracts attention.”

Although people at these clubs and conventions indulged in the fantasy element of science fiction, just like Comic-Cons today, Peter’s interests were more in the realm of the possibility of life on other planets and theories of space travel – much in line with astronomers and engineers of the time. That said, he enjoyed the conviviality of these gatherings with like-minded people, and he maintained his links with fellow fans over decades, both in person and online.

When we were children, Peter stayed with us three times a year, Easter, Whitsun and Christmas. He always brought some wine, from his latest wine club holiday, to France or Germany or Spain. Peter travelled abroad regularly at a time when most people went on holiday to Devon, or in our cases ‘Wet Wales’. He always took photographs of these trips, which he made in to slides for his post-holiday meetings, but sadly we never saw them.

Peter was a kind man. He always remembered our birthdays, generously sending us cheques even when we were well into our twenties. He could be relied on for a WH Smiths token, a Parker Pen or the latest ‘Guinness Book of Records’ for Christmas. When he came to stay with us, he always brought a holdall full of old copies of ‘Private Eye’, ‘Which Magazine’ and The Sunday Times Magazines. And he brought us huge piles of computer print-out paper for us to draw on, a product of those room-sized computers he worked with. How welcome all that free paper was in our artistic household!

Whilst my sisters and I may have differing recollections of Peter’s visits, we all remember what it was like to play board games with him. I marvel now that he was willing to play Monopoly, Cluedo and other games with four, fidgety young girls, but he made no concessions for our ages. You had to follow the rules to the letter and you were told off sharply if you did not. Usually, Peter won those games; I guess it taught us resilience.

If Peter was not enrolled in to playing a game with us to while away the long afternoons, then he would escape to the front room. Sitting in an armchair, he would take a pen from the top pocket of his jacket and write indecipherable formulae onto a used computer programme card, several of which he kept in his inside pocket. He would do that for hours, always accepting the offer of a cup of tea (with a biscuit of course).

Whilst Peter’s body grew frail, his mind remained as sharp as ever. He continued his interests with Maths and science; through subscriptions to numerous magazines and journals, – the New Scientist, the Mathematical Society journal and MENSA. Finally, the time came for Peter to leave H… and the high-rise flat he had lived in for 60 years. When he came to C… we were relieved to know that he was safe and cared for. Peter was happy in the care home. He could continue his routine of watching ‘Countdown’ and could listen to ‘Radio Three’ as he posted on Facebook. I think that attending Scrabble club became a highlight of his week, and of course his skills quickly became apparent to all.

Peter was a man of great intellect, with a wide range of interests. I truly do not think that Peter was ever bored, he always had something to do. It’s true that he did not share much of his life, or his achievements with us. Quite possibly because his spheres of interests were not ones we comprehended, but more than that, I think Peter was a humble man. Completing a task, solving a puzzle pleased him; to boast to others about it was not in his nature. He did no harm on this earth. He supported many, many charities – ‘Oxfam’, ‘Wateraid’, ‘The World Wildlife Fund’, ‘Save the Children’ to name but a few. Peter was a quiet humanitarian. He was our uncle, our great uncle, our great-great uncle. Our family. He mattered to us. And we loved him.

What Peter would think of me making him the subject of a post I do not know. But I am certain that he would encourage me to ‘keep going’ with these posts. On one of the last occasions that I saw him, he read some of Albert’s as yet unpublished letters, ones that he had asked me to bring. I could see it made him happy to read again those words from his long-lost brother.

Albert

I know very little about him. I know my uncle was born in Southampton on 20 July 1921 and that he died in Scotland in January 1944. He was the eldest child of Hedley and May Mabey, my grandparents. He worked as an industrial chemist before his service in the RAF. He was a clever, handsome man and a keen photographer.

Were I to write that he was a presence in my childhood, I would be lying. All I remember is this photograph that was in my parents’ bedroom, finding the ‘big black compass’ and the book of poetry.

Ours was not a house filled with photographs but paintings hung on every wall in every room. The only two photographs on display when I was a young child were Albert’s and my Father’s mother. I knew that they were both dead, and thus in my solemn way I equated photographs with mourning.

