Life of a Humble Man

Ronald Ball (1929-2021)

The Life of a Humble Man

For many, many years Friday evening meant tea in the pub. We would be there for six o’clock and usually home by eight pm. Initially, it was my dad (Ron), mother (Eileen), Aunt (Mary), wife (Alison) and daughter (Natalie), oh, and me. So, six of us trying to find a table big enough. Gradually, for various reasons, the number diminished to just Ron and me.

As an approach to this document, I will refer to my Dad as Ron because it is about him. However, a great deal of it is from my perspective and the things I know, meaning there will be too many references to me!

As Ron and I chatted, not just in the pub, I encouraged him to write down his experiences, the story of his life. Naturally, he poo-pooed the idea and he was always too busy. Doing what? It was, therefore, a real shock and delightful surprise to find sixteen pages of handwritten notes describing some aspects of his life. These were augmented by other notes and his CV.

Having found the notes, they were transcribed and, to some minor extent edited by me; he was always useless with dates. This document is the core of this ‘book’, it is the first chapter, with some notes from me in italics, but the other sections are from family notes, pictures, research, and my memory.

Ron’s piece didn’t refer to his birth. Firstly, let’s address the family facts:

Ron’s father was Robert (Bob)
Born in 1890, died in 1973

Mother Edith May (May) nee Chatwin
Born 1897, died 1976

Bob and May married in 1920

Ron himself
Born 21st November 1929
Died 14th June 2021

Raymond, eldest brother
Born 1920, died 1989

Norman, the middle brother
Born 1921, died 1999

Eileen, Ron’s wife and my mother,
Born 27th April 1930, died 16th October 2001 (although the death certificate says 17th October, but I was sat with her as she passed at 11.45 pm on the 16th, which was also Alison and my wedding anniversary)

Ron and Eileen married on 31st March 1951
Robert Michael Ball (Rob, never Robert!!) Ron and Eileen’s son, also known as me

Born 14th August 1954
Alison Margaret Scott nee Moss, Rob’s first wife
Born 9th January 1958, died 16th February 2008

Natalie Eleanor Louise, Rob and Alison’s daughter and Ron and Eileen’s only grandchild
Born 18th December 1984
Now married to Timothy Dewberry
Born 22nd February 1981

Their children:
Nathan Ronald Dewberry, Ron’s Great Grandson who he did hold.
Born 2nd March 2021

Nell Alison Grace Dewberry who arrived too late to meet her Great Grandfather
Born 1st November 2023

Context
As you will see, Ron was very family oriented. Professionally and by instinct a lover of cars and their maintenance. A highly practical man: my memory was of him always gardening, repairing cars or wallpapering. In truth, I suspect some of this was driven by my mother. Ron got up one morning to find she had painted graffiti over the walls of one room, so he had no option but to re-decorate it, as she had demanded!

Ours is a very working-class family, never a lot of money but as many people describe about that time when growing up, we never felt as if we were missing out.
Of course, being born between the wars had an effect on attitudes and views. Even in the 21st Century, a great treat for Ron was a meal of, for example, pigs’ trotters or tripe. It was the norm when he was younger. One of the pervading memories from my childhood is the odour of offal being cooked, which was truly gut wrenching.

Chapter One – Ron’s Own Narrative

My earliest recollections were of living at 36 Lockton Road, Stirchley around 1933/34. It was known as a ‘Pudding Bag’ street, a dead end with the houses going round.
At the top of the road was a green patch of grass and this is where games would be played. Football, not quite as popular as today, was played but with not so much enthusiasm as I recall. The houses were built by the Council and rented. They were known as non-parlour – having one room which became lounge and dining room. The kitchens was at the back with a sink, cooker and a large cast iron boiler set in one corner covered with a wooden lid where the weekly wash was done. The water was heated by lighting a coal fire beneath the cooker. I can remember having a bath in it. The usual method of bathing was in a galvanised tin bath which was brought into the kitchen. It usually hung on the fence on a nail in the garden and filled with hot water from the boiler.

