1902 Sunbeam Safety
Part 1

“And following Michael we have the lovely Georgi Stephens on her 1902 Sunbeam Safety,” the MC enthused from the loudspeakers.

There was a lot more, I’ve heard it so often I simply tuned it out and concentrated on manoeuvring my behemoth of a steed along the roadway. It would be at lot easier of course if we weren’t riding so slowly for the audience to see us. Some people do battle re-enactments, others prefer to relive some strange war free version of the 1940’s, but for me, Michael and our cohort its vintage bicycles.

Yep, on any summer weekend you’ll find us demonstrating our steeds at events up and down the country, fêtes, carnivals, cycle races, even a wedding. The bikes are obviously the ‘stars’ of the show, polished and oiled to perfection but of course wearing modern clothing wouldn’t do them justice. So of course, whilst it’s not our ‘thing’ exactly, we do all wear period ‘costume’, from Fraser in his tweeds and deerstalker astride his Ordinary to me in the crinolines and corsetry of the early twentieth century.

I smiled and waved at the slightly bored crowd, they’ve come to watch the racing of course, not a bunch of weirdos on ancient bed irons . Living history pah, its sweaty blokes in lycra they’ve come to see, we are just a diversion from the main event. To be fair, that used to be me – not that I raced but a bit of free entertainment and I’d be there behind the barriers cheering and jeering with the rest.

So how did I come to be doing this? Well it’s a long story…

I pushed the kitchen door open, home after another ‘exciting’ day at Duplo Logistics loading and unloading a seemingly endless line of juggernauts.

“What’s for tea?” I asked without preamble.
“Egg and chips,” mum replied, “Kettles on.”
“Cheers, so what’s new?” I queried as I fished my snap tin out of my bag.

Since dad died it’s just been me and mum, our family isn’t particularly close and living hundreds of miles from most of them means we’re a weddings and funerals bunch so mum’s next words filled me with dread.

“Spoke to your gran earlier.”
“She okay?”
“Fine.”
“So, what did she want? Who died?”

Sorry if that sounds a bit impersonal but she only ever calls to impart such news, never just for a chat. And whilst it could’ve been a birth or wedding, mum’s tone suggested otherwise.

“Your Uncle Frank,” mum advised cracking an egg into the frying pan.
I searched the grey cells for information and came up blank, “Uncle Frank?”
“Well great uncle really, your Great Gran’s oldest brother, he was at Dad’s funeral.”

To be honest the Queen could’ve been there and I wouldn’t’ve known, I was more than a little emotional, shook lots of hands – well you know what it’s like.

“Funeral?” I enquired as I buttered some bread.
“Tuesday.”
“You want to go?” I asked.
“It’s right down in Penzance.”
“And?”

It might be for a funeral but I could do with a few days away from Duplo, mum doesn’t drive so rather than parent taxi we do child taxi.

“You sure, it’s a long way.”
“I’ll sort it at work tomorrow, we can go at the weekend, make a bit of a trip of it eh?”
“Well I’d like to see your cousin Abby’s new baby.”
“That’s settled then, I’ll book us a B&B somewhere like Plymouth, we can have a root round Dartmoor, see the baby, go to the funeral Tuesday and come back up Wednesday.”
“Thanks luv, I’ll ring your Gran back later,” she sliding my egg and chips onto the table before kissing the top of my head.

In the end, Maureen in HR convinced me to take the whole week off, it’s not like I was short of holiday to take, I’ve not taken any since Easter when I took mum to the Lakes for a few days. We might be going for a funeral but I was quite looking forward to going away, okay I don’t really ‘know’ any of my cousins, aunts or uncles but it’ll be nice to see them, touch base so to speak. I know it’s a bit weird, a twenty something living and doing stuff with their parent but neither of us are particularly garrulous, doesn’t mean we don’t socialise, we just don’t have lots of friends.

The drive south from home near Goole to Launceston, a bit north of Plymouth, took most of Saturday, some three hundred odd miles across the heart of England. I’ve never been one for flash cars, guess I get that from dad who ran a succession of elderly motors, I think the newest was nearly ten years old. I’m not quite that bad, the current Fiat 500 is only five years old, it only gets used for work and short trips for the most part, it’s not the most comfortable for such a long journey.

Sunday we did the tourist bit, Launceston Castle, the nearby heritage railway then after lunch we went to see Aby and the new-ish arrival down near Plymouth. not really being a baby person, I spent most of the visit rather bored nursing a cup of rather nasty weak tea. Mum of course was in her element.

