THE FIXER (IP)

My Dad had always been a fixer.  It had come from his Dad, who had been quite handy with most things.  But Nan said Grandad had changed quite a lot when he came back from the war; he had been at the front more or less the whole of the four years, except for two short occasions when he had been sent home to Blighty after being wounded; Grandad never really said much about his experiences as a Lewis Gunner, but the family still has the metal cigarette box handed out to the troops by the Princess Royal on the first Christmas of the War – or was it the second? – the box still contains all of the tobacco and most of the cigarettes; just one of them is missing; he said he had felt it would be rude not to try one, what with it being a gift from a Princess; but he wanted to keep as much of the contents as possible to show the family – and now it is in my keeping.

The box also contains what looks like the fingertip of a leather glove.  Inside it is a piece of twisted, dark metal. This is the piece of shrapnel the field surgeons had dug out of Grandad’s neck, before sending him home for a very short convalescence.

Dad told me once how when he was about 8 or 10, round about 1928, his Dad went missing for several weeks.  His Mum said he had been depressed, but she had no idea how bad it was.  They had almost given up hope of seeing him again, then he was found sitting on the step of the ironmongers round the corner near the canal in Lambeth, head in hands.  They had brought him back home, but he was never the same, and my Dad became the fixer in the family.

It was Grandad who insisted that his only son – my Dad – should learn a trade, then he would never be hungry or unemployed.  Come to think of it, maybe that was what had been the last straw; unemployment was rife in London then, as I suppose it was everywhere in the UK.

Dad was a clever boy, and he was offered a place at the Trade School in Wandsworth; he could have done either Cabinet Making or Bookbinding; he told me he would have preferred the bookbinding, but Grandad decided the Cabinet Making was a better prospect, so off he went, got all his qualifications, and eventually started work as a cabinet maker, then carpenter on building sites, though his career was interrupted by his volunteering for the RAF at the start of the war; his Dad was cross with him as he was in a reserved occupation, and didn’t actually have to join up.

His time in the RAF brought his skills as a ‘fixer’ to the fore.  Unable to be aircrew because of defective hearing, he was assigned to a maintenance unit, where his expertise at making ‘something out of nothing’ was invaluable to the war effort.  He had wonderful tales to tell of his time in the service; first when in England making crates for general equipment, as well as huge ones for the packaging of spitfires for transport overseas; then when in Burma, scavenging for discarded wood to make ‘bits of furniture’ for their bamboo bashers – the huts where they lived in the jungle.  He even made a magnificent bar for the officers mess, which apparently ended up floating in the Indian Ocean.  ‘What a waste of wood’ he said.

This hatred of wastage continued throughout his life; as a child he would never admit that something was broken beyond repair; dolls, china, shoes – nothing was out of his remit. My childhood was filled with the smell of home-made wood glue boiling on the stove.  I suppose I was unwittingly an early discoverer of glue-sniffing.  I have to admit I got a bit fed-up with this way of life sometimes, when I would have preferred a new replacement; but times were hard then, and his skills were in great demand by everyone.

 Later, Dad also became a fixer of broken hearts for us girls and of the broken lives of many, being the first to sit with sick friends and family, always with soothing words and reassurance.

Of course, he was a fantastic Grandad. My son especially would often bring in a hopelessly mangled toy car or boat which he had stamped on whilst playing football or run over with his bike, and announce ‘Never mind Mum, Grandad will fix it!’ And incredibly, usually he did.  My son was still saying that when Dad was over 90!

Once we were all on holiday in Hayling Island, and had gone for a walk along a path which used to be a railway line, shut down long before by the infamous Beeching.  Dad had always been interested in the re-use of the old railway sleepers, which could now be found holding up the banks and lining flower beds all over the island.  A fence had been put up to divide the footpath from the bridle path, and it was in very bad repair for a good 100 yards.  Dad couldn’t help but inspect it.  Of course the cry went up ‘Grandad will fix it!’, and indeed he did produce a bit of string from his pocket and had a go at it, so as not to disappoint the kids, promising to come back next year with his toolkit.

On that same holiday there was a knob missing from a chest of drawers, which annoyed him immensely.  The next year, we had the same holiday bungalow, and yes, the knob was still missing, and – you guessed it – Dad produced a matching knob from his pocket and the job was done.  He worked his magic on the rest of the chest while he was at it, and when we left it was stronger than it had ever been.

The Council had an ideal tenant in my Dad; he seldom had the need to call them out for repairs during the 55 years of his tenancy; only when well into his 80s did he admit defeat and got them in to fix a few things. 

But old Father Time cannot be kept at bay forever, and the sad day came when my Mum, his wife of 60 years, died of Cancer.  Dad held her for a very long time, whispering to her how much he had always loved her, his one and only Sweetheart.  The Doctor wept too, saying there was surely something more he could have done; and it was Dad who comforted him, saying he had done all it was possible to do, and she had been beyond repair.

During the next ten years, cruel Parkinson robbed him of the ability to do these jobs, and for him the final straw was losing most of the use of his craftsmans’ hands, so that he was unable to make any of the wonderful models he had made for his children and grandchildren, for the ever-growing army of great-grandchildren, who all adored him.

I held him as he drew his last breath, still trying hard to speak and give instructions about his belongings, still trying to make it as easy as possible for us girls to deal with his affairs.  It was hard to admit that he had himself accepted that he was beyond repair, and wanted to be with his sweetheart now. 

At the sad family barbeque soon after his death, someone sat down hard on a garden chair.  A nasty cracking sound ensued.  Once again the shout went up: ‘Grandad will fix it!’  and we all laughed, and cried, and remembered a good life, well spent.  Dad had fixed it for us once again.