Tripping Over. John Hickman

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ who contributed to this book have had to wait a long time to see it appear. Sadly, for some it has taken too long. Many have died before publication. The author hopes he has done their memories justice. We live a while only to die sooner than we planned.

      Carole, my wife, is appreciated as always for her patience in tolerating what has become my obsession. She has been a model of calm and reassurance with her recall of our family folklore. She knew my dad, Bill for more than thirty years.

      To our daughter Sara Jayne, it was your artistic genius that led me to complete my book. Your contribution benefited me in so many ways. Our journey together with Tripping Over became my greatest pleasure, and your insights saved a tottering sequel. Together I’d like to think we put the fun back into being dysfunctional. Thank you, Sara.

      My editor, the irreplaceable Tricia Eban, who gave her time unselfishly, kept me focused and never gave up on me. Tricia prevented my story from becoming a boring diary of events. Her many valuable suggestions and changes allowed my voice to come through.

      Sincere posthumous thanks to Gran, who encouraged me to write with my first Remington portable typewriter. Presented on my tenth birthday, it was an expensive gift in 1955 at £6 pound from Whiteleys department store, Bayswater, London.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF PHOTOGRAPHS:

      Alice Mary Hickman

      Sara Jayne Hickman

      William Frederick Honey

      William Edward Hickman

      Logan Shire Council

      The other photographs are attributed to unknown photographers

      Other sources:

       Daily Mirror

       Daily Telegraph

       The Times

       Daily Express

      Wikipedia

       John Hickman 2012

      

      ‘Who is John Hickman?’ asked the ticket clerk at Ealing Broadway Tube Station.

      ‘I am, sir,’ I replied nervously.

      There was a long pause while he compared the name I’d given him with my proof of age document. He sighed, as if his day had just become more complicated. ‘That’s not what this birth certificate states, Son.’ He held it up facing me, as if I was unaware of its content. ‘Here,’ he pointed at my name, ‘it clearly states your name’s John Honey.’

      The ticket clerk had seized my money and application for my train season ticket together with my birth certificate as proof of age. But he neglected to take the additional document from my hand. Knowing that he needed to sight the other document, as without it I would be treated like a criminal, I edged it across his counter towards him.

      ‘What’s this?’

      I took a deep breath. I knew exactly what to say because I’d been taught. ‘That’s my dad’s change of name by deed poll certificate, sir. It shows that my dad changed his name from Honey to Hickman in 1946. That’s why I’m now John Hickman instead of John Honey.’

      The ticket clerk scratched his head while he examined my dad’s deed poll. ‘You’d better wait here a minute.’

      I waited while he took my certificates to another office. He knocked as it had Manager on the door. He went in. After a while another older man came out with him. The ticket clerk made a big show of pointing across at me, while stabbing his finger at my papers with his other hand. I took deep breaths and tried to look relaxed. A queue had formed up behind me. They were becoming impatient as this was usually a straight-forward procedure. After a while the ticket clerk returned to his nondescript seat and stamped my ticket. ‘Here you go then, John Hickman.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      This was the process I went through whenever I had to show proof of age. Whether it was buying a new train or bus season ticket, joining the Cubs, or even a church choir, I always went through the same routine.

      Back at home Mum asked, ‘How’d you go? Did you get your ticket?’

      ‘Yes, but it took a while. It would be a lot easier if my name was John Honey.’

      Mum stopped what she was doing at the kitchen sink. She turned slowly to face me and then dried her hands on her apron. She let out a long sigh. ‘We’ve been through this before.’ Mum was hesitant. She thought for a moment while choosing her words with care. ‘You know your dad changed his name by deed poll. That’s why you’re John Hickman.’

      I shuffled my feet. ‘Yes, but if he had to change his name, why couldn’t he do it before I was born?’ I started to cry. ‘I’m different but not in a good way, Mum.’

      ‘Oh, dear,’ Mum reached out and pulled me close with a cuddle. I liked it when she did that. It was as if suddenly all of my problems disappeared. Trouble was this one hadn’t, it never did.

      Mum held me tight. ‘You know you’ve always been called John Hickman.’

      I stayed in her arms. I liked it there. I began to whimper. ‘But that’s not the name on my birth certificate, Mum.’ I felt my bottom lip tremble. ‘My friends say that means my name is false.’

      Mum pushed me back. She held me by my shoulders and away at arms length. And then she tried to fix my eyes with hers. ‘Look at me,’ she said.

      I kept my head down.

      Mum became firm. I felt a light shake. The cuddle was over. She repeated firmly. ‘I said look at me.’

      I disobeyed. I didn’t look up. Mum manoeuvred her head to try and get me to look at her. I said nothing. I refused to look at her. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor in front of me.

      I won. Mum softened. ‘It’s not as if you’ve done something wrong, John.’

      I didn’t think I had either. I also felt that this problem of mine was not about to go away, not ever, but then again, I wasn’t about to give up on it either. ‘When we have to trot out our birth certificates it’s upsetting for me, Mum.’

      Mum’s tone changed. It had an edge to it. ‘Tell me. Why are you’re so upset, John?’

      ‘Because I always have to show Dad’s deed poll certificate with my birth certificate and explain why. No-one else has to do that. Sometimes they make fun of me.’

      ‘Did the man at the railway station make fun of you?’

      I thought about it. ‘In a way he did.’

      ‘Maybe you’re a little too sensitive about it for your own good?’

      I СКАЧАТЬ