To Tell You The Truth

About the Author

Lieutenant Commander M.F. (Bob) King R.N. retired from the Royal Navy in 1960 for family reasons; to be more involved in the life of his family, especially to help his wife and to be influential in the raising and development of their three sons.

He joined the steel industry in a lowly position at the start, but prospered to become the General Manager of Skinningrove Steelworks, near Teesside and later, a senior director in the Yorkshire Region of the industry which was, at the time, a huge conglomerate of iron and steel producers.

He became part of the Teesside social scene and belonged to a famous golf club, of which he served as Captain and later as President.

A casual acquaintance would be forgiven for concluding from his manner and bearing that he came from a privileged background with a good education. Indeed this was the impression he tried to impart by evading the truth, of which he was agonisingly ashamed, but had managed to obscure from the world and even his family.

He joined the Royal Navy as a boy seaman at the outbreak of World War II and his recollections are fascinatingly told with candour, pathos and humour. Enormous tribute is paid to the Royal Navy for his rescue from penury and disadvantage and preparing him for promotion, a place in society and business.

At the advanced age of 90 he felt an urge to free himself of the burden of life-long deception and record the truth. His intention was to leave a scruffy manuscript to be discovered on his demise, but it turned out differently and his book, To Tell You The Truth, reveals it all.

***

***

Dedications

I dedicate these reminiscences to my beloved wife Joan, now departed this world after our sixty five years of happy marriage, and who was the first person to bring love into my life; blessed us with three wonderful sons, generated love and happiness in our homes and with all whose lives brushed with hers.

***

***

***

***

***

To Tell You The Truth

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018, Bob King

The right of Bob King Irving to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

***

A CIP catalogue record for this title is

Available from the British Library.

***

www.austinmacauley.com

***

To Tell You The Truth, 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 9781787105164 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781787105171 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781787105164 (E-Book)

***

First Published in 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers.LTD/

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

***

***

Acknowledgements

Following the passing of my dear wife I suffered severe loneliness during the long winter evenings. I am indebted to The Reverend Peter Bailey, with whom I often meet for chat and refreshment, who suggested I might banish the loneliness by putting pen to paper and recording what seemed to him an unusually interesting life.

Thanks to my family for their generous help in recalling, as accurately as possible, the details of various episodes in my life.

To Elizabeth Woolsey: my heartfelt gratitude for her painstaking proof reading and help with structure, punctuation and grammar; not my strong suits and who, with her husband Bob, provided generous encouragement.

My gratitude to Alexandra de Villeay, who educated me in the use of a computer in preparing the manuscript and for her advice and continuous encouragement.

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

Prologue

It was a very sad day for Dorothy Joan Jenkins. In July 2010 she had been invited to a great reunion of the Jenkins and Clifton families, but was not able to accept because her health and eyesight had deteriorated severely, restricting her ability to travel.

It was particularly upsetting because she was a member of those families through marriage, and loved them all dearly. She owed them a great debt of gratitude for their kindness and protection when, fifty years previously, she and her small child were struck by adversity during World War II.

Although nearly blind, she obtained help to send them the following letter which was read to the assembled families:

***

***

***

***

***

***

FAMILY REUNION JULY, 2010

Hello, hello to you all,

I hope you are having a wonderful family reunion and, in case you are wondering who the devil I am, let me explain:

I am either your aunt, great aunt, or great, great aunt. So something of a dinosaur! Which is why, sadly, it is impractical for me to be with you today.

I became part of the family when I married Peter Jenkins, that is the brother of Kitty (Clifton) and Betty (Phipps) both nee Jenkins.

You would all have loved Peter for his great character, sense of humour and loyalty. In the Second World War he was a navigating officer and flew in Lancaster bombers.

I really loved his mother Granny Jenkins, a lady of great character and dignity who treated me more as a dear daughter than an in-law, Grandpa Jenkins was a kind, but rather naughty, gentleman of whom one did not see a great deal.

***

Granny Jenkins

In June 1942 I was pregnant with our son, your cousin, Michael. His father Peter was absent with the RAF and I was living in Southampton which was being bombed night after night. It was frightening for everyone, but especially for a twenty five year-old woman carrying a baby. Dear Kitty and her husband Fred insisted that for safety sake I should go to live with them in Weeton in Yorkshire. It was a great sacrifice for them to do this because they had children of their own (James and Robert) and also living with them, sheltering from the bombing in the south, was Granny Jenkins. Feeding those extra mouths in times of severe food rationing was a great problem and I am eternally grateful to them for managing it.