The nearest public transport was the number 36 tram which ran down the Pershore Road from Cotteridge to Station Street in the city. The nearest tram stop was outside the Pavilion Cinema about a 15-minute walk from home down, Cartland Road.

My father was a gas fitter for the corporation and in later years I learned earned about 50/- (50 shillings and equivalent to 50p in today’s money) a week, so money was a little on the short side and I was told he often had to walk home from work as he didn’t have the tram fare. His depot was in Sheepcote Street, just off Broad Street, so it was a fair step after a day’s work where he and his mates also had to walk to every job.

My grandparents lived at number 5, Midland Road, Cotteridge and my mother used to visit practically every day to look after my Granddad, after Nan had died. Some of her brothers and only sister were living there. She used to do their washing and clean the home when they were at work and then she would walk back to Lockton Road, pushing me in my pushchair, and get a meal ready for Dad and my two brothers.

I think at the same time, Dad must have had a pay rise because occasionally we would go to the pictures on a Saturday at the 5 o’clock showing, so that we could get back to listen to Maisie Hall on the radio at 8 o’clock. The radio was powered by an accumulator battery, which had to be taken every week to a shop in Stirchley for recharging.

When my Grandad died in 1936, I remember his coffin being in the front room of number 5. When everyone went to the cemetery, I stayed behind and was looked after by the next-door neighbour who lived at number 3, Mrs ‘Molly’ Parker who had three daughters: Margaret, Eileen and Mary. We used to play together in their garden and in a woodshed that was filled with, funnily enough, wood. Their grandfather used to collect it and, when dry, chopped it up for kindling which he then loaded on his handcart and toured the neighbourhood selling it.

I attended Cotteridge School 1935-1941. Miss Henshaw taught the first class, known as reception (infants). Some of the staff I remember. Miss Showell (Head), Miss Leek who always kept her handkerchief up her long knicker leg, Miss Carr and Mr Brooking. I won a safety-first parenting competition and was presented with a beach ball by Councillor Fryer.

Junior school was upstairs where I was appointed the important job of ‘ink monitor’. The job was to fill the teachers’ inkwells every morning.
The senior girls’ school was just across the playground, and I remember one of the games was a number of ‘us lads’ would stand outside the girls’ toilets at play time and when some of them went in, we would prevent them getting out, which would give rise to screams from the girls. What fun!

Further down Midland Road on our side, by the first passageway and behind its houses was a stock yard, cattle were delivered by truck and driven into the stock yard where Mr Osbourne, the local butcher, would poleaxe them, cut them up and put them in the fridges in his shop which was just on the Pershore Road. In fact, it backed on to the garden of number 3 Midland Road’s.

I remember watching him hanging a sheep’s carcase in the doorway and carved it into joints – you couldn’t get fresher meat. Rabbits were very popular and cheap, and he would skin and prepare these for you while you waited.

Just below his shop on the corner of Midland Road was the Co-Op and I remember the fascination of the overhead cash cups operated by the salesperson that delivered your money to a small cash desk, and the cashier who then returned your change the same way. I can still recall the smell of freshly ground coffee.

After my grandfather died, two of his sons and one daughter, Jack, Walter and Ethel, continued to live at number 5 for a couple of years but they decided after talks with mom and dad that it would be better for them if they got a bigger house, and all lived together to save her coming every day from Stirchley. They found a big house in Northfield Road, number 110. Three bedrooms and an attic where my two brothers, Raymond and Norman, and I slept. Sometime after we moved there, Walter got married and left, which meant the mortgage payments were split three ways, mom and dad, Ethel and Jack. It was eventually decided to find a smaller place and turned out to be just round the corner in Station Road, number 81.

I recall a sunny Sunday morning in September 1939, I was playing with a crane I had constructed with Meccano. Windows and doors open, mom and dad were listening to the Prime Minister, Mr Chamberlain, announcing the country was at war with Germany. Dad wasn’t very happy having suffered at the Germans’ hands when a prisoner in the First World War.

