Eulogy for Mum/Ros

I’d like to talk a bit about Ros: our Mum, and my Dad’s beloved for more than 65 years.

We worked out I’ve got 15 minutes ….. so I’d better get on with it!!

Ros was academically very gifted, forthright, even obstinate at times and, of course, she was never wrong (knowing wink!).

She absolutely loved literature to the end of her life, even though she ended up studying psychology, and I wonder if both those interests come from curiosity about a world that she was forever trying to understand?

Rosmund Palser was born in 1940 over a Cumberland pub, but her early childhood was spent in rural Essex, in more comfortable and spacious surroundings.

Her sisters Daisy, Margaret and Susan, can’t be here today, but they shared some insights into Ros as a girl.

Margaret remembers:
“We had a lovely time together as youngsters in our house in Woodford; we were 18 months apart … I remember playing endlessly in our huge garden, full of fruit trees, with 2 summer houses. School was a stone’s throw away.
[After we moved north to Lytham St Annes] in 1949, our playground was the sand dunes at the end of our road, Riley Avenue. We were out all day risking life and limb! We dug deep, deep holes and tunnels in the sand and collected corks on the tide line – then filled a sack with them to use as a raft.
“The nearest we came to disaster was by walking out to the [River] Ribble, where the trawlers were. The trawlermen were waving at us and we waved back and then realised that they were shouting “Go back! You’ll get cut off!” and we saw the tide had come in behind us as it does and had to wade back, thigh deep!

“We also went through a horsey phase together, going to the local stables, using borrowed equipment, Rosmund’s steed a big calm black horse called Tommy.”

“Later” [says Margaret] “we got into pop music and pooled our pocket money to buy the latest favourites. I remember playing those and doing our homework in the study. Other childhood memories include collecting discarded pop bottles, then claiming the deposit pennies and feeding the slot machines on the pier. And later, rowing on Fairhaven Lake in more innocent times – before that became Rosmund and her Gang’s stamping ground for boy-hunting!

“We led separate lives for a while when Rosmund was off with her Gang, discovering boys in general, and Julian in particular.

“Later on, we cleverly took turns in having babies so that when Steve was young, I baby-sat and Rosmund paid me in things for the house we were setting up. We shared Rosmund’s lovely Silver Cross pram – that did some miles!

As Margaret said: “It is hard to sum up someone you always knew. She was just Rosmund – my big sister.”

Daisy recalls Rosmund being “highly intelligent, (much brainier than me). She had 8 ‘O’-levels and [much later] a degree. She was also very sensitive to people’s needs. I had to go to Liverpool once for a Civil Service interview and she came with me on the train too as I wasn’t confident! She always knew her own mind and went her own way. I remember when we were at primary school together, the teacher called her Ros-A-mund, and Ros said: “I’m not called Rosamund, I’m Rosmund!”. The teacher said it wasn’t so, and Ros said it was. And in the end, Ros stood up, climbed on her chair, stamped her foot, and said “It is!!”, climbed down and sat down again.

Another time at school we were all singing together. Neither of us could sing, we were so out of tune, and I was aware of this and just mouthed the words, but I could hear Rosmund happily singing away, regardless!”

We know from her sisters and from other members of the family that Ros read voraciously …… and always had her head in a book. One diary entry from a winter Sunday in early adulthood says simply: “Read Hamlet”.

At Queen Mary School in Lytham, she had a group of friends – “The Gang” – with whom she hung out and later went youth-hostelling. They kept in touch, if some more than others, over the next 70 years.

Susan, 8 years Ros’s junior, said: “When we lived at Riley Avenue, and kept rabbits and guinea pigs, Rosmund named her Guinea Pigs after characters in books. For some reason the books she chose were the Whiteoak Chronicles [a 16-book series of novels by the Canadian writer Mazo de la Roche] – and Rogue Herries [a Cumberland-set tale of daring-do by Hugh Walpole], so she had guinea pigs called Captain Philip Whiteoak, Adeline, Augusta, Sir Edwin Buckley, Young Renny, and Judith Paris. I always thought that was funny!

“When I was seven and Rosmund was 15, she started dating …. and always seemed to have a boyfriend, so I don’t remember seeing much of her after that! But overall, I think the two words I would use to describe her would be clever, and forthright.”

From these anecdotes , Ros’s childhood and home life sounds really rather lovely, if not idyllic. And we get a picture of a girl who loved reading and learning, and who knew her own mind to the point of muleishness.

But now we come to the year 1958 – which was a defining one for Ros, in so many ways. She turned 18, but that was the least of it!

I’m speculating here —– but with Dad’s permission!

Mum’s parents, in their different ways, were probably quite unhappy.

Mum’s mother, Irene Doris Lodge (“Rene”), had grown up with her younger brother and sister in a so-called ‘workhouse’ (probably more of a chidren’s home than a Dickensian prison) that her parents, both nurses, ran around the time of the Great War. One particularly painful memory for Rene, which she must have many times recounted to her children because Mum was still mentioning it to me last year(!), was that her parents would give Christmas presents to the children of the workhouse, but not to their own (my Granny and her siblings). It’s quite likely, looking back, that Rene went through life somewhat aggrieved and feeling as though the world owed her. Certainly, she got out as quickly as she could – when she turned 21 – and trained as a nurse in London. Much of her work was private, for well-to-do families, which gave her income, independence and the ability to travel all over Europe in the late 20s and early 30s.

