Chapter 50 - Lest we forget the North

Lancashire’s hills are the stage for stories of the struggle of us common folk. At the foot of these hills, are the industrial towns. Within them, the imposing giants; the carcasses of the ‘Dark Satanic mills’, symbolic of the cause of dehumanisation, exploitation and deprivation. Yes, the North was one of the machines upon which the success of the British Empire was dependent. 

Some inhabitants of the North are still struggling to escape deprivation. The small terraced houses, once inhabited by mill workers and their extended families, are occupied by new people. Perhaps, initially two-parent families, with the desire to be long-term. However, the pressure becomes unbearable, working long hours to provide for your dependants, not just yourself. The opportunity to see your loved ones becomes infrequent, you cease to know them. Eventually, the two-parent family ideal slips from your grasp, and the onus to both financially and emotionally support your children is solely yours. Some may say these predicaments are the miseries of modern life. 

I took a walk down Hollins Lane, towards Accrington’s town centre with my father one day. Accrington is perhaps not necessarily equated with deprivation but has had its challenges. There were riots over employment conditions during Britain’s industrial boom; followed by a famine in eighteen sixty. The consequences of war have impacted on the town too. If you happen to take a walk down Hollins Lane, you will find your feet pick up speed as the steep slope hurries you. To your right, is Oak Hill park, with its impeccably maintained lawns and trees. Within the park is a striking war memorial, reminding you that the past is always watching. "Lest we forget," my father said to me that day, as we passed the memorial. We were on our way to meet Molly, his new girlfriend. "A large portion of the male adult population of this town was wiped out because of World War I. Did so many have to die? And have we learnt anything? It appears not. Only a few years ago, during the Gulf War, just under three hundred allied soldiers died, and god knows how many Iraqi soldiers, hundreds of thousands, I expect. So many people over the years have been killed by the machines of modern war and industry. 

"Not long after the Gulf War had ended, my former employers asked me to go to Kuwait. I was told that insurance was big business over there, after the war," he said. I pictured him traipsing across the desert, navigating through hundreds of oil wells, that had been burning for many months, releasing towers of smoke. I could visualise Dad explaining to an anxious oil baron, “Well it doesn’t look good. It could cost a couple of billion.” Whilst discussing insurance with the oil baron, I would like to think that even with the chaos of the Kuwait aftermath, Dad would periodically check his pager for messages from his offspring. 

"I didn't accept the offer though. Something a bit distasteful about it." 

"Perhaps that's why you're their former employee," I said. 

"Perhaps — anyway, I'm done with insurance in this country. Time for a fresh start. I'm moving to Ireland with Molly. You'll meet her soon. She’s of Irish heritage but born in Lancashire.” 

For many years, Dad had spent a lot of time knocking on strangers' doors, confidently introducing himself. “Hello, my name is Graham Robinson and I am an insurance broker.” In later years he would frequently be turned away. One knock back after another, left Father feeling perplexed and dejected. His circumstances were changing. “I’m really short of money Helen.” 

"Aren't you happy now the Labour party are in government?" 

"Well, Tony Benn may be correct in observing that the Tories are not particularly bright when it comes to capitalism. But do you think this New Labour bunch are any better or different to the Tory party? My guess is they’re probably just as clueless." 

I should at this point state that Dad too, had failed at capitalism. I don't know what happened to his acquisitions, his holiday home and caravan. I think Sylvia had managed to keep them. She was, and probably still is a successful businesswoman in the borough of Lancashire, and probably wasn't banished to a life in a small terraced house. She would have needed room for her ornate rosewood table, matching display cabinet and her artificial peach flower candle holders. I doubt Sylvia will ever be a deprived Northerner. Like Thatcher, a great believer in individualism, rather than collectivism. “Some of us are our own worst enemy,” she said one day glaring at Dad. I wonder if her perspective might have been slightly different had she not had a most generous benefactor. I think the struggles and famine of Accrington’s past did not feature in Sylvia’s world.

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