My Life Story

MY LIFE STORY Reverend John Philip Romeril, B.A., M.Div. DEDICATION To my wife Mary Ann, my faithful companion throughout the calms and storms as we journeyed together as the Spirit led us; and to my family, Philip, Catherine, Susan and Elizabeth, that they remember some aspects of the life we shared together. Chapter One THE EARLY YEARS, 1931-1939 I was born in the village of Ashby on the outskirts of Scunthorpe in Lincolnshire, England. The year was 1931 and the depression was in full swing. I was the third child and first son of the Reverend Philip Romeril and Isabella Lowe- Romeril. I had two older sisters, Isabel Mary, born in Port St Mary, Isle of Man in 1927, and Margaret Elizabeth, born in Snaith in 1929. I was named after my grandfather, Jean Philip Romeril, a Jersey man who, after the death of his first wife, married Eliza Donaghy, an Irish girl from Donegal. There were two children by the first marriage, a son who died in his early years, and a daughter Miriam whom I knew as Aunty Minnie Cockburn. My father, a minister of the Methodist Church, had been transferred from Snaith to Scunthorpe in 1930. My memory of those first years is non-existent. However, photographs from that period and return visits after the war, along with family conversations about those years, bring to mind people who knew me then and places visited. Ruby was one who shared the child care with my mother in those years. The Arthur Jacksons, the Sidney Jacksons, the Mowsons and, of course, Mrs Bibby who ran a sweet shop on the high street in Ashby and who, along with Mrs Sid Jackson, have a special place in my memory. My brother David James Romeril was born in March of 1934. When one reads of conditions in England during the depression and knowing the low salaries of clergy, I wonder how the family managed. But it was good preparation for the war years when we lived under German occupation for five years. But more of that later. In 1935 Dad was transferred to the Nottingham circuit and worked with his superintendent at the Albert Hall, a large downtown church and with direct responsibility for Kings Hall in a different part of town. As a family we worshipped on Sunday mornings at Kings Hall and went to Sunday school in the afternoon at the Albert Hall. It was at this point in my life that my memories become more concrete. Early on in our stay at Nottingham the young girl entrusted by my mother to look after David left without telling us. I suspect it must have been a Sunday when we were all at church, returning from worship to find baby David alone. Dad sent an S.O.S. to Scunthorpe, to one of the families he knew and Grace, a teenager, joined our family for the remaining years in Nottingham. 1 The manse we enjoyed in those years was a semi-detached house on Derby Road, number 272. It was a corner house. The street beside the house led to a large park, a place for walks and play. One of my earliest memories is of the lamplighter going down the street, lighting the gas lamps one by one. I enjoyed many outings with Grace – walks to Woolerton Park to see the deer, trips to Nottingham Castle and the museum there, walks along the Trent Canal and of course the annual visit to the Goose Fair where rides on the carousel and the dodgems were enjoyed, and ginger snaps were a treat at the end of the day. I remember grocery shopping trips with my mother, sitting up on the long counter on which the quantities of flour, sugar, etc. were made up, and being given a cookie with icing figures on the one side as a treat for being good. The memory of watching mother bake and being allowed to lick out the bowls when she was finished, a habit I still like, that is, licking out the bowls. At some point in our stay in Nottingham I had my first close shave. We were expecting the arrival of Uncle Jim from India. When a car stopped on the other side of Derby Road, I thought it was Uncle Jim. In my excitement I ran across Derby Road without looking both ways and was knocked down by a car, but fortunately was not seriously hurt. The Manse was three storeys, as I remember it. There was a living room on the first floor to the left of the front door; behind it was the dining room with the kitchen to the right and a stairs going down to the basement. On the second floor there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. My parents had the front bedroom and my sister Mary had the second bedroom. There were two more bedrooms on the third floor. A small one in the attic as you came up the stairs, which was Grace’s, and then a large attic-type room with a dormer window where the three of us slept. One of the tricks we played on Grace was spreading toothpaste over her pillow. I remember when I was six, after being carefully instructed to heat the pot and pour boiling water over the tea and let it steep for five minutes, being allowed to make the Sunday morning pot of tea and carry it to my parents’ room. I remember the Christmas tree with little wax candles set on the branches which were lit on Christmas Day. I remember how stockings were allowed to be opened first thing on Christmas morning but the gifts under the tree had to wait until after the King had given his address to the nation at 3:00 pm on Christmas day, a habit followed in my own family’s early years. The only Christmas gift that stands out in my memory was a cardboard chocolate bar machine in which you put a token and a chocolate bar popped out. 2 Then there were Guy Fawkes Days in the backyard when we were allowed to hold sparklers and pinwheels and let off a few rockets. Sundays were always special days. At Kings Hall I sat with Mr and Mrs Parkes. He was an engine driver and every week he kept me amused during the sermon time bringing the picture sports cards that were found in cigarette packs. One of the special treats was to be able to go down to the railroad station and see Mr Parkes on his engine and climb aboard and for a while I was determined to be an engine driver when I grew up. Dad’s children’s stories under the general title of “John’s Stories” were also very popular though the contents have long been forgotten. It was in Nottingham that I went to the cinema for the first time. Elsie Roberts, one of the maiden ladies from the Church who was a friend of Grace’s and used to join us for many outings, took me to see George Formby in It’s In the Air. On another occasion we went to see one of Shirley Temple’s early movies. It was also in Nottingham that I started school, attending Ilkeston Road Public School which was only a couple of blocks from our home. I have no memory of teachers, fellow students, or curriculum. I do remember I hated art classes and being required to draw flowers in a vase which I found an impossible task. I remember working with raffia, a type of coloured straw, with which we made mats, one of which I gave to Aunty Em, my grandfather’s housekeeper who still had it on her mantle when I went to visit her in 1946. One Sunday school concert stands out in my memory. I was groomed by my mother to give a recitation, one of Christopher Robins’ poems, Has anyone seen my Mouse? I remember stepping out on to the stage at the Albert Hall, which my memory tells me was huge, to face this huge sea of faces. I announced the title of m piece and then my mind went a complete blank. Of course the audience broke up. I have often thought that this experience was the reason why for any presentation I make in public I like to have a full script in front of me, even the words of a prayer like the Lord’s Prayer. Summer holidays were often memorable. One year we went to the Isle of Man where Dad had served as a probationer and where Mary had been born. This required a boat trip from Liverpool. I was not a good sailor. It was a rough crossing and I was seasick and, in one of my frequent trips to the rail, I accidentally dropped my teddy bear over the side. Another year I remember we went to Lanferfecan in Wales. We stayed in a boarding house along the sea front. Photos tell me that we had time on the beach but my memory tells me we had a lot of rainy days as well. 3 Then in 1937 Dad collapsed. His having been gassed in the First World War, on top of the damp climate, had so affected his lungs that an operation was necessary and he was given six months to live. I was packed off to stay with the Sidney Jacksons on their farm near Ashby. It was called Holm Hall.

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