At a reception held by a Travel Agent she met Jack Ernest Joseph Palser, eldest of four children of a public school housemaster. Jack also liked travelling, although he very much didn’t like being a Doctor, which is what his traditional middle-class upbringing had required. His younger brother became a successful surgeon (and his sisters a social worker and a teacher), but Jack had really wanted to be a journalist. This was definitely not acceptable in his particular social niche, so medicine it was. Once qualified, he always tried to avoid actually practicing his profession, as far as possible. He was a ship’s doctor which allowed him to travel all over the Pacific, then, after marrying Rene in the mid-thirties, he was a consultant for a medical supplies company while fathering the 4 girls, before, during and after WW2..

When Mum was 9 the family moved to the house by the beach in Lytham and childhood continued. However it’s pretty likely that by this time Rene might have been feeling that life had again short-changed her. Jack had mood-swings and was unpredictable.

Mum said quite recently that she had realised that the girls had taken their Mother’s word as gospel – and law – during their childhood and after, especially where their Father was concerned. He was often absent, both emotionally and physically, but when he was present, he brought fun and generosity. One afternoon Ros and Margaret complained to Jack that their little sister Susan was always getting presents and treats; when he asked what they wanted, they replied: “bicycles!” and whisked him off to the shop before he could change his mind!

One result of Jack’s being corralled into a profession he didn’t care for was that he was adamant that he would not push any of his children in any direction whatever At the same time, the girls were aware their Father was massively well-read and knowledgeable. They would ask him questions but rather than give the answer, he would tell them to go to his library and look it up.
An early TV series called “Animal, Vegetable or Mineral” was used by the girls to get a television into the house: they kept circling the programme in the Radio Times and telling him that he would really enjoy it. He was finally prevailed upon to bring the cathode ray tube home. And to no-one’s surprise, he was better than the experts on the screen at identifying the mysterious objects.

However, Jack’s horror of pushing/guiding his daughters meant that he never told any of them that they were clever or academically bright, and that they were capable of going to university – very much a minority path in the 1950s, and especially for girls.

Ros hated school, took and passed her O-levels and then started sixth-form while applying for a clerical job in the Civil Service, which was opening a new Land Registry office nearby. Once the job was secured she went to see her headmistress to say she was leaving, just before her 17th birthday. The headmistress said: “You do know you could have gone to university, don’t you?”. Mum was flabbergasted – it was the first time anyone had suggested anything of the sort. So by the end of 1957, Ros had joined the world of work.

At home, things were deteriorating. Jack could be happy and kind; or he could be morose and a slammer of doors. Rene had had enough.

She had taught herself machine knitting and was taking commissions by mail order, as well as taking on nursing night-shifts – apparently un-noticed by her husband (they had long had separate bedrooms) – and was squirrelling money away. From analysis of Mum’s diaries in the past few days (thanks Dad!), it seems the girls were all in on the plan from a couple of months out. What Rene said, went!

She was finally able to buy another house in St Patrick’s Road about a mile away and started removing possessions from the old one; Jack remained apparently unaware.

On Wednesday November 19th, Jack came home for lunch, as was his habit. Rene served it, then Jack went back to work. That afternoon, Rene, plus Ros and Daisy, who’d taken the day off work, worked like ants to move most of the rest of their possessions to the new house.

Hard though it is to imagine, Jack never saw his children, or Rene, again.

That night [we know from her diary], Ros went dancing at the pleasure palace which was Blackpool Winter Gardens with her boyfriend of the time – Ken! Each of her young men at that time seemed to last about 10 or 12 weeks, But that was about to change…!

1958 was also the year she started attending Kenneth Lane’s Dance Class on Church Street, Blackpool, on a Saturday night, as all the sisters did at one time or another. Also there on a Saturday night, as well as most Sundays and at least one other night every week, because he loved to dance, was a 20-year-old called Julian. But he had to wait his turn while Mum finished with John, Ken, and possibly others – the diaries are incomplete! We could find no diaries at all for the years 1959 and 1960 – but that’s love for you!

And now, a potentially life-altering trip to A&E: On the way into the Civil Service one winter morning, Ros was knocked down by a bike with no brakes ridden by someone very late for work. She woke up in hospital with concussion, and, it turned out, decades later, a badly damaged shoulder joint. The medics were understandably preoccupied with the concussion, and no X-rays were done. And we all know, to some extent, how that turned out. Like I said – 1958 was a helluva year.

As 1959 got underway, people at the dancing class decided that Ros – now back dancing – and Julian would be good together, and set to matchmaking; a 13-year-old called Christine did most of the work so that Julian, who was blissfully ignorant of all these machinations, didn’t have to. Wherever you are, Christine, thank you!

