DM Memories V2

MEMORIES Autobiographical jottings by David Matthew 1 Introduction I am well into my seventies as I begin to write. This means that a lot more of my life is behind me than in front of me. It means, too, that I am old enough to see, beyond the details, the bigger, overall picture of my life. As I do so, I notice a couple of parallels between my own life and that of someone with the same name: the David of Old Testament fame. The first concerns my life so far. Paul said of David that ‘he…served God’s purpose in his own generation’, and that is what I, too, have tried to do since I came to know God personally at the age of twelve. The other concerns my future. My life has been marked by God’s blessing in a big way, and I expect this to continue as I affirm, with the other David: ‘Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’ The big picture is made up of lots of details, and in what follows I will put together a string of detailed incidents that stand out in my memory. I hope you, the reader, will find them interesting, entertaining and occasionally inspiring. My parents My father, Reginald Matthew, was born, along with his twin brother Cyril, on 20th June 1914, just six weeks before the outbreak of the First World War (1914-1918). His parents were Frederick and Fanny Matthew, who lived at 13 Vine Street, Norton, Malton, in the then East Riding of Yorkshire. The twins had an older sister, Amy, who would be described today as having special needs—of a psychological nature. We never knew how she came to be that way. My Uncle Cyril’s unscientific diagnosis was that “she fell and clattered her ‘ead on t’ schoolhouse stove and went mental’. The family were staunch Methodists, attending the Bethel Primitive Methodist Chapel in Commercial Street, Norton. It was there that Reg married my mother, May Plummer, on 7th September 1939, just a week after the outbreak of the Second World War (1939-1945). He was 25. She was 23. I was to appear just over a year later. Frederick William Benjamin Albert and Fanny Matthew and Ada Plummer Reginald Matthew May Plummer David Matthew May was the younger of the two children of Ben and Ada Plummer of Norton. Her older brother was named George. Ben had never been a churchgoer, but Ada regularly attended the Methodist chapel, taking the children with her, and it was through this connection that my parents met as children. My father left Malton Grammar School in 1932 to take work as a clerk at the local brewery firm, Russell & Wrangham, where he remained until his 1939 war call-up to serve in the army. As a result of his army service he was absent from home for several years. On my birth certificate, under ‘Father’s occupation’, it says: ‘Of no occupation, formerly a brewer’s clerk.’ I had been born on 16th September 1940 and so spent my early childhood in the care of my mother alone. Dad just got home 2 for the odd weekend’s leave from time to time. I recall his return at the end of the war. He seemed like an intruder upon the steady life enjoyed by Mum and me, and I thought, ‘Who is this man who has taken over?’ Babyhood – as related by my mother ‘What your bloody husband needs is a bayonet shoving up his arse!’ The woman screamed the words at my mother across Commercial Street, the main shopping street in Norton. I was there, too, blissfully unaware of Mum’s reaction of embarrassment and fear. Only a couple of months old, I slept peacefully in the pram she was pushing to the meagrely-stocked shops. It was 1940 and Britain was at war with Germany. Following the fall of France to Hitler in June of that year, the Nazis had thrown the full force of their military might against the British, who remained their only undefeated enemy in Western Europe. The conflict took place chiefly in the air, and I had been born at the height of the Battle of Britain. Young airmen in Spitfires took on the Luftwaffe and won, but at the cost of many lives. Churchill declared of those young men, ‘Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few.’ My father was not one of ‘the few’. Indeed, he was not part of the British fighting forces at all. He had been called up, of course, like all the young men in Norton and neighbouring Malton. Like them, he was away from home, involved in the war effort, but in a non-combatant division, the Pay Corps. When the call to arms had come, he had registered as a C.O.—a conscientious objector. At the age of 25 he was a March 1942. Me being wheeled in Malton by my mother, May, accompanied by Nora staunch, active Methodist, and when call-up came he Matthew. engaged in some serious soul-searching about the rights and wrongs of killing people. Many Christians of equal integrity took up arms with conviction and a clear conscience, but Dad could not. Even though Hitler was unquestionably evil and the German plan to conquer Europe morally unacceptable, he could not in good conscience aim a rifle at anyone—not even a German soldier—and pull the trigger. Registering as a C.O. was not a soft option in the strongly patriotic atmosphere of the time, though many saw it that way. In their view it was the coward’s way of avoiding conflict and possible death in action. In many respects the opposite was true. In social terms, it was easier to go to war than to swim against the tide of public opinion for conscience’s sake. The public were not the only ones to make it a tough choice; the authorities did the same. Dad had to stand before a tribunal manned by clever officers adept at exposing unworthy motives and dismissing the common arguments for conscientious objection. Some young men, their appeal turned down, still refused to fight and spent the war years in prison. But Dad’s appeal was accepted. His openness and sincerity saw him through the obstacle course of questions and he was posted to non-combatant duties in Bradford, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. The tribunal’s decision, however, did not please the women of Norton, some of whom were already war widows. As the wife of a C.O., my mother was highly unpopular, and the venomous cry across Commercial Street was only one of many that stung her as she wheeled me back and forth to the shops. 3 Violent encounters We lived in a little terrace house, 29 Sutton Street, in Norton, until I was six years old, which is when we moved to Bradford. I had a little bedroom that jutted out at the back of the house, overlooking the local cemetery, and I well remember the cot that I slept in as a small boy. Malton was just 22 miles from the east coast and as an occasional treat we would go on the train to Scarborough. The very first time my folks took me there, complete with bucket and spade, I apparently gazed in wonder at the vast expanse of the beach and exclaimed, ‘Eee, what luvly muck!’ Next door to us in Norton lived Mr and Mrs Kirby and I would regularly toddle round to their house, where I was always welcomed with titbits and lots of attention. Mr Kirby, a railwayman, worked on the steam locomotives. Often, when I found him in, he was still wearing his dark blue railway overalls and peaked cap. His face was black with coal dust and his white enamelled tea-can—kept hot by the heat from the loco’s boiler when he was working—was on the At the door of 29 Sutton Street, kitchen table. age 1 (Dec 1941) on Dobbin. I also had friends who lived in the street. One boy was a little older than me but he was what my mother described as ‘simple’. One summer he was pestering me and a couple of other friends, who were taking it in turns riding my green tricycle up and down the street. Every time I rode past him he clamoured, ‘Let me have a ride!’ He was sitting on the edge of the kerb with his feet in the gutter. His voice and manner were loud, strident and annoying. So the next time I was in line with him as I rode down the pavement I stopped and told him to shut up. When he refused, I got off the tricycle, knocked him over and deliberately banged his head on the pavement. He ran home screaming and I came into our house wondering what I had done and what the consequences would be. To my relief our parents sorted it out, but I was required to make a formal apology to the poor boy—who never again asked to ride my bike. Jimmy Bullock Another unintentional act of violence was soon to follow. I met and befriended a boy called Jimmy Bullock, who lived round the corner on Langton Road, and we would often meet up to play at either his house or ours.

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