After bombed-out Southampton, Weeton and the Clifton home were rare havens of peace. Despite the deprivations of war, it was a supremely happy time for me and I have very, very fond memories of it. Our son Michael was eventually born in Harrogate in October 1942; we celebrated his safe arrival and also that his place of birth qualified him to play cricket for Yorkshire.

However, the time came for the two of us to leave this haven to be as near as possible to my husband, now a father. We lived quite near to the airfields from which Peter operated and apart from unspoken fears, always lurking at the back of our minds, we enjoyed a happy and idyllic life for nine months. There were the joyful moments in the early mornings when his aircraft returned safely from bombing missions, followed by the two or three day rest he was allowed, when the three of us could be together as a family. Peter completed many of these missions and had he survived his last one he would have been released from active service flying.

But, that tragic morning came when his aircraft did not return and suddenly, for my baby and me, life ahead looked very bleak indeed. I felt intensely cold and lonely.

However, we were not alone. Fred and Kitty Clifton swept us straight back into the bosom of their family and their warmth, love and kindness began the healing process. I shall never forget them for that, or how wonderful James and Robert were to Michael. He must have been a bit of a pest to them but when he had grown a bit they took him everywhere with them. On one occasion they returned a soaking wet child to me and said, Arnie Joan. He fell into a stream, but we emptied his wellies.

Back: Fred, Kitty, Joan Front: Robert, James (?), Michael

And so I enjoyed another spell of idyllic life with the Clifton’s, but eventually I had to stand on my own feet and in June, 1944 I returned with Michael to live with my widowed father in Southampton, now safe from bombing, and returned to teaching PE.

Prior to travelling, however, a strange thing happened. Kitty, a few friends and I spent a day in Harrogate and, just for fun, had a session with a clairvoyant. I was told that I should not make the journey I was planning on June 5th and also I would meet and marry a dark and handsome man and have two more children. We laughed this off of course but, as it happened, I had to delay travelling until 9th of June which transpired to be a great blessing: the invasion of Europe began on the 6th and on the days leading up to it, roads and railways were completely clogged with troops on the move. One prophecy of the clairvoyant had come to pass, would the second, of the handsome man and two more children do the same? That is another story.

My thoughts are very much with you today. My love to you all.

Aunt, Great Aunt or Great, Great Aunt,

Joan.

***

Chapter 1

Summer 1996

I was seventy-three years of age and retired. I had enjoyed two working careers, one of twenty years in the Royal Navy and a second in the steel industry, also of twenty years. I was married with three sons. My wife and I lived in North Yorkshire in an old farm house, converted by us in 1971. Life was comfortable and active and we might have been described as a retired lady and gentleman of adequate means. It had not always been so: there had been travails on the way, but now, they were happily all in the past. With our sons established in their careers we could now look forward to enjoying the remaining years of our lives. Or could we? Was a twist of fate in waiting ready to strike and threaten our contentment?

***

The Letter

It was a beautiful morning. I had been awake and day dreaming for some time when the sound of the postman provoked me to get up and see if he had delivered anything of interest. At first glance the letters scattered on the doormat seemed the usual delivery of junk mail. I said to myself, for the umpteenth time, I must do something to stop receiving all this stuff.

What a waste! I muttered to myself as I gathered it for the bin. But, on scooping it up, I spotted the corner of a small brown envelope, almost buried under the pile, which might well have gone unnoticed and shared the fate of the rest of the junk, had it not looked a little different. Mildly interested, I retrieved it and was quite surprised to discover it was from The Ministry of Defence. Having retired from the Royal Navy thirty-six years before, I was curious to know: what they could possibly want from me now? Since resigning my commission for family reasons, all those years ago, correspondence from them had virtually dried up except for the regular monthly pension cheque (thank heavens), which went straight into my bank account. So what could they want?

I had taken early retirement in January 1960 and in the years since then the Navy had seen huge advances in technology, the design of ships, their armour and in naval strategy. I would not be familiar with any of it now and would be unfit for purpose. Curiosity mounting I slit open the envelope with my little finger and read it.

I was quite unprepared for the shock I received from the message contained in that tiny piece of paper and the consequences that might flow from it. Frozen to the spot, my hand clasping the letter, for what seemed interminable moments, I gazed unseeing into the distance, my mind filling with dark clouds of apprehension and imagination in high gear foreseeing alarming, unpleasant and life-changing possibilities. I thought of my wife and three sons and the damage to our marriage and their lives that this letter might bring upon them if my worst fears were realised. I read the letter yet again.

***

In Confidence

Ministry Of Defence

July 1996

Dear Commander King,

Personal correspondence

We have been approached by a Miss S Board who wishes to correspond with you apparently on a personal matter.