It wasn’t until later years that I learned how he had been treated – the whip scars were still evident on his back.

It was a nice three bedroomed house. My eldest brother, Raymond, was married by this time and had moved out, so there were just six of us in this house. Mom and dad, had the front bedroom, Norman and me in a larger rear bedroom, Ethel in single room and Frank in downstairs front room. He worked at the Austin Motor Company. (The family had a long association with the Austin Motor Company. Grandfather was a toolmaker, including of during war. I joined in 1954 and Norman about same time, and Robert in 1976).

Jack eventually married Nellie and moved out. Norman was called up and during his service married Muriel Moore, and Ethel went to live with her brother Fred and his wife in Bournville. That left mom, dad and me.

I left school in 1944 (aged 14) and to work at Matt Thorpe’s Garage in Bournville.

Mom and dad were looking to set up in business and found a rundown grocery general store in Littleton Street, West Bromwich.

While living at 66 Littleton Street, West Bromwich I was, in 1947 called for a medical examination, prior to call up for national service. Passed A1!
In January 1948, I reported to RAF (Royal Air Force) Padgate for basic training (square bashing for six weeks!) It was 11 flight ‘C’ Squadron (120+ personnel).
I will always remember the first morning call at 6.00am. It was still dark, wash and shave introduction to ablutions, a walk to canteen and first service breakfast – porridge, bangers and mash, mug of tea.

Official enlistment – uniform issued – jabs – mark all kit with service number and name – long job – X-ray for any TB signs and OK. One fellow, outdoor type (Yorkshire tyke) walked the moors – was discharged on the third day. He had a shadow on his lung – poor sod was in tears.

We met our training staff; Flight Sergeant Fitzsimmons and the corporals who would ‘knock us into shape or die in the process’.

The corporal over my billet was a Brummie. ‘Nice chap’, who said his second name was Bastard. Eventually found it was true.

Having marched across the camp carrying all our equipment, we finally arrived at our billets. Our stomachs full, we were faced with an approach over a sea of mud-to-mud splattered exterior of wooden huts. Thirty of us were assigned to each of four huts.

If they thought the outside was bad, when we saw the inside of it, we just looked aghast. One comfort, if you could call it such, was that there was lino on the floor (you could just see parts that were not covered in the mud) and we swore afterwards had a life of its own and must have march up the steps through the hut and out of the other door at the far end.

Also scattered around the hut on this excellent floor covering were a whole mass of what, at first glance looked like scrap angle iron but on closer inspection one could distinguish the shape of a bed, some chain link and small springs. One or two of us found half-a-dozen springs to support the chain link on which could repose on our three biscuits which had seen more backsides than we had had hot dinners.

A biscuit is a thin mattress and three equated to the length of the bed.

Our charming corporal informed us to get cracking and find ourselves a bed which we only duly accomplished from the scrap, after which we could set about cleaning our home for the next six weeks, as it was not fit for a pig to live in. Too right, the pig would have done what we felt like doing, running for it!

We were issued with buckets and mops and told we could get water from the ablution hut. When we asked where it was, we were told ‘out that door and follow your nose’. If you closed your eyes and had any sense of smell, you could have found it.

Despite our initial feelings of what had we got into, we all got stuck in and after two mouth-watering meals, by about 11.00, that’s pm, we finally put the lights out.
During the day we did find time to have our bedding issued. A comfortable mattress of 3 biscuits. I did find something sticking out from a seam in a couple of mine. Yes, it was comfortable horsehair stuffing. We also had a pillow, it felt like a roll of carpet in a cover, two sheets (white) and 3 blankets, which I am sure the horse was glad to get rid of.