They were soon going out and by summer were besotted enough to spend a week together in London. Young Julian, an electrical engineer, endeared himself to his future wife by rewiring her attic bedroom; he’d later endear himself to his mother-in-law by rewiring her entire house!

They were inseparable from then on – until last week. They bought the house at 6 Robins Lane, in 1961 (another place that Dad rewired!) and moved in once they were married, the next year. They had it 22 years before moving so Shel could go to the same secondary school as me, and then in 1997 to La Chebassiere.

When Mum started work, she also started doing A-level English at evening classes. While she might not always have had a plan, it’s clear she was always looking for the next thing, especially if there was language and learning involved.

All this of course was alongside being the archetypal 60s/70s housewife and – once I finally came along to gum up the works – mother. She cooked, she cleaned, she baked, she knitted, she made clothes (including her own maternity dresses), she made do, she mended. It was, as Mum always used to say “just what you did”.

The [then] family of three spent 67-68 in Versailles, where Dad was working on the instrumentation for a fighter: the French built the front half and the British the back), and Mum (and Dad) both built on their O-level French. Once back in Blighty, Roz’s linguistic quest continued with German, Italian and later (at the hands of a former KGB agent, Mr Landon) Russian, in our kitchen!

She loved learning. She also wanted another child and eventually talked Dad round, so in 1971, along came Shel, who when we get home will be delighted to show you dozens of pictures proving what a cute kid she was! I was horrible to her – sorry Sis!

As well as languages, Mum took countless other courses at the WEA and other institutions, and she kept on reading. She also kept on cooking all the meals and keeping the household going until, when I was about 14, the whole family took it in turns to get glandular fever and be confined to bed for weeks at a time. At that point Dad had to cook some lamb chops unaided; he achieved this one step at a time by running up and down stairs every couple of minutes to check with an ailing Mum what to do next!

Of course, once Mum and Dad retired to La Chebassiere, she kind of got her own back!!

Apart from the glandular fever epidemic, I really don’t rmember Mum being ill. She always seemed healthy and I remember her belting up and down stairs seemingly endlessly in t-shirt and shorts to keep fit – this is long before running in the street for the hell of it was something adults did – at least in Lancashire!

As Shel and I passed through childhood and school, and towards university, Mum got more time to herself, and the studying continued. At last she had gone as far as she could without getting a degree herself.

She got the requisite 2 A-levels and went to study Psychology at Lancaster, when I was near the end of my degree and Shel was a few years from starting hers. Of course, she out-performed us both!

Afterwards she did the graduate job-hunt and returned to paid work for the first time in many years – but the uni-bug had well and truly bitten and she soon started looking for a funded Research Assistantship which could lead to a PhD. After a bit of searching, she found one dealing in ‘The Early Language Development of Children’ at Manchester.

I have absolutely no doubt she would have completed her PhD in fine style – her end-of-first year “Transfer Document” shows she knew exactly where she was going and how she was going to get there – but in 1994 that shoulder joint which had muttered mutinously since the fifties had its say. This short-term solution, with Shel and Dad ferrying Mum to and from her appointments with mothers and their toddlers, and then typing up her notes, became a pausing, and eventually, once Dad announced his desire to take early retirement, a withdrawal.

She and Dad had always loved being in France, ever since Versailles in the sixties, and the decision was taken to move permanently to the house they’d bought in 1992.

Mum got surgery on the shoulder in 1999 but it plagued her for almost the rest of her life. She remained apparently healthy otherwise and didn’t take so much as a pill until a couple of years ago.

She produced two children – me; mostly easy going if sometimes a bit obstinate, and Shel, probably more like Mum: quietly rebellious and determined to pursue her own path. If she didn’t like something, she just slid past it towards something she felt was worthy of her engagement. These are Dad’s thoughts, by the way.
Speaking of Dad, it says a lot about how much Mum and Dad loved each other, and how comfortable they were together, that they lived out almost 30 years of contented retirement, the odd health issue aside, of course, in a tiny, though friendly, French village.

I think Ros made a similar impression on my share of her grandchildren, to that she had on her sisters. She was genuinely interested in what they had to say; she was forthright; she was thoughtful.

For Stan, it meant she just couldn’t understand why at the age of 7 or 8, he would rather play on his Gameboy Advance rather than provide entertainment – and as we know she never really embraced that kind of technology!
For Joe, who would chatter away quite happily from a young age, it meant he always conjugates the French verb for “To Say” correctly, because she once bothered to pick him up on it!

Frank was touched when, visiting as a young teenager, maybe about 14, who was fanatical about comedy, he was handed a cutting from Mum’s favourite magazine, The Psychologist, about comedy and the “gendered differences in social performance.” He said; “It was a level of thoughtfulness that took me completely by surprise – though it also made me feel a bit self-conscious!”

And Angel said: “If you made her laugh, then you knew you’d actually made her laugh, which was validating. Because she wasn’t one to fake it. She was authentic.”

In the end, to paraphrase Paul Anka’s legendary funeral favourite, which we will not be hearing today: “Ros did it her way.”

Thank you all, and thank you Mum.