It is not, of course, the practice of the Ministry to disclose the addresses of former servicemen to members of the public.

However, if you wish to receive any letters from Miss Board I can forward them to you from this office.

I would be obliged if you would say whether you wish me to pass on any such letters and whether the above address is the one to which they would be sent?

Yours ......................

***

I searched my memory trying to recall a woman called Board, wondering whether the initial S stood for Sylvia, Susan, Sally or Sarah. If I could rehearse all Christian names beginning with S, one of them might trigger my memory to reveal the identity of the lady who wished to correspond with me, and possibly, the reason why. Nothing came to me.

Of course, there could be a number of reasons, most of them quite innocent and could even be to my advantage. Supposing an ancient and forgotten aunt, or other relation, had left me something in their will and knowing only that I had been in the Royal Navy, were unaware of my present whereabouts? Miss Board could be a solicitor searching for a beneficiary. I relished that thought greedily for a fleeting moment, but I knew in reality it was wishful. My only relatives likely to have interesting sums to bequeath were on my mother’s side, but because of a family feud that raged before I was born, they probably didn’t even know of my existence.

Could it be about a forgotten debt left in some foreign land or perhaps the return of some valuable item belonging to me? I was pretty sure it could not be either of these, especially after such a long gap. Perhaps she had met me somewhere in romantic circumstances, I mused, and having taken a fancy, wants to discover if I am available. She would get a shock, I thought, age having taken its toll of a once presentable face and physique.

One by one I had to reject all the reasons I could conjure for Miss Board wanting to get in touch, except for one: from the moment of my very first glance at the M.O.D. letter I feared it would be about paternity and my conscience stirred uncomfortably.

Should I discuss this with my wife, Joan was the first question I had to resolve and if I did, what on earth would her reaction be? I tried to imagine how I might feel if the situation were reversed and concluded that having enjoyed forty-nine years of happy marriage together I was not likely to allow an ancient and perhaps, imaginary peccadillo come between us now.

Joan was still in bed so I decided to make tea and take it up to her, determined to get the matter off my chest at once. When a suitable moment presented itself I broached the subject by explaining I had received a disturbing letter which I would like her to read. She looked a little concerned, but made no comment and held out her hand for it. She read it two or three times and finally, still holding it, her hands dropped on to the bed, and for a long time she gazed out of the window in silent contemplation. I interpreted her slow and deliberate reaction gloomily and feared an outburst. I should have known my wife better: she turned, looked me straight in the eyes and said Darling, if you have been naughty I don’t wish to know about it and no matter how serious it might be, we are too ‘long in the tooth’ to let it affect us. But, I don’t think we should put the worst interpretation on the letter before we find out why she wants to get in touch. What do you want to do?

We discussed it for some time and decided I should write to the Ministry of Defence explaining that I had no recollection of a Miss Board, but if she wished to write to me she should do so through the Ministry and we would take it from there.

My dear wife decided to take a bath whilst I continued to lay on the bed, thanking my lucky stars for such a warm, wise and loving partner. As thoughts, doubts and apprehension raced through my mind I resolved to act without delay and went to my office and penned a suitable letter to the M.O.D There was nothing more to be done except wait, with curiosity and trepidation, for the outcome.

It was not long in coming. Within about ten days the post arrived with a letter from the M.O.D. This is the moment of truth I muttered to myself and nervous of what the contents might reveal, I gazed at the unopened envelope for many moments, contemplating the possibility that it could change our lives irrevocably and in the most unexpected way, for a reason that had not occurred to me, it did exactly that.

Dear Commander King,

Forgive me for writing to you out of the blue but I think you might be my uncle. My mother is Myrtle Elizabeth Joan Board nee King and she was born 31st July 1926, and if you are my uncle, you would be Maurice Frederick King who was born on 5th September 1923, but she always called you Bob. You also had two sisters, Peggy and Dorothy and a Younger brother Alec, full name Alastair Wyndham Gordon King.

You were born and lived in London with your parents Janet King nee Skogholm and Frederick Thomas King, until you were separated in the early 1930s and you were all sent to different foster homes.

I have grown up hearing about you and my mum has a very old photograph of a very young man in naval uniform who I think could be you! As this year is my mum’s 70th birthday, I decided I really wanted to make an effort to find you for her. It is very difficult writing to someone who may or may not be related to me so please forgive me if this is a little confusing for you, it is also confusing for me.

In many ways my mum has had a difficult life, she has brought up seven children (including me) virtually single handed, and we have all turned out all right I think!

But I know it has been very difficult for her not to have had her brothers and sisters around her, especially you, and if I could give that back to her that would make me very happy indeed.