Finally, we did get to sleep before some idiot was banging the door in the middle of the night telling us to rise and shine as we had 10 minutes to parade for breakfast. The second day in our new home was similar to the first, but now having got rid of the mud, we could polish the lino until is shone, black lead the two pot-bellied stoves, which was the central heating, burnish the galvanised coat bunkers and fire pokers. Don’t forget to dust the coal!

I was one of six fortunate ACs (Active Components) that would spend the day scraping months of limescale off the ceramic face of the urinals and lavatory basins, while others cleaned floors and walls yes from our old friend mud!

At some point during this period, we were issued with a rifle and bayonet (a pigsticker, “They don’t like it up ‘em, Captain Mainwaring”). More to look after and clean.
Eventually, we settled into a pattern – marching parades, training and bull s**t every night, to maintain our home to the standard our NCOs and officers determined, not forgetting the necessary work to our uniforms as required. But, despite all this we began to take pride in it all and ourselves. As I previously mentioned, our flights were housed in four huts – with some degree of discrimination as we now know it. Two huts of Scots, two of Englishmen which did result in some confrontational evenings which helped to spice up a somewhat trying time. But, apart from these occasional fracas, we all pulled together and developed much to the surprise and satisfaction of our training staff, into a well-knit team. There were doubts expressed earlier in our training that we could well be held back for a further period of square bashing. Flight Sergeant Fitzsimmons gave us an ear bashing and later in our huts each corporal instructor gave us the areas where we needed to improve in general and individually.

We began to help each other rather than criticise. One instance occurred on one of our numerous visits to one of the assault courses. This particular individual was unsure when it came to the rope and water jump, he caught the rope when thrown to him but failed to release at the other side of the deep pool of stagnant filthy water and swinging forward again, had lost sufficient impetus to reach the other side despite all our encouragement to release at the right time, he released the rope on the backward swing with the result he ended face down in the water with just his tin helmet showing. Well, a couple of us dragged him out and all credit to him, he completed the course that day and went on to do it again on another day.

As the six weeks progressed, we could see the confidence building in all the members of the flight.

Our evening attacks on individual huts lost their significance, as we became more friendly to the extent of going to meals together.

Eventually, we could see our square bashing was coming to an end and the ultimate achievement would be to complete the passout parade without a hitch. We obviously spent the last couple of weeks practicing, even to the extent of having a full-dress rehearsal, including standing in the hot sun on an afternoon waiting to be inspected. There were one or two pass outs on that parade!

During the course we naturally had our share of sentry duty. I was at the main gate and who should turn up during my stint one evening at about 10.30pm? It was the duty officer, and I went through the whole rigmarole – who goes there etc?

Maybe because I made a Fred Carno’s (Mess) of it, our little team had to do an all-night as a rear gate, out in the wilds of Padgate. What a pleasant night we spent! It did not stop raining and when you have stood out in it for a couple of hours, you began to wonder if this greatcoat is to keep the rain out or soak it up like a sponge. I must have put on about five stones in weight. My knees were sagging towards the end of my two hours.

Food was a problem – we just did not get enough. I did not like cheese before I joined but I soon got to like it.

Sunday morning church was not compulsory but for all the wrong reasons a number of us started going, which was not such a hardship because at the end of the service we could have a late breakfast which included seconds, may I be forgiven!

One evening, a group of us got together and hatched a plan to break in the cookhouse store and see if anything edible was available. Amongst the group was a young man who said he picked locks. A reconnaissance was carried out during the day, and everything was given the OK.

When the cookhouse had closed up, we slipped down to the store, posted a look out and our lock picker got to work. Eventually we entered the store. After searching the hut for edibles, the only items we could come up with was a box of dried prunes. We shared them out, got rid of the box and ate our fill. The next couple of days caused some concern with frequent trips to the loo, day and night! We did hear some talk about the store being broken into but there was no big scene.

After our big day out on the parade ground, the next bit of excitement was postings. We had all completed questionnaires for what fields we were interested in. With my background in motor vehicle repair, I thought my first choice should be automotive HA! HA!