“You’re quiet,” mum observed as we headed back through the east Cornish countryside to our base.
“Just thinking.”
“I’ve seen that look before, thinking about what?”
“Kids, grandchildren, Aunty Jean has a right flock and I’m not even seeing anyone.”
“Pschorr! If it happens it happens, if it doesn’t, well that's okay too,” she told me.
“It’s not that I don’t want all that stuff,” I allowed, “It’s just, well Howden’s hardly dating central and a forklift driver at Duplo hardly makes me a great catch does it?”
“Don’t put yourself down luv, you’ve got a steady job and it’s not like you don’t scrub up well. Jean’s lot might breed like rabbits but I think you got the looks.”
“So why am I still single?”
“Your time will come luv, now are we eating at the hotel or going out tonight?”

Monday was more tourist stuff, out to Tintagel, a walk out to the ‘castle’ then a traditional Cornish pasty for lunch. Then it was down to Padstow, mum wanted to visit Prideaux Place, an Elizabethan manor house overlooking the village – she’s a big Poldark fan, apparently, they did some filming there. Anyhow, we did the house tour then had a cream tea before returning to Launceston via Bodmin Moor, the only significant bit of upland west of the Tamar.

And so, to Tuesday and the reason for our trip to Cornwall, Great Uncle Frank’s funeral in Penzance.

“There’s a lot of people,” I mentioned as I slid into the pew next to mum, “They can’t all be relatives.”
“Course not, your uncle was involved in all sorts of local groups, bit of a historian, I remember going to visit when I was little, the house was packed with all sorts of stuff.”

Looking around there were few faces I knew, why would I know them, I’m Yorkshire born and bred and this is deepest Cornwall. Aby was here with her husband but no baby, my other cousins, James and Emily were here with their broods, Aunt Jean, Uncle Bruce, Gran, maybe another couple of faces I recognized but couldn’t put names to. There was no doubt many of the congregation wondering who we were, strangers in a strange land.

I hadn’t really thought about it but dear old Uncle Frank, it turns out, was ninety-eight when he passed, the Celebrant giving us a few highlights of the deceased’ life. The old coot had certainly not been idle, there hadn’t been any children, Doris, my Great Aunt having died in childbirth during a wartime air raid on Plymouth. Moving to Penzance after the war Frank became a pillar of the community, amateur theatrics, a magistrate and much more besides.

We sang a couple of hymns, listened to a reading from another old codger and then followed the casket out into the graveyard. I felt a bit sad, not the distraught mess at Dad’s funeral but rather a sort of sadness that I’d not known the man, I’m sure we’d have got on like a house on fire. The outside bit of the service was soon over, our fellow mourners melted away, there wasn’t going to be an official wake but from snatches of conversation, some of my Uncles friends were going for a drink or two in his local.

“You two coming to the house for tea?” Gran demanded, as brusque as ever.
“Erm, yes, okay,” Mum replied.
“Nothing fancy mind, you know the way.” and she was off after Aunt Jean and Uncle Bruce.

“Doesn’t get any more likeable does she?” I opined as mum and I made our way back to the car.
“Makes me glad not living too close,” mum admitted.
“Silly question mum, but you do know the way to Gran’s?”
“Er.”
“Come on, we can follow Aunty Jean.”

It was a close thing, they were just pulling away when we got to the car, we were saved by the stream of traffic at the end of the road. Gran actually lives a few miles away at Helston, Uncle Bruce drives like a flippin’ maniac and a couple of times we lost sight of them, in the end however we pulled up outside Penwiddy Cottage just moments behind them. I probably have been before but it must have been when Dad was around.

“It’s not changed,” Mum told me as we followed the others up to the house.

“Your kids not coming Jean?” Mum enquired as we did the coat shuffle in the hallway.
“You know what mum’s like,” my aunt advised.
“Thought she might’ve mellowed a bit.”
“We should be so lucky.”

We made our way into the living room where Gran was already enthroned in an ancient high-backed armchair.
“Get in here then, you’re making the place look untidy, you child, make yourself useful and put the kettle on, tea things are in the top cupboard.”
Guess I’m making the tea then, “Er okay Gran.”

I found the kitchen, clearly Gran doesn’t believe in replacing stuff that's not broken, no electric kettle, an ancient stove top affair, not so much as a whistle. I’m not useless even if mum does do most of the cooking and brewing at home although loose tea was a new one for me. By the time I’d found everything and got the tea mashing I’d been almost fifteen minutes.

