My grandfather's story

 I grew up in a family of yarners.

Not of the material kind, but the kind that was long on laying down the folklore of their forbears through tale.

There was one who, as a boy, was given some money (a sixpence comes to mind, but I don't know that it's true) to go to a school for boys. There came a time when the boy in question had learned all that the school offered, and that time was far shorter than anticipated. He decided that his life would be better spent pocketing the money and going fishing every day.

Unfortunately this was not a permanent state of affairs as one of the parents of the boy went to the school for boys to see his son and found that his son was not there and this made him very angry because he worked hard to ensure that his son be better educated but the teachers assured him that he had been.

The father packed up his son and another and sailed to the other side of the world and sent them to their own adventures.

I do so wish that I could go back to my childhood and ask any of the generations of aunts available to me and say "which of my family line was that story from?"

It would certainly save me from picking at the threads of family history now and ask of them all "did you know this boy?"

One story that I do know is this one - and that is because it was of my grandfather - my mother's father- and a tale confirmed on Trove.

My grandfather, Field Andrew Ian, was the last born of a successful sugar mill manager and his second wife - he already had a grown family with his first.

When he was four his father died suddenly.

His distraught widow was visited by all of his colleagues and friends to offer their condolences - and request that she waive their promissory notes.

Without his income - and thanks to his generosity in loaning out the large dowry that she had brought to the marriage, without capital, his mother was forced to open her home as a boarding house and this little boy grew up with his much older brother, his slightly older sister, his mother and the boarders.

But she was a good housekeeper and made enough to send her very serious little boy to the local piano teacher as he seemed keen on the instrument.

Several months later the piano teacher came to my great-grandmother and requested a meeting.

"I am afraid that I cannot teach your son Ian any more," he told her.

"Whatever has he done?" she cried.

In the non-pc days of my childhood the next section of the story was not that shocking.

"I will thrash him with a whippy stick!" she cried but he stopped her.

"No, ma'am, no. I cannot teach your son Ian any more, because he has learned everything that I know. You need a better teacher."

My grandfather was rewarded for good marks at school with being allowed to sleep in his mother's bed.

These days again such statements are seen askance. 

At the age of 17 he was so bald he took a razor to the last few wisps and was forevermore done with hair.

He could pick up any instrument and play any tune if you hummed a few bars.

When my grandmother met my grandfather, he was besotted and requested her hand in marriage very soon.

"No." she said. "I will not marry a mother's boy."

He immediately moved to the other side of the country and did a 3 year stint at proving he was independent to the worthy young woman.

The proviso to the acceptance of the next proposal was that he was to get together the deposit for a house while she got the wherewithal to furnish it.

They married and 9 months and 10 days (it was very important to my grandmother that the "and 10 days" was included in the story) later my mother was born.

During that 9 months and 10 days, my grandfather won a competition with his singing. Apparently he had a lovely baritone (or was he a tenor?).

He was offered a chance to go and sing in London and even become perhaps a professional.

He was a sensible man. He had married the girl of his dreams. They had a beautifully furnished house. A baby was coming. He had a good job at the bank.

What if he got laryngitis?

He got a reputation at the bank for getting little banks up and running after they had hit rough spots. He would be transferred to an outpost of empire and my grandmother with a baby then a toddler and eventually a baby AND a toddler then two young girls would have to pack up the house, sell or store furniture, organise a house sale (you couldn't have a separate income stream while in the public service position that he held at the bank), move, find suitable accommodation, find a suitable house, get him to buy it (because married women didn't have property), refurnish and set up a garden he would be transferred to another outpost.

When my mother was about to leave primary school, he got promoted out of state.

"No," my grandmother said "the girls now need stability for their education." And so they stayed.

He performed the Messiah for the ABC Radio performance every year.

One year, he was on the tram when the woman beside him saw his promotional photo in the newspaper. 

"Look at that boiled egg," she chortled to him.

He removed his hat and bowed.

He sang at my aunt's wedding but never at my mother's nor her sister's. It still is remembered wistfully.

By the time my older sister was born he was suffering greatly from cholesterol.  He got to hold his first grandchild.  He died aged only 58.

My grandmother died at 93 - 35 years later.

My mother no longer clearly remembers him. My aunt probably does.

My dad remembers him also.

His diary refers to Boss and he often talks about how instrumental his father-in-law's advice and wisdom helped him.