My second choice was driving which was a natural follow on. I had had extensive drawing experience in civvy job despite being only 18 now. The Thorpe’s Garage I worked for had used me not only on repairs to all vehicles but also in towing breakdown, all sizes of vehicles including fairground trucks complete with trailers.
So, when my posting to RAF Weeton in Lancashire, for a driving course arrived, I was quite happy.

So the time came for 11 Flight to disperse with all the used goodbyes and promises to keep in touch – which we never did.

Having spent eight weeks learning how to drive the forces way, myself and two other course members passed with credits and were promoted to ACI (Aircraftman First Class) and were offered the opportunity to become driving instructors, which we declined. Our thoughts were only of our first active posting. Having sampled the delights of Blackpool, we were thinking of Singapore or Cyprus. Dream on! My posting was to Transport Command Waterboard, Cambridgeshire, a small village which had its compensations. A pub, church, a couple of dozen houses, typical of a village and a hostel where a good number of Land Army girls were billeted. Oh! Those long summer evenings.

At around this time in 1948 the Berlin Airlift came into being and the station squadron of Dakotas were transferred to Oakington some 8 or ten miles away. The duties of our MT (Mechanical Transport) section were to transport aircrew to and fro, and the delivery of much needed goods and materials for transfer to Lubeck in Germany.
Towards the end of the airlift, the gods or was it the Air Ministry decided we had had enough of a good thing and posted me to RAF Wahn, West Germany (South-East of Cologne), where I found driving on the wrong side of the road interesting.

I learned that the camp was one of a number where Romell’s desert troops had been trained.

The three storey billet walls bore the bullet scars of what could only be training methods. In the first seven weeks of being there, the camp suffered an average of one death per week – 2 suicides, 2 in an aircraft crash, a murder and 2 traffic accidents.

Altogether, a very depressing camp. The walls of the dining areas and NAAFI still had the painted silhouette of a cloaked figure – the British equal of “be like dad, keep mum” and a figure peering over a wall, Chad.

The airfield was separate from the rest of the camp and was surrounded by a high fence and the entrance guarded by Yugoslavian or Polish sentries. Going one day to do some compass settings, I was stopped in the truck I was driving by one of the sentries who practically thrust his bayonet into the tank’s radiator. Some discussion ensured before I was let through by his officer to complete the job.

One Sunday, as duty driver, I was called out by the duty officer to take him into the woods, in which the camp was situated, to the bomb bunkers where a fire had started in the undergrowth.

The officer called out the fire tenders and eventually got it under control. There were only 250lb bombs in the bunkers and the officer told me not dangerous as long as they were not overheated. A very interesting Sunday!

Eventually my turn came for demob, so having got all my clearance forms signed, RAF Wahn and I parted company. After journeying by sea and rail to Kirkham in Lancashire, I was demobbed and returned to Civvy Street, where I continued to court Eileen Parker.

I returned to diesel work at Hadingtons, West Bromwich.

Mom and Dad moved back to Kings Norton, after their business was compulsory purchased by West Bromwich Council. The journey to West Bromwich each day became too much. Eventually I got a job at the PJ Evans branch of Rolls and Bentley agents, in Stirchley. I left PJ Evans and went to work at Hanks Garage in Alvechurch.
Eileen became pregnant. So I left Hanks and joined Austin in February 1954. Rob was born in the August. Moving from being a skilled mechanic to a semi-skilled track worker meant doubling the wage, at a time when money was tight and there was an extra mouth to feed.

In 1958, with the help of mom and dad (£800 deposit), we bought a house in High Meadow Road, off Kings Norton Green, which we were able to do, as I had moved onto staff at Longbridge and appeared financially secure. It enabled me to obtain a mortgage (the price of the house was £2,100). Mom and dad moved in with us, but over a number of years things got difficult.

Eileen had kept her eye on house sales in paper and had found an ideal place on Northfield Road – large villa style house split into two flats, where mom and dad would have downstairs, and Eileen, Rob and I would have upstairs.

