Patrick''s Story

Patrick Carroll

Description

Patrick has had a very adventurous life. He is said to have had nine lives. Patrick''s mother was sent to Scotland to give birth in her husband''s birthplace. He was named after his Scottish grandfather who died in the war. His grandmother was a Campbell. Patrick''s father was in the Black Watch Regiment.
Apart from two years in Scotland when Patrick''s mother had Tuberculosis, he lived in Birmingham until December 2017, that is when he moved to Wales with his wife and their youngest son and his family to live in a converted barn.

Sujets

• Lettres et linguistique

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 08 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528976794
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Patrick’s Story
Patrick Carroll
Austin Macauley Publishers
2021-01-08
Patrick’s Story Patrick’s Story Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
This story is inspirational: it concerns the life and trials of a very special person who has touched the lives of many people for good.
Patrick’s mother was sent to Scotland to give birth to Patrick in his father’s birthplace. His future adventures were in Birmingham, apart from two years back in Scotland, when his mother had TB. He has had many adventures in his life and was said to have more than nine lives.
Patrick was named after his grandfather who died in the war. His mother was Irish and his father’s parents lived in Scotland: his father’s mother was a Campbell and his father’s father came from Ireland. His father was in the Black Watch regiment.
Dedication
To my family who have supported me all my life.
Copyright © Patrick Carroll (2021)
The right of Patrick Carroll to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of the author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528976770 (Paperback)
ISBN9781528976794 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
Marguerite my Wife
Jackie Chapman and Andy Griffiths, who transcribed my tapes.
Chapter One
Nineteen-forty-seven was the coldest winter in recorded history. The snowdrifts were up to six feet deep and most of the roads within the city were at a standstill – a really horrendous winter!
I was born in the July of that year in a terraced house in Hamilton, Lanarkshire. My mother was Irish but my father was Scottish. He always said he wanted his first son born in his homeland, and that was me. I only lived in that little three-bedroomed place for six months as my father had already returned to Birmingham where he worked as a toolmaker. So Mum, my two sisters and I settled in a little ‘back’ house in Ladywood where there were three toilets shared between five houses. The reason they were called back houses is that there was one room downstairs, a bedroom upstairs and a cellar. It had to be seen to be believed and modern homeowners would never believe it. They were built pre-war and ours was one of the last to have electricity. I remember the gas lights which gave off a wonderful warm glow at night but were a bit temperamental – if you touched the pilot light, they would ‘pop’ and my mum was forever stopping me from doing that.
I loved Monday wash days when I used to watch Mum in the boiler house doing her washing with the other ladies from the neighbourhood and later when I got a bit older, I would try to help her with the big heavy mangle.
Then there was bath day! We had a tin bath and once a week on a Saturday Mum would catch me (if she could!) and pop me in. It was placed on the floor in the lounge and the water from the only cold tap would have to be boiled in kettles and, as I was the smallest, I was first. Being a typical boy, I didn’t like it one bit but put up with Mum giving me a good scrub before I hopped out and toweled dry in front of the fire.
The neighbours in Grosvenor Street West were a friendly lot. The front door was often left open and many a time the next-door neighbour would pop in for some sugar, or tea and check on how we all were. And Mum would do the same – there seemed to be time to sit and chat to each other in genuine friendship. I was only about four, but I remember that times were hard. But we were happy, and the sense of community was very strong. Everyone cared about their neighbours, young and old alike, and help was always at hand when it was needed.
We were quite close to the city centre, but there were still plenty of areas where we kids could play.
My first experience of school was St Peters Infant School and on arriving, Mum took me to the front gate. I was very shy and was a bit intimidated by all the children happily playing in the playground. Some were skipping, some playing hopscotch and there was a lot of noise. I shied away into one comer because I felt I didn’t fit in. Eventually I had to go into class with the others and found that a very frightening experience. We all went for assembly where we sang ‘All things bright and beautiful’. It was wonderful, except that I didn’t know the words, so at first I just listened.
One of my first memories in class was when the teacher said that we could draw anything we wanted to. So I set to and drew my version of a bonfire. I was only five years old, so my effort was no more than scribble, but I thought it was great. Unfortunately, the teacher did not agree and hauled me out in front of the class and the next thing I knew she’d rapped my knuckles with a pencil! I was totally shocked and later tried to explain to her what I had tried to draw, but she wouldn’t listen. What she had thought was scribble was my attempt to portray the sparks and smoke of the bonfire. On reflection, she was probably reluctant to admit that she was wrong.
It’s not surprising that I didn’t like school and my cousin Peter and I used to bunk off and go to the park or train spotting at the station instead. Once Mum found out about this, we were in big trouble. We were taken up before the head and he told us in no uncertain way that we must never miss school. I was five and a half. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to get any better.
We were Catholics and one evening, a priest arrived at our house. At the time, Mum was in hospital with TB and Dad was trying to cope with working and looking after us. A family friend had been helping by watching us between school and Dad getting home but the priest said that he was taking us away in the church van to Father Hudson’s. We were extremely frightened and upset, my sisters were crying and I was fighting to hold back the tears. Dad was trying to calm us down, saying everything would be alright, but the thought of going into a home terrified us. Eventually Dad and my mum’s best friend, Agnes, managed to get us into the van and I shall never forget the journey which took us right out into the countryside to Coleshill. Coming from the inner city,
Coleshill was a delight to my eyes. I could see fields and sheep, which I’d never seen before.
We met with Father Hudson and to me, at the age of nearly six, it was a huge adventure, even though I was still frightened. We were immediately split up and I was sent to the boys’ dormitory while my sisters went to the girls’. I was surprised to find that the place was run by nuns as I’d only ever seen them in church. Sister Teresa took me in hand and her room was right next to my bed. I say room, but in fact it was more like a cell with no windows, no mirrors, just a very plain little bed. She could see that I was upset so she took me down to the kitchen and made me a cup of cocoa. She was kind and gentle and told me that there was no need to be afraid, that there were lots of children in the home who had no Mums or Dads and had nowhere else to go. Then there were some like me whose mothers were ill and, like me, wouldn’t have to stay for very long. When I finished my cocoa, she took me back to the dormitory and asked me if I usually said my prayers. When I said yes, she suggested that we prayed together. We knelt by the bed and, because the other children were already asleep, I whispered my prayer quietly. I prayed for my mum, that she would get better soon, I prayed for my two sisters, Catherine and Anne and hoped that they were settling into their dormitory across the hallway.
As I fell asleep, I fretted about what the other boys would be like and if I’d get on with them. I felt sorry for them after what Sister Teresa had told me about them being orphans. And even though I was still fearful about being in a strange place for the first time in my life, I felt even at that tender age that God was with me.
In the morning, we dressed and went down to breakfast. Prayers were said and, as I was unable to read or write, I didn’t know the prayer so had to follow as best I could. Thankfully, nobody noticed – or if they did, they didn’t mind.
After breakfast it was time to go into the classroom where I found one of the nuns was also my teacher. To my surprise, there were only five of us in there. I found out that there was a flu epidemic and most of my classmates had been kept back in the dormitories. I remember feeling envious of them as I struggled to do my best to keep up.
My little sister Catherine was in the nursery but at playtime, I met up with my other sister, Anne, who was just a year younger than me. She was still very tearful and I tried to reassure her that all would be alright as soon as Mum was better.
The boys in the home were a pretty rough lot and were wary of me at first. I could understand their reluctance as they hadn’t known the love of parents in a good home as I had done. I was lucky in that one or two of the nuns were extra kind to me as they could see that I hadn