Chapter 11

Again, hardly knew grandparents on mum's side.
Her real mother only thirty-six when she died.
Died in child birthing, then a common thing;
For both mother and child, bells did ring.

With six children to devote all of his life,
Mum's dad had quickly to take a new wife.
From that moment she came, situation was bad.
The children hated the way she treated their dad.

But back to my story; it's what we're here for.
At a very early age I soon knew the score.
Often grandad would come 'round our place;
Always had a great smile on his face.

Sometimes a knock, and there he stood.
At times he wasn't feeling so good.
I liked him - he had a great sense of fun;
Told me stories of trains that he'd run.

Mum took me to the town station by trolley bus.
It cost a couple of pennies - rarely used by us.
We were off to see her dad on his puffer train.
Steam engined; big enough to take any strain.

Grandad up to the footplate gave me aid.
The memory of which will never fade.
Hot, levers, steam, and the whistle he let me pull.
What joy! What a day! My heart was full.

Smelly, dirty, the engine a wonderful tool;
Couldn't wait to tell all the lads at school.
Those trolley buses so quiet, fast and clean -
Overhead electric cable, now rarely seen.

White and green with council's crest.
Everyone agreed they were the best.
They didn't even need a railway track.
Dumped by council - never to come back.

Grandad "Pom" told me; I know partially true.
Otherwise I'd not pass it on to you.
Leading down to the town was bishop's hill;
On a bike you could climb it - with some will.

This hill was opposite the park land.
Red wall, its name in black; so grand.
Very early one morning, just about dawn,
Pom cycled up it, tired and worn.

When a German fighter fired at him with its machine gun.
No legitimate target - perhaps the pilot thought it fun.
The burst went over Pom into the wall;
With that and with no thought at all.

He cycled hard; he gave the raider no second chance.
Shot up the hill like a rider in Tour de France!
There after, every time I passed that hilly spot,
I could see the holes that almost got him shot.

When no longer young enough to "drive" mainline stuff,
On local work he drove a smaller local puff-puff.
On the way to, say, Felixstowe with his fireman first class,
They would throw bit of coal at game as they slowly passed.

A hit was picked up later; a pheasant or a rabbit for the pot.
They didn't succeed too often, but pleased with what they got.
A nice old man who I hardly ever saw;
Maybe more on him long after the war.