We supported mom and dad by them not having to pay rent, so they would live comfortably on their pension.

My Reflections on my Dad’s narrative

Ron really didn’t discuss his time in the RAF much, so it was a surprise that it was a dominant feature of his notes. I am speculating but it seems Ron may have signed up for a longer term of duty if he wasn’t courting my mother. He never admitted breaking into anywhere, including the NAAFI. My indiscretions pale into insignificance (probably).

They certainly moved around a fair amount. Ron did tell me their first mortgage was £13 per month and they worried whether they could afford it. Times change in terms of the scale of amount but for many people a mortgage remains a challenge.

His Career

As a child my only career decision was to state boldly, “I will never work at Longbridge”. This wasn’t due to a dislike of the company or the industry, but Ron’s daily references to The Company. This reflected his natural loyalty and enthusiasm; he was someone for whom commitment and affiliation were inevitable.
As previously mentioned, Ron was a motor mechanic by trade and inclination. However, when I came along, he entered the world of mass car production. Initially as a track operative but quickly moving into the Service School, which supported the dealerships manage the relationships with customers and their, often imperfect, vehicles.

At that time the company was called the British Motor Corporation (BMC). It had emerged from a series of acquisitions and mergers, frequently at the Governments behest to solve the problem of likely closure. Over the years brands including Austin, Morris, Jaguar, Rover, Triumph, MG, Vanden Plas, Riley, Guy, Scammel, and Daimler came together. They were augmented by foundries, body pressing plants and other parts suppliers. When I joined it was British Leyland (I know I was never going to work at Longbridge, but the job was based at Solihull. It was two years before my role moved to Longbridge!), there were 44 sites, employing over 50000 people, mainly in the UK.

In 1969 Ron moved into the Training Department, specialising in supervisory and management development. It seems he was universally liked, and ‘everybody’ knew him. When I had been at Longbridge for many years, a Production Manager asked, “Are you Ron Ball’s son?” When I confirmed I was, he blurted out, “But he’s a nice bloke”. My role was not designed to make me popular, and I am, sadly, very experienced at dismissing and disciplining people.
As a manager in the training department he touched every aspect of the operation. So, in 1990 it made sense when he transferred to a department to deliver Total Quality Management, today known as Six Sigma.

He ‘retired’ in 1991 and went to work for an organisation known as Impact, which drove the link between schools and colleges, and business. Many young people have little or no careers advice and understanding of the world of work. Impact brought a focus to it. For a few years, because of my role as Head of Learning and Development at Longbridge I was Vice-Chair of Impact and, therefore, know how valuable it was.

The Dogs

Perhaps the most surprising thing about Ron’s own notes was the lack of reference to his dogs. For both of my parents their animals, but especially the dogs, were the most important thing.

Obviously, I can only reflect on those I knew. When I was born at 3 Midland Road there were two Cocker Spaniels in residence, Smokey and Mick. They were mature then, so died when I was very young. There followed a succession of mongrels, all loved and diligently walked every day, at least once.

From around 1970 nearly all of their dogs were Golden Retrievers, and they were, without exception, lovely natured animals.

The first Golden Retriever was Soo, who was the most splendid example. Her kennel name was Nighttime Frolic of Forfield. Soo was placid, friendly and beautiful, which prompted them to acquire Selena, perhaps not quite as wonderful but still lovely.

A momentous decision was taken. Soo was going to have a litter of pups. They were very worried about the taxman and kept note of all expenditure. In 1973 Soo had four healthy puppies. Sadly, one was stillborn. Watching the births was eye opening for me!

There was one dog pup and three bitches. The boy was named Nortune Robbie (he had the same smell as me). In the October I went to university and almost immediately two things happened; my grandfather died, and my mother wrote to me to say the boy was staying, henceforth to be known as Scott. So, we were a three-dog family.