We got into trouble once through playing with the ‘big black compass’ in the wild part of our garden. I think my sisters and I were being spies. The misdemeanour was my doing. It was I who rummaged around in the airing cupboard, pushing my small hands under the ‘good tablecloths’ at the back. There, amongst the bars of yellow soap and Imperial Leather talcum powder, I felt a leather handle to pull at. This was attached to the curious block of metal, which I furtively transported downstairs and out to our spot in the garden. Later Mother scolded me for taking what I should not. I knew I had done wrong but I could not understand the hurt upon her face. She never said it belonged to him. We called the heavy, square box a ‘big black compass’ because of its glass-faced display of semi-circular dials and red needles. It was a mechanical mystery. My uncle, what he did and who he was, was another type of mystery. I know now he was a flight navigator, but the function of that instrument will remain a puzzle, for Mother made sure that we never saw it again.

The book of poetry was the collected works of Keats. There was an inscription in it, from his girlfriend Joyce. Mother let me borrow it when I was at university, on condition that I took good care. I looked for the book after Mother died, but she must have given it away. What happened to the big black compass heaven only knows. The photograph stayed on the chest of drawers until my parents moved to live with my sister. ‘Long enough’ I suppose she said to herself – 40 years was long enough.

I have sent away for Albert’s service record and I hope that it will yield more concrete information, I’m waiting another week before starting on his letters, in the hope that I will receive the record soon. So it goes that more than 70 years since he passed away, almost everything I will know of Albert will come from his own hand.

“My Love to My Love”

One hundred and one years ago my Grandfather sent this card to my Grandmother. Three years later, in 1920, they married. Their marriage ended with my dear Grandfather’s death in 1963. ‘Dear Grandfather’ – a phrase I never thought to utter before I began to read The Letters. I regard that as a benefaction of the universe, that now I feel a connection to a man I never knew whilst he lived.

It seemed fitting to publish a love token on this Valentine’s Day, although I confess this is not a Valentine’s card, rather a birthday card sent on 21 May 1917. The 14th February 1917 was not marked by any romantic sentiment in my Grandfather’s diary. There was the daily letter from May (my Grandmother to be), but no cards or flowers sent or received, and certainly nothing so extravagant as chocolates.

My Grandfather was a romantic man though, and he expressed his love ardently in the ‘billet doux’ that he slipped within this card. I will not share its contents for even a century later the lines beg privacy, which I must respect. He signs himself “H.H.”, terming himself a ‘Happy Headley’. My Grandparents were betrothed by May 1917 but could not marry until my Grandfather had paid off certain debts on behalf of his family.

I will share that my Grandfather remarked that his illness kept him from crossing the Solent to visit May in Havant, and that he had to borrow money to send her the card pictured above. It is wonderfully detailed and well-preserved – crisply embossed and hand-stitched, with colouring so fresh I would have guessed it to be only a few years old. Clearly this card was kept close to my Grandmother’s heart. My mother wrote, in the red book on which the card is photographed, that her parents had a happy, harmonious marriage and that ‘they never bickered.’

Last week Lloyd’s letter, and the loss of him, prevented me from recording it in detail. This week also I have not transcribed the contents of this card, but for a happy reason for there is no sadness here. These words have no need of my interpretation. All I shall remark upon is the feeling that I woke up with this morning, that I hold a token not only of love’s beginning but a marker of the ceaseless flow of love on this earth. I witness here the love that would bring my Mother into the world and, ultimately, started the story of me.

Great-Grandfather

Now, in this New Year I introduce you to my Great-Grandfather, and to the oldest letter in the collection. John Mabey was born in 1859 and lived in Knighton with his grandparents. For most of his life he was a market gardener. This photograph shows him in August 1936 amongst his fruit trees. My Mother is the dear little soul beside him.

These days there are no other circumstances in which I might use “My Mother is.” She has gone and so one says “my Mother was,” “She did,” etc. No present or future actions are possible. Yet in a photograph, where a sliver of time is captured and stilled, she still exists. There she is smiling in the hot sunshine, how happy they look.