If you are my uncle, it would be lovely if you could get in touch and you can reach me on the telephone number below. If you are not my uncle I would really appreciate it if you could let me know so that I can continue the search.

I hope to hear from you very soon and that my search has a happy ending.

Yours sincerely,

Sarah Board

***

***

***

***

***

***

My first reaction was of great relief that my guilty fears had been unfounded and I could relax on that score. Then there was the incredible prospect of being reunited with my sister Joan who I had long since abandoned as either no longer being alive or out of reach.

The last time I had seen my sister Joan was in January 1940 when I bid her farewell before leaving to join the Navy. She was thirteen and not very happy with life. I was sad for her because she, my brother Alec and I, in our childhood, had been deprived of proper care, love or affection and of the three of us, I think Joan had most difficulty in coming to terms with it. We sadly lost touch, not uncommon in times of war, but after the war my sisters, Dorothy and Peggy had tried to trace her but their efforts came to naught and they eventually gave up.

The lovely, caring letter from Joan’s daughter Sarah stirred my emotions deeply and began to revive the sad memories of our childhood which had been almost deleted from my mind. I rang the telephone number Sarah had given and she answered immediately, as though she had anticipated the call and was nearby, ready to receive it.

She answered giving her telephone number and I asked: Am I speaking with Sarah Board?

Sarah replied: Yes. Is that Commander King?

How she guessed it was me I shall never know but I said to her, I think you have found an uncle!

It was an emotional moment for both of us, which we had to overcome as well as an initial shyness but it was not long before we were chatting, not as strangers, but as long lost friends. I sensed Sarah’s engaging personality immediately and warmed to her.

Her attractive voice and command of the language made talking with her a pleasure. Although I tried, in vain, to visualize her in person, I failed, but felt sure I would not be disappointed when the time came.

Sarah and Harry

I learned a great deal from her of my sister Joan’s life and family as she did of mine. We must have spoken for at least an hour and were reluctant to stop, but we made plans for my wife and I to travel to Rugby, where Joan and many of her family lived and that I would organize a reunion dinner for as many of our close families as we could muster, but not before I met my sister for a private reunion prior to the celebration dinner.

In the days that followed I could not put this totally unexpected development out of my mind. It generated a resurging flood of memories bringing back into sharp focus the most unpleasant and upsetting memories of our childhood. They caused me to live, over and over again, the shattering moments in our young lives which destroyed the family, separated five children from their parents and from each other, never to be reunited and occurring on Christmas Day which all children treasure and remember as a time of joy.

Christmas 1934

I was eleven years old and remember Christmas Eve with particular clarity. My father had promised to buy me a torch for Christmas and when, disturbed from sleep by someone moving about downstairs, I assumed it was either my mother or father and, when I saw through the open bedroom door, the beam of a torchlight being flashed about and ascending the stairs, my heart leapt with excitement believing it to be my father with the torch he had promised me. I was to be disappointed and surprised when, instead of my father, the figure of a policeman appeared and proceeded to ask me questions as to where our parents were, did we have food and drink, how long had we been without electric light? He looked around the house and before leaving said he would get someone to help us and to go back to sleep until they came.

My sister Joan was eight years old and brother Alec four. They were both asleep alongside me on a mattress on the floor and speculating why the policemen had called and trying to imagine the kind of help he could bring, I soon rejoined them in sleep.

The following morning, Christmas Day of 1934, I was awakened by more noises from below, followed by the sound of footsteps of several people ascending the stairs. I remember the background murmuring and clattering they made which, to a young boy, seemed quite hostile and I awaited their appearance with trepidation.

The people on the stairs reached the landing and entered the bedroom. We could only blink with amazement at the sight of the trays of food and drink they were bearing and only half heard their words of sympathy and horror such as poor children, what a state to leave them in. For we children, however, Christmas had miraculously come to us and we began to devour the food with the craving of the half-starved.

The people, I learned later, were nearby neighbours who had been alerted to our plight by the visitations of the police and were compassionate in wanting to do something about it. They decided they could at least try to assuage our hunger, and they did so in grand festive style. Before leaving they confirmed that someone would be coming to help us without specifying the kind of help it would be. However, to us hungry children that was of secondary importance as we tucked in with relish to sandwiches, Christmas cake and mince pies.

We had hardly finished sating our appetites with this wonderful Christmas fare when the sound of traffic, from the road outside, alerted us and drew us to the windows to see what was happening. Outside the house and nearby, we could see an ambulance, a police car and several other cars. Uniformed officials and others in civilian clothing were emerging from the vehicles and looking towards our house which a policeman seemed to be pointing out to them. I suddenly felt very apprehensive for the three of us sensing that this was the help