Ron’s final dog was Allys. He lost her in 2013 just before he moved into Beeches Court, an apartment opposite Morrison’s in Rednal. Allys was 15 years old, a very good age for the breed.

In addition to the names I have mentioned I can remember Sweep, Sally, Rosie, and Poppy. There were more but the memory…

Sport

Ron had little interest in sport, other than motor racing, then acquired a son who was, and still is, sport mad. After excessive nagging, Ron took me to see Birmingham City play Blackburn Rovers. It was 8th December 1962, a three all draw in which the Blues equalised in the last ten minutes. I was hooked and sentenced to a lifetime of misery.

Despite my entreaties, there wasn’t a repeat visit to St Andrews. On 27th March 1963, Blues had a home game against Bury in the Semi-Final of the League Cup, and it was an evening game. Irresistible! My father’s default excuse was he wouldn’t leave my mother alone. She resolved it by saying she would come. Another thrilling game which Blues won 3-2. The worst news for my Dad was my mother loved it. Within a year we were season ticket holders and were joined by Auntie Mary and my best friend, John Sears.

Crucially, Birmingham beat Aston Villa in the League Cup Final.

In 1966 the World Cup was in England. We went to five games at Villa Park and Goodison Park in Liverpool. This did necessitate my dad visiting the school after permission was refused for an extra half-day off to watch Brazil (including Pele) v Bulgaria. We also saw Portugal, West Germany, Spain, and Argentina.
By now many days were also being spent at Edgbaston watching Warwickshire County Cricket Club and England. It was easy to get tickets in those days.
The years necessitated Ron ferrying me to numerous sports clubs as I played more and more.

Through many of the 80s and 90s Winter afternoons Ron stood by rugby pitches as I missed penalties and dropped punts.

Ron finally stopped going to the Blues when he was 83 because it was too cold. The roles had reversed, and I was the driver over the last twenty years.
I had converted him, unlike most of my attempts after a try was scored for my rugby team.

Later Years

A few years after my mother died, Ron met Sheila Herbert and they were constant partners for the rest of his life. They met whilst walking their dogs on Cofton Park in Birmingham.

Over the years, it was a sequence of meals, ‘drinkies’ as my father called one half pint of lager, theatre trips and weekends at Warner Hotels with the entertainment included.

They kept their own places, and it was during this time Ron moved into the apartment.

I was always grateful that they had each other, and that Sheila’s family welcomed and supported Ron.

Bingo in the lounge in Beeches Court became a regular pastime until the horror of lockdown due to Covid. Confined to his abode, Ron had reached the end of his good humour by the time it was relaxed.

Ron was still driving until lockdown, albeit only short distances. In the months just prior to his death he did conclude he needed to sell his car. Similarly, recognising he was 91 years old, he wanted to sort out his funeral arrangements, and revise his will. We didn’t legally change the Will and, even though some of the details weren’t defined, there was enough to ensure that his wishes were met.

Ron’s Wider Family

Ron’s mother, May, was the eldest of 10 children, two girls and eight boys, born between 1897 and 1914, and she was the matriarch of the family. Many of her siblings lived and worked in south Birmingham after they left the family home and there was a close family network during the 1940s and 1950s. Ron was a particular favourite of Janet Chatwin who was 7 years younger than Ron, but she still recalls the happy times she played with Ron in the garden in Station Road.

As May and her siblings passed on the next generation decided to keep their family links and have held successful reunions every other year since 2002. Ron and Sheila were regular attendees at these events which attracted up to 70 guests from four generations of the family over the years, involving travel from all corners of the country.

This section was kindly created by John Chatwin, Ron’s cousin, and brings an additional perspective from a part of the family about which I know less.

On Ron’s Birth Certificate it describes his father, Bob, as a Council Labourer. He was a blue-collar worker throughout his working life. The really interesting aspect of Bob’s life was his time in the army. He was already a regular soldier in the South Staffordshire Regiment when the First World War broke out in 1914.