I guess my tea making was acceptable, leastwise Gran seemed to mellow a little with the tannins.
“Not married yet then child?”
“No Gran,” I agreed, I might be an adult but somehow she had me quavering in my boots, well shoes – you know what I mean.
“It’ll be all that cold.”
“We’re only in Yorkshire,” mum interjected, “Not the Arctic.”
“Pah!” Gran stated before addressing me again, “There’s nothing wrong with you?”
“Mum!” Aunt Jean hissed.
“Er not as far as I know,” I replied.
“You’ve got the look of the Trenear’s about you, those northern types clearly can’t spot good breeding.”
By now my face was quite warm, so shoot me, I embarrass easily.
“Does anyone fancy a sandwich?” mum enquired.
“Er please Diane,” Uncle Bruce managed.
“Everything’s prepared in the fridge,” Gran instructed.
“I’ll give you a hand mum,” I told my parent, anything to end my grilling.

Gran was right about nothing fancy, the plated sandwiches ran to egg mayonnaise or luncheon meat, mum found a jar of piccalilli, a few mini tomato’s and some sliced beetroot which filled the offering out a bit. I found the crockery and cutlery and we soon had the makings of Gran’s ‘tea’ on the table. Apparently, our efforts passed muster, Gran making short work of a couple of rounds of luncheon meat.
“There’s cake in the tin child, and you can make a fresh pot too.”
I guess that's my cue again.

“So, what’s happening with Uncle Frank’s stuff?” Mum asked.
“Blowed if I know,” Gran admitted.
“There’s a will,” Aunt Jean advised, “Me and Bruce are going to see the Solicitor tomorrow.”
“You should go along Diane,” my Gran suggested, “Keep an eye on your sister.”
Mum looked over to me, we had planned on going over to Dartmoor but I guess that could wait.
“Fine by me,” I replied with a shrug.
“Guess it can’t hurt,” Mum stated.
And so that was settled.

“Gran seemed pretty keen on us going to this reading thing,” I noted as for a second day we headed down the A30.
“I suppose she wants to make sure everything is above board,” Mum suggested.
“I guess,” I answered even if something nagged that she knew more than she was letting on.

The meeting was in the solicitors Camborne office rather than Penzance, guess it’s closer to where Aunt Jean lives and we made good time from Launceston. The town is one of those boom towns, recent housing dominating the old town, which is squeezed into a few streets adjacent to the railway station. Uncle Bruce suggested we park at the station and walk to the office, easier said than done but after a couple of circuits of the carpark I managed to slip the Fiat into a freshly vacated spot.

Mawnan, Smith and Turner kept office above the ‘Bengal Tiger’ at the top of the High Street, none of your plush modern offices for this lot, it looked like they’d been here since the place was built back in the mists of time. We made our way upstairs and into the cosy reception cum waiting room.

“You found it then,” Uncle Bruce greeted, “Get parked okay?”
“Eventually,” I allowed.
“Mr Turner should be here shortly,” the girl womaning the desk advised putting down the phone, “Would anyone like tea or coffee?”
“Some tea would be nice,” Mum opined.
“Best make it a pot,” Aunt Jean put in – hey, don’t I get a choice?

A few minutes later a slightly harried Mr Turner arrived and we were ushered into his office, the tea arriving as we found ourselves seats after doing the introductions.
“So, this is the reading of the last Will & Testament of Frank Arthur Penhaligon, late of Church Lane, Penzance.”

And so, it started, Uncle Frank wasn’t a millionaire but he’d been careful with his money, owned the cottage on Church Lane as well as several other properties. Clearly, from my Aunts reaction, this was all news to my relatives, although I couldn’t help thinking that Gran was well aware of what we were being told. Mr Turner detailed bequests to a variety of charities and organisations before family were mentioned.

“To my nieces, Diane and Jean, the sum of ten thousand pounds,” he paused.

Mum squeezed my hand, well that was a turn up for the books.

“The next bit is a bit convoluted I’m afraid,” Mr T told us, “Frank was trying to be even handed and we discussed this on several occasions to be certain of his intentions.”

“Well get on man,” Aunt Jean snapped – wonder where she gets that bluntness from?

“Sorry, I’ll go through the behests and I’ll explain the small print afterwards. To the children of the aforementioned Jean Dunton, Abigail, James and Emily, the property of 13b Hilltop and contents thereof, Mousehole, to be shared equally amongst them. And to the child of Diane Stephens, Georgina, the property of 4 Church Lane, Penzance and contents thereof. This concludes he last Will & Testament of Frank Arthur Penhaligon.”

© Maddy Bell 11 November 2018