Home truths

ALREADY there’ve been hundreds of cards, letters and messages – where possible they’ll be acknowledged – including one from Shildon Town Council.

This was slightly disappointing.

The sentiments were kind, the council vote generous, but what of the Freedom of the Borough, the right to graze sheep on the Rec – or Timothy Hackworth Park as it must now be called – and to march with fixed bayonets upon the Civic Hall?

It’s doubtless true that the dear old town has been mentioned disproportionately down the years, perhaps difficult for regular readers to suppose that I haven’t lived there for 38 years.

The Lady has a theory, nonetheless, that wherever we go in the world we’re near certain to meet someone from Shildon, though she rather spoils the argument by insisting that he’ll have kept goal for the Railwaymen and probably only have one leg.

There’s good reason, even so, why serendipity – “the faculty of making happy chance finds” – has long been my favourite word. The most memorable was on Unst, part of the Shetlands and the northernmost inhabited part of the British Isles.

We’d passed – it was shut – the most northerly pub, admired the most northerly bus shelter, stopped at the most northerly church – greeted by 78-year-old Douglas Graham, the lay minister.

We fell into conversation; he came from Langley Park, had delivered Bobby Robson’s milk, went to Unst for three years in 1990. This was 2007.

“I just seemed to stay,” said Douglas.

The Lady sighed as, once again, the familiarly contoured notebook was fished from the back pocket and the camera retrieved from the car.

She was familiar with serendipity, but this was serendipity squared.

That’s enough about Langley Parkers, anyway. On the day of my retirement, it’s time for a few potted biographies of good Shildon lads – and lasses – who’ve graced these multi-faceted columns. Memorable men like Mike Armitage, George Reynolds and Jack Watson have already featured. Time for some more – old guard, most of them, but home guard best of all.

LAURIE BROWN

Footballer and gentleman, played centre half for Spurs and Arsenal – “Even the baths at Arsenal had marble floors with heating underneath, at my mam’s in Shildon we didn’t even have a bathroom” – but swore that the best club of all was Bishop Auckland. Was a £13-a-week joiner at Doggarts in Bishop when signed by Northampton Town, still so enthusiastic when his career ended at Norwich City that he also turned out for Howden-le-Wear Workmen’s Club and was fined by Durham FA.

Ran a pub in Shildon and later drove a milk lorry. “A fabulous feller, crackers and lovely and simply one-in-a-million,” said his mate Geoff Strong – Arsenal, Liverpool and Stanley United – when Laurie died, aged 60, in 1998. His funeral was at Shildon Spiritualist Church. They played Welcome To My World.

GEORDIE’S PENKER

Methodist Church youth group – Lesley Coley, Hilary Musgrave, Helen Bowron, Mary Clements, David Kell and Brian Marsh – who recorded The Iron Road to mark the heady days of the Stockton and Darlington Railway sesquicentennial in 1975.

Said by a Northern Echo columnist of the time to be Shildon’s answer to the Bay City Rollers, appeared at the Royal Albert Hall, went their ways, but left behind music’s most memorable couplet. “Who needs Presley when you’ve got Nigel Gresley; he’ll convert you quicker than old John Wesley.”

KEITH HOPPER

New Shildon, really, but still qualifies by local knowledge and long association.

Durham County cricketer and footballer, playing into his 70s and still an enthusiastic umpire and Darlington RA groundsman. Now 77, still takes his skis on holiday, but is allowed only to use them on the return trip. “I don’t want him breaking a leg and spoiling the whole fortnight,” says Mrs Hopper. Last year won a pint bet with the Backtrack column. To mutual surprise, I paid.

JOHN HUNTER “of the North”

Celebrity hairdresser, travel agent, racehorse owner, Darlington councillor and football club director. Trained as a lather boy in his dad’s back street barber shop in Shildon. Raconteur, friend of the famous, delightful man. John and his wife Mary bought a villa in Magaluf, where they were interviewed by the Spanish press. “It’s lovely here,” he told them, “but not at nice as Shildon.”

WALTER NUNN

Veteran councillor and trade union activist, 70 years a party member, but distinctly Old Labour – “not some Blairite bumkisser,” observed a lady member, memorably, at a dinner in 2007 to mark his 70 years of party service.

Walter was equally unequivocal. “New Labour doesn’t do principles, it’s about expediency.

There were things that needed to be put right, but you don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.” He died a few months after the dinner.

TOMMY TAYLOR

Wagon worker, boxing champion, veteran LibDem councillor and parliamentary candidate, medical guinea pig, first-rate bloke and world’s worst domino player.

