Sometimes on social media, I read stories of generosity and the generous person is often unknown to the recipient. Perhaps a mother with a child in a pushchair is at the check-out and realises that they cannot afford all their items, when a stranger pays for them. Sometimes it is a young person who stops their own journey to help an older person change a flat tire.
I want to tell you about one extraordinary act of generosity - a genuine act of selflessness by my own father. In the late sixties to the mid-seventies, my Dad was landlord of The Eagle and Child at Weeton, a 16th century coaching inn. Weeton was a small village and everyone knew everyone else. Many villagers worked part-time for Dad including 'Old Bert' who helped maintain the grounds. Bert was a bit smelly, his clothes were badly worn, he always tied string round his trouser legs and wore a flat cap.
Traditionally on Christmas Day, the pub was closed in the evening, so Christmas lunch was an extended family affair. While Dad was behind the bar and Mum did the festive cooking, I was busy laying the grand table in the pub dining room. Dad called me over and said that he had forgotten to pay Bert's wages and he handed me a wage packet, asking me to deliver it to his house.
It was only a quick jog to Bert's council house. When I arrived, he opened the door, didn't speak and went straight back to his own small table. He was keen to finish eating a bowl of hot soup. The day was very cold and yet there was no fire in the grate. Eventually he explained that his wife Winnie, who had mental health problems was back 'in Wesham'. I gave him the wage packet and left.
When I arrived back, Dad was just getting ready to close the bar. I told him about the sorry state in which I found the old man. He asked me to tell Mum to wait a while before she served lunch, then he disappeared out of the front door. Fifteen minutes later, he was back with Bert in tow and instructed me to set a place for him at the Christmas table.
This was so typical of Dad but it really affected me and tears well in my eyes as I remember my loving, generous father who we lost in 1998 aged 83 - far too soon.
'Old Bert'
Such a forlorn figure
sitting here in your cold house,
no fire in the grate.
trying to keep warm
with nothing but
a bowl of soup.
But now you are brought
to share our Christmas fayre
still wearing hobnail boots,
and threadbare, yellowed shirt.
You whiff a bit
but love has no sense of smell.
My very own Father Christmas
brings you the gift of cheer.
You eat heartily,
then touch the peak
of your flat cap to my Mum
and take your leave.
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