Great-Grandfather was a jovial man, by my Mother’s account, and she was very fond of him. She told me that he did not have the brains for business, my Great-Grandmother had those. Jane Mabey ran a shop out of Headley House selling all manner of household and farm goods. It did well until Apse Heath expanded. Thereafter trade and income dwindled as the family grew ever larger. I believe it was the promise of gold that prompted my Great-Grandfather to enlist, aged 40, for the second Boer War. What his wife thought of him travelling half way across the world with no guarantee of return we shall never know. It seems that Vera Chrystabel was born in her father’s absence. She was the youngest of 7 children that Jane Mabey was left to manage alone, and there was the shop to look after too.

My Great-Grandfather writes from Keat’s Drift in South Africa. He addresses his son as though he is head of the household, done tongue-in-cheek we hope, for he was only 10 years old in 1900. My Grandfather, Headley John, had four older sisters – Edith, Elsie, Frad and Daisy.

10-05-1900

My Dear John – I received your letter with Daisy’s – and I was very glad to hear from you – also to hear that the Little Mother is better. I hope that you are a good boy and that you help her all you can . How do you get on at school, do you like it? Your Good Friday was very different to mine. I was on a very long march and it was a very hot day and dusty. I shall remember that for a very long time. I was glad to hear that Vera Chrystabel was such a nice little girl – also that Jim was a fine boy. I suppose he will soon go to school. I hear he is getting pretty unruly. I think his mother had better pack him off out to me in a box and I will make a Dutchman out of him – and Mr Levy off too. Please remember me to to Aunt Frances and Uncle John Wheeler also to Mr Sprack and tell him he could make hay out here for it shines both sides of the hedges every day, also to Miss Salter and tell her I have forgotten the taste of “Sodie”. Goodbye John be a good boy and help Little Mother and take care of her. From your old Dad – in South Africa x x x x

I’m glad to say that John Mabey returned to The Island to drink refreshing “Sodie” in his garden. He survived the war unscathed, but did not find enough gold to make him rich. He brought some back, a little nugget mounted on a tie-pin. We sold it after Mum died. Great-Grandfather’s war medals were stolen in 1960 when Frad and Ursie left the house. Vera Chrystabel died in 1901, aged 18 months. I do not know if Great-Grandfather ever saw her, I hope he did. They called her Molly in the family, long after she was gone – my uncle recalls this. Why she was known as Molly is a mystery. There were no photographs of her. Jane Mabey had only her memories, no picture to hold and say “Look Molly is..”

Lloyd

My Great-Uncle replies to my Grandfather’s letter in March 1912. He has left The Island. This is a letter full of puzzles, which no-one living can solve for me. I know that Edie and Elsie were the older Mabey sisters but why and where did they meet with Lloyd? I will never know who “Daisy of Ashey” was, nor what she knew of Lloyd’s state of mind. The 1911 Census records Lloyd as living at home and working as a nurseryman. One year later he is 19 and in West London; there are no clues to the cause of this separation. Lloyd chides my Grandfather for ‘certain practices’ suggesting something sexual and not entirely wholesome. It seems my Grandfather has given him unwanted advice about finances that still smarts – “That is hardly my nature.” Yet Lloyd wishes still to impress his scholarly older brother, for he writes that he will be submitting an article to ‘John Bull’ the following week, although he alludes no further to its subject matter. I wonder if he felt too shy to give details, or maybe there was no article to speak of.

It seems a jolly letter on first reading – brother to brother, worldly opinions, talk of horse racing and tobacco. But I sense a loneliness beneath the young man’s bravura. There is no mention of friends, his occupation or his lodgings. Lloyd is miles away from home, his “mental equilibrium” underlined and therefore, it seems, in question. I imagine his downcast expression as he breaks off from writing – “I suppose I shall be right out of the picture” – to stare into the fire.

Lloyd stirs from self pity and returns to his letter, to write about football, the increasing number of aeroplanes (which would have been a rare sighting over the Isle of Wight) and finally world politics; “I really believe that before 10 years we shall have a most frightful state of affairs.” I gasped when I first read that, for I knew his end. Poor Lloyd would live to see his chill prophecy come true. What he foresaw, if anything, of his part in the looming war we shall never know.

