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Self-Sufficiency in Style 

the refugee

A little autobiography will help put the warning into context.

His mother had run from her home at the age of 17 and crossed the world on her own to escape a civil war.

So the fact of mans' intolerance to man was an ever present factor in childhood

Not everybody fits any pattern.

My mother was an Irish Roman Catholic, but of a strongly pro-British opinion. This was much more common than is often thought today, but sufficiently alternative to make life very uncomfortable during the vicious civil war that erupted after the creation of the Free State.

She had no compunction about becoming Chair of a local Conservative and Unionist Club in Kent, seeing no contradiction between her love of Ireland, her religion and her home and loyalty to Britain, in particular, to England.

She had many Protestant Irish friends, and had no difficulty in getting on with them in public or criticising them in private.

Opening Bat

She also adored the English en-mass, and being the woman she was, married one.

She chose wisely and well, if a trifle controversially. She picked the scion of a rare English Republican family. They were also extremely left wing and atheist. Protestant atheist too, as the Irish would have it.

Nobody went to their wedding, as she would cheerfully admit. Everybody had some objection.

My paternal grandfather was particularly incensed and following one row over religion or politics refused ever again to enter the house.

He would call by for my father and yell for him from the street, for the pair of them to go off to cricket together.

When they voted, they voted different ways. They agreed not to vote at all, since it was a waste of time, until my father caught my mother characteristically cheating by nipping down to vote when his back was turned.

When the royal family appeared on TV, my father would grumble to my mother's enthrallment.

"Mad and expensive," he would mutter darkly thereby encompassing the whole of the Irish and the royal family in one blanket condemnation.

Spoiled Ballot

It was entirely predictable that they should call their second son "George Patrick" to encompass all possible opinions, and equally predictable that my mother should renege on the deal and call me "Pat."

My father might have retaliated, and insisted on "George", but was unbelievably bad at remembering anyone's name and usually called me "Jim."

So there I was: an English RC with an Irish name and a confused sense of identity.

But I had gained a comprehensive view of conflicting political thought in an arguing  family.

My mother would, a few days before, have received a huge box of shamrock direct from Ireland. The occasion was inevitably accompanied by floods of tears and many stories of her childhood, in which both the IRA, the "Black and Tans" and the English (unusually) emerged as villains. It seems that the others were evil, whereas the English were merely stupid.

My father would view the whole affair with a shrug of his shoulders and a broad grin. He would confide in me "they are all mad you know," but do absolutely nothing to prevent me being decorated in greenery on the day itself.

There were strict instructions that the shamrock was under no circumstances to be removed.

It was some years, and several bashings up before I learned to ignore that instruction and deposit the whole lot, green ribbon and all, in the nearest hedge.

It wasn't that my school friends were anti-Irish, it was just that they enjoyed assaulting any of their peers stupid enough to come to school so arrayed.

That was a lesson in itself. That the Irish know too much history, the English too little.

But, at least, I am an Englishman that has shed blood in Ireland's cause. A story that buys me a drink in any Irish bar.

I was lucky enough to pass the examinations for entrance to a rather good Catholic school, but my mother being my mother, had just had a row with the local nuns, and in a spirit of defiance, sent me to the local grammar.

There I learned a very Protestant view of English history and was made to stand outside in the corridor during morning prayers and religious instruction. This was envied by most of the rest of the school.

I was also beaten up, not for being a Catholic, but for having a girl's name.

The boys were quite extraordinarily  tolerant of religious difference, but were suspicious of androgynous names.

My Christian name was to continue to haunt me, since I also married a Pat(ricia).

We had serious schisms in the family with members not talking to one another.

My mother was actually afraid to visit her birthplace.

This is really only the start of the story, the rest can come another day.

You can return to the question of Locality, or find some more autobiographical stories  on the Writer

To specialise in dealing with the world's trouble spots, Lebanon and Yugoslavia, to be threatened by the Mafia and to send British ships to war.

To get mixed up in the Cold War, smuggling and illegal immigration. To have armed men in my home, and eventually, after retirement, to be forced from my small-holding by bigotry.

To meet and be friends with some of the most contentious figures in British politics.

History repeated itself in quite a spectacular way. And then after all this, unbelievably, to have to threaten to go into political asylum from England itself not for politics but as a result of the criminal activities of a band of government veterinary surgeons.

So when I see those little bands of refugees in a far country. I feel for them - all of them. Stay close to home - don't join them!

...staying close to home

- in the unpromisingly named Hangman's Cottage, just to the south of Misery Corner.