Became a regular visitor to Knebworth House after David Cobbold – now Lord Cobbold – fought Bishop Auckland for the Liberals in 1974, but may be even better remembered for the unfortunate business of the matchstick in his ear. It’s what used to happen on night shift.

GORDON PETERS

Entertainer. Born Peter Wilkinson, in Highland Gardens. His mum played the organ at the Wesley Methodists and at the Rex Cinema, his dad worked for Jackson’s butcher’s in Darlington. Gordon attended Durham Chorister School, went on the stage, had a 1970s BBC show which (rather unfortunately) screened opposite Coronation Street.

Returned to Darlington last year with his tribute show to Flanders and Swan – he’s the one on the right – at once recognised by an old, old flame. “Hello, Treacle Chops,” she said. Now 84, lives down South, still treads the boards.

“My wife would kill me if I stayed in all day doing nothing,” he said.

JOHN ROBINSON

Timothy Hackworth Junior School allcomers marbles champion, barefoot mountain climber, martial arts ace, charity fund-raiser and rock and roller.

We were friends from infants school, John later adept at smashing three or four paving stones with bare feet, the mode in which he climbed Ben Nevis and Scafell and hoped to add Snowdon before being diagnosed with a brain tumour. At his funeral three years ago they played “Just Want to Dance the Night Away” and heard his friend Vince Johnson recall a full life. “You couldn’t go far wrong walking in John’s footsteps – but best keep your shoes and socks on.”

GEORGE ROMAINES

Former wagon works electrician, singer and raconteur, best remembered for five years on Tyne Tees Television’s One O’Clock Show between 1959-64 but also for earning £12 a night singing between races at Spennymoor dogs.

“Probably the most popular man in the North-East,” said fellow television personality Mike Neville.

Affectionately remembered for dragging his hated toupe along the Tyne Tees corridors on a dog lead. Still in Shildon.

BERT TRUSSLER

Old school comedian and Charlie Raine’s concert party partner, their shows always ending with the Gracie Fields number Goodnight, Good luck, God bless you. The tape recorder behind the coffin, they played it one last time at Bert’s funeral.

The man who made a town laugh finally had us crying buckets.

JENNY WREN

Appropriately named, the second-greatest Laughing Policeman singer the world has ever known, often in the bar of the King Willie. Jenny, below, was 101, a resident in the Timothy Hackworth care home, when last we duetted four years ago.

She looked terrific. “It’s the Avon,” she said.

JOHN HOPE

Goalkeeper (though definitely not onelegged.) Told by Keith Newby, his secondary modern headmaster, that he couldn’t play in the school team unless he learned Miller of the Dee by heart. He did. Played for Shildon, as did his dad, was an apprentice with Darlington – “painting the footballs white in good weather and orange if it snowed” – but may be best remembered for being Sheffield United’s keeper when George Best scored what subsequently was voted the 18th greatest goal ever. Legendary Daily Mirror reporter Frank McGhee noted a colleague checking his watch.

“Never mind the time, remember the date,” he said. “You’ve just seen history.” John now lives in Stockton.

CHARLIE RAINE

Boxing champion and workmen’s club entertainer, one of those people who talked with his hands. “If I lost a finger, I’d have a speech impediment,” he once said.

Won the railways “All line” boxing title at the National Sporting Club after fighting four times in one night – the final fight lasting just 14 seconds, including the count. “I just caught him square. I remember saying a little prayer for the lad as he lay there,” said Charlie. Was 86 when he had a cataract operation, enabling him once more to read The Northern Echo. “Bugger your stuff,” he said, “I get it for the racing.” He died, aged 93, in October 2000.

CRAIG RAINE

Knobser’s lad, Charlie’s nephew. Grew up in a “bookless” prefab before winning a scholarship to Barnard Castle School and being inspired by an English teacher called Arnold Snodgrass. Now one of Britain’s bestknown poets, lives and teaches in Oxford and is married to one of the Pasternaks. Doesn’t get home much.

BERTHA PALLISTER

Former sweet shop owner and lovely lady. Was 91 when she opened St John’s church Christmas fair by singing Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow- Wow which she’d last sung, on the same stage, when 12. "It’s the song that shot me to stardom," she said. Bertha, above, celebrated her 90th and 95th birthdays with a pillion ride on the back of her nephew Ricky Tillotson’s motor bike but, sadly, failed to achieve her ambition to become a ton-up girl. Five years younger than her father had been, she died, aged 97, in 2005. The Tillotson boys, they of the trebuchets and the flying baked bean cans, would be worth an entry of their own.