Park Royal
Willesden
London NW

March 6th 1912

Dear John,

Thanks very much for your kind epistle. I am indeed glad to hear that you ARE alive and well. I beg humbly to apologise for my letters being so indigestible of late but trust that after regaining my mental equilibrium my literary efforts may be well patronised and meet with generous response. You must ask Daisy of Ashey all about the mental equilibrium. I am glad to hear that you have changed your practice, for certain practices during Xmas gave me to think that you went very much “behind the bushes”. However be that as it may, I am very glad that you have condescended to renew old acquaintance.
Re stopping here I can assure you that it will be only my fault if I leave, at least whilst Mr Wallace is here.
Thanks for your tip about living extravagantly. That is hardly my nature.
I am glad that your prospects are improving at school and hope that you’ll get on better with your smarter and smaller class. If you don’t – well they’ll smart-ER!!?
Do you really wish to make me jealous by detailing the Ashey Races? I suppose I shall be right out of the picture because I can’t dance – however manners mayketh man.
I was very pleased to meet Edie and Elsie. Edie looks jolly well but Elsie doesn’t look so full in the face.
You must excuse my scribble but I’m sitting by the fire writing on my knee.
What do you think of the German airship scare in France? Quite laughable n’est pas.
Isn’t it funny that every power is trying its hardest to make peace in the Balkans yet are taxing their own inhabitants for armaments.
Never has there been such dissension amongst the Powers and I really believe that before 10 years we shall have a most frightful state of affairs. At all events Germany is fairly asking for it.
I have seen lots of aeroplanes here lately and by the way – what do you think of the new “Daily Mail” prizes? I don’t think the Atlantic £10,000 will be won in a hurry.
I suppose you still keep your eye on Crystal Palace. They are running well but I think they will have to be satisfied with a second or third place.
People about here are wild at the weak form of the Queens Park Rangers Club.
I am now a constant reader of John Bull and think it a jolly sound investment – I am sending them an article this week. I must now close not forgetting to congratulate you on taking to a PIPE – but don’t overdo it.
Excuse writing and take my advice.
Goodbye love etc etc xxx
Lloyd.

Grandmother

There are no memories of my Grandmother; all my life an absence of recollection. In those two years before her death in 1965 I know she would have held me, countless times. I know she must have murmured over my tiny form, held my steady, infant gaze, kissed my forehead and felt my tiny fingers wrap round hers. And I imagine that she would bless me before handing me back to her daughter, and I would have made her glad, hopeful – in the miraculous way that babies do.

In the box there was this torn page, ripped from an album. No explanatory notes on the back. Why it was kept with the bundles of letters is unknowable. Nor do I know who took this photograph, with its careful label of ‘Mother’. It is not my own mother’s hand and Albert was killed two years previously. I have concluded that my grandfather titled his wife thus, for the family album. Here May Mabey stands, patient and steady in Spring sunshine. Is that cherry blossom in the back garden in Bitterne Park, Southampton? The war is over. The men have come home and her eldest son is not amongst them. All the letters that Albert would ever write are already in store.

Grandmother’s voice does not survive, for there is not a single letter from her hand. There is one birthday card, for Mum’s 21st, “from your loving Mother and Father”, that was written by my grandfather. When my mother moved to Sheffield in 1951, my father wrote, intermittently, for a period of three years. Mum faithfully kept her love letters but none from her parents. I don’t suggest this was a deliberate act; I know Mum was living in Sheerness during the flood of 1953 and her lodgings were ruined. So perhaps those letters were washed away, sluiced off by the cold North sea.

Mum said that I reminded her of her own mother. I remember she would say our eyes were alike, “the shape of them, and the colour”, a shadowed green of still water and dark woods. I understand now the importance of naming those similarities, the subtle edges of inheritance, for recognition somehow hints that not everything has passed. I carried the echo of May Mabey whenever I looked up slowly, distracted from my absorption in drawing or reading (my usual occupations as a child), and Mum would say “You look a bit like my Mum you know.” Her voice was casual, mild, careful not to betray the sorrow felt – of this I am certain – at her sudden, unexpected death. My younger sister was barely two months old. My mother was 34.

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