During WW1, Bob was buried alive when a shell exploded near him. His friends had to dig him out. Clearly, Ron’s existence wouldn’t have happened and, therefore, neither would mine. Bob was captured by the Germans, which again he survived despite hitting a German officer with a spade. He never mentioned any of this to me. Now, of course, I would have a million questions to ask him.

Natalie’s Wedding

In 2019, on the 25th of November Natalie and Tim were married.

It was perhaps an example of Ron’s less clear thinking that he wondered if he would be invited! I was perhaps a little blunt when I told him he was an idiot as he was her only grandparent able to be there. Then he said he couldn’t go as he couldn’t drive to Whitstable in Kent. Less gently I pointed out I would be taking him and Sheila.

And so it came to pass.

It was a great day, or if you are very old half-day, as they retired at 8 pm. As Ron was sat behind me, I couldn’t see him, but Natalie said he cried throughout the service. He did say he had had a wonderful time.

Final Thoughts

Over the latter years there had been numerous instances of health concerns. Typically. Three or four times per year Ron would have a short stay in hospital. Naturally, Sheila and her family would visit, as would Natalie and Tim, and his niece Marilyn. The most difficult aspect was always getting him released after the doctor had given permission; bureaucracy and overworked staff being added to him occupying a bed much longer than necessary.

In March 2021, Natalie and Tim had Nathan. Given I am an only child, and Natalie is an only child, this was his only Great Grandson. Initially, he was able to see him as I used FaceTime video conferencing, but they were able to come up from Kent and Ron did see Nate.

It was more than helpful that I lived two minutes away from Ron. Never more than for the emergency, ‘Help me’ calls. It was ironic that when he had his final fall, I was walking my dog, Why, and was 30 minutes away from the car. However, I rushed over to find Ron on the floor. It was good fortune that he had been able to reach his phone and summon help.

As ever, Ron didn’t want to call for help, mainly because dialling 111 requires you to answer lots of questions and understand the options to get through. As ever, I ignored him and rang. Rapidly two ambulances attended and, whilst they thought he had fainted due to the steam in the bathroom after showering, they did insist he needed to be admitted to hospital. However, they were sure there weren’t any broken bones.

Perhaps, therefore, it was inevitable that after x-rays it was established there was a fractured kneecap and shoulder blade. A longer than predicted stay in hospital was confirmed. Ron had access to his phone and could ring Sheila and me. Naturally, if I rang him the phone was turned off.

Things changed for the worse when a scan showed issues in his liver. It was diagnosed as cancer and without being specific, the intimation was three months to live. Our collective aim was to get him home. This became difficult, not least because Ron rejected an assessment over a few days because there would be limited visiting. This is slightly ironic as there was no visiting at all whilst he was in hospital.

On Thursday 10th June I took some stuff into the hospital and, as I was there, asked if the social worker whom had failed to ring me was there. By chance she was and very helpful, As we know they are all burdened with too much work. We agreed moving Ron was the correct thing to do and I was allowed onto the ward to persuade him. In a fifteen-minute conversation he accepted a transfer was a good idea.

Ron was frail and obviously very ill. Neither of us had ever been very tactile but we did hold hands.

The move was to be on Monday 14th of June. I was awoken at 6 am that morning by a doctor from the hospital with the news that Ron had died during the night. It was a surprise, but it was never going to be a long illness. He was 91 and whilst a sadness for us, it wasn’t a tragedy.

The funeral was held at Lodge Hill Crematorium on 9th of July 2021. By this time, I had found the notes Ron had written about his life which appear is this document. It was a great joy to read them.

Paul Eddington, the actor who played Jim Hacker in Yes, Minister said he wanted his epitaph to be, ‘He did very little harm’. Ron truly did nobody any harm and, perhaps like Eddington, made a very positive impact on a lot of people. He wouldn’t have personally claimed that: his was ‘The Life of a Humble Man’.

Rob Ball
November 2023
rob.ball@naturallyconcerned.com