By Christine Swan
My grandfather died in the nineteen seventies. I remember him as being a wiry man with a full head of white hair, arms covered in regimental tattoos and stubbly chin. On Saturday afternoons, with a house full of excited children, he gave the impression of being rather grumpy, being content to talk politics, football, sport in general, and how to amputate a man’s leg quickly, and without anaesthetic.
Grandad, Nanny, and the author – I still have the mantel clock!
The latter comment may seem a surprising one if you were not aware that my grandad had been a nurse and had trained initially in the army, and then again as a civilian. His certificates were proudly displayed in the cold front parlour, that was only populated on special occasions. My father’s birth certificate stated that his father was a Poor Law sick ward attendant and an affectionate obituary in the local paper, charmingly described him as “the patient’s friend”.
Albert was born in Bethnal Green in 1898, the eldest living son of David Dighton Taylor. His sister May, was born two years earlier, and five more children completed the family. Times were very hard. Albert’s mother died of Tuberculosis when he was just fourteen years old. This event, and his father’s failing health, led to the collapse of the family unit. The earliest record that I found of Albert taking his father top the temporary infirmary in St George in the East, was 1914. Albert was just sixteen years of age, and his youngest sibling, Arthur, was just four. Clearly, Albert could not care for, or provide for, his family, so the younger children were scattered to the four winds. One was sent to the Metropolitan Asylum Board school in Brentwood, one to the training ship HMS Exmouth, another to a farm in Wales. There was no attempt to keep the children together.
David Dighton Taylor died in 1917, after being taken to the infirmary by his son
Albert’s older sister, May, was working as a French polisher and he found work as a builder’s labourer. 1914 was a time of turmoil due to the outbreak of World War I. Albert’s father David survived three more years and shuttled between home and the infirmary, before finally succumbing to the disease in 1917, when Albert was nineteen years old.
After the death of his father, Albert enlisted in the army. Initially, he was in the Dorsetshire Regiment, then the King’s Royal Rifle Corps, the Labour Corps, before finally back into the 2nd battalion of the Dorsets. Albert served in Egypt, Palestine and Syria, before being based at Baird Barracks, Bangalore, India. There he was part of the British force quelling the Malabar uprising. There were heavy losses and, controversial actions. Albert became interested in assisting field surgeons in performing emergency procedures. He became skilled in carrying out procedures himself, including amputations, which he delighted in recounting to us children in full, gory detail.
Grandad’s cap badge – the insignia of the Dorsetshire Regiment
My grandmother gave me a tiny bottle of brown, thick liquid, which she told me was perfume that grandad had bought back from India. I still have it and believe that it is based around Patchouli oil. Incredible to believe that the little bottle is now over one hundred years old, and still exotically fragrant.
The medal of service in India with the Malabar bar
Grandad returned from India and married his sweetheart Daisy Betts in 1923. Albert was born in 1924 and the couple then went on to have five more children. They lived in a little timber-clad cottage, next door to the Betts family who would have been a great help with the little children. Times were hard during the years of the Great Depression. Grandad had returned to work as a builder’s labourer. One day, he was told that he would need to take a pay cut due to the difficult financial climate. The family legend states that my grandfather argued his case, saying that if his work had a specific value on one day, then it was worth the same the next day, and he was willing to tender his resignation if not. It seems that calling the gaffer’s bluff was a successful strategy as he continued to work at the same rate, or so the story goes.
It was later that he began working in the sick ward in Wanstead Hospital but, even this employment was not secure during the years of the Depression. As Albert lived in Walthamstow, it was decided that only nurses from the same authority could be employed in the hospital. Once again, the family legend had my grandfather heroically defending his position and retaining his post.
During his time working in hospital, and also caring for sick and wounded soldiers on the battlefield, Albert was not fazed by sights which would shock most. He became interested in pathology and began assisting at postmortems, particularly where the cause of death was suspicious. He worked with the famous forensic pathologist, Sir Bernard Spilsbury, and would often recount stories of how Sir Bernard had asked for, and valued, his opinion when establishing a cause of death. Albert would also oblige the local community by ‘laying out’ their deceased loved ones. He would recount stories, again to us children, of how to create a smiling, plump face, how to wipe away the signs of age and infirmity, to leave a corpse looking better than it did when it was alive. We were never quite sure whether to believe him as children, but as an adult, I am more assured of this as fact.
Grandad’s cigarette case, featuring the Taj Mahal
Grandad was a smoker, and a heavy smoker at that. I can recall the smell, the haziness in the room and his nicotine-stained fingers. My mother told me that cigarettes were recommended by doctors to calm the nerves of anxious people during World War II. If the medical profession knew of the risks, this didn’t stop them, or the general population from smoking. Grandad developed Emphysema, which we now term COPD. I only have vague memories of his illness becoming more severe,. but this did not because him to stop smoking either. I remember being driven to Whipps Cross Hospital and waiting in the car in the car park. I remember being bored as visits became increasingly long. One day, I saw my Mum crying after a telephone call. I did not attend Grandad’s funeral. I remember it happening but I cannot recall where we went.
The front of the cigarette case features a map of Asia
I still have the bottle of Patchouli oil from Bangalore. I also have Grandad’s cigarette case, showing an India that no longer exists. As Grandad died more than twenty years before his wife, I remember him far less vividly, but no less fondly.
Awful Rigours and Wretched Pay 