EXTRAORDINARY LIVES: Sweet shop owner called in to solve a murder...

Britain is full of unsung heroes and heroines who deserve recognition. Here, in our weekly obituary column, the moving and inspirational stories of ordinary people who have lived extraordinary lives, and who died recently, are told by their loved ones . . . 

Sweet shop owner called in to solve a murder...

My mum June by Anne Millward


My mother June was ahead of her time, not least because she was one of the first women in Bournemouth to own a car.

Her parents had a newsagent’s shop and when my mother was 18 they pitched their good-looking daughter — who was said to bear a strong resemblance to Princess Margaret — into the family business, buying her a tobacconist’s of her own.

This was in the Fifties, before people worried about the harm caused by cigarettes, and Mum used to reminisce about brands aimed at women smokers, with names like Passing Clouds, Misty and Capri. She enjoyed trying them all to see which she liked best — and flirting with the visiting sales reps.

June running a competition in her cafe in the 1960s. She had a sideline as an amateur graphologist and was asked by a local paper to help solve the murder of woman whose attacker had supposedly written an unsigned letter of apology to the police

June running a competition in her cafe in the 1960s. She had a sideline as an amateur graphologist and was asked by a local paper to help solve the murder of woman whose attacker had supposedly written an unsigned letter of apology to the police

In the Sixties she bought a cafe next to the rail station, giving her a brilliant view on the day the Queen came to Bournemouth and was driven right past her window. This made my mother’s day: she was a great royalist.

Her customers included a painter and decorator called Wilfred Swift, who had settled in Bournemouth after being demobbed from the Army. He ended up being my father, and Mum often joked that she only married him because he was helpful in the kitchen and washed up when it was busy.

When I was born in 1971 they bought a tearoom in the New Forest that proved popular, but when I was five we moved back to Bournemouth so Mum could look after my ageing grandmother — alongside running her latest enterprise, a shop selling sweets and chocolates.

Mum had another sideline, as an amateur graphologist. She advertised her services in a local paper and the editor once asked her to help solve the murder of a woman whose attacker had supposedly written an unsigned letter of apology to the police. 

Although the killer was never caught, much of what Mum suggested about him tallied with the findings of a criminologist working on the case.

In her 50s Mum set up a cattery next to the bungalow she and my father bought. She enjoyed tending the garden and, in particular, trying to grow blue hydrangeas, without success.

Even when she eventually grew physically frail, she still had a sharp mind. She spent most mornings on the phone to her stockbrokers, who remarked that she must have insider knowledge of the share market. It may have helped that she read the Daily Mail every day and devoured the business section.

After Mum passed on, I requested that the engraving on her headstone should include an image of a blue hydrangea.

June Swift, born June 1, 1930, died March 3, 2017, aged 86.

 

Our beautiful son who sent the bullies packing

My son Laurens by Simon Wells

My son Laurens was named after the war-hero, explorer and philosopher Sir Laurens van der Post, one of my favourite authors. And he was the sort of person that Van der Post would have approved of — a nature-lover who was in tune with the elements and, unusually in this day and age, never a slave to social media.

From his mother, my first wife Sandra, he inherited a love of lurchers. As a little boy he grew up with Akbar, Caesar and Canute and then came Jeany, a puppy acquired when he was 19 and his constant companion. 

They were forever out together in the Leicestershire countryside, hunting, shooting and fishing by day and ‘lamping’ (looking for rabbits by torchlight) at night.

Laurens was every inch a countryman who loved all of the field sports. Physically striking with curly brown hair and piercing blue eyes, he was often likened to King Ragnar, a main character in the TV series Vikings.

Physically striking with curly brown hair and piercing blue eyes, Laurens was every inch a countryman who loved all of the field sports

Physically striking with curly brown hair and piercing blue eyes, Laurens was every inch a countryman who loved all of the field sports

He had a wiry, muscular frame even as a little boy and the family GP said he had never seen such muscle definition on someone so young. We once sought medical advice because he was waking up after twitching in his sleep. It turned out that there was nothing wrong with him: he just had that kind of coursing energy running constantly through him.

Laurens was the youngest of my four sons with Sandra. We ran a tea-room in the market town of Oakham and our house in the nearby village of Langham had a fairly large garden, ideal for all our boys, but particularly Laurens.

By the time he was three he could ride a bike, despite being barely able to reach the pedals. If a challenge was there to be done, Laurens got out and did it — he jumped off our conservatory roof at just four and rolled away without injury.

Sadly, Sandra and I divorced when he was still young, but he remained a very positive person with a strong sense of natural justice.

Once, when he was about 13, he mentioned that he was determined to protect a boy who was being picked on at school. We heard no more about it but, knowing Laurens, you can be sure he brought the bullying to a rapid end.

He wasn’t academic in the slightest. His school labelled him dyslexic, but the real issue was that he just wanted to be outdoors all the time. He was friends with the four sons of a local farming family who were all around his age. They lived in each other’s houses and were always out working on the land and driving tractors together.

After gaining a diploma in Land-based Studies at a local agricultural college, he took on various jobs, tree surgery and thatching included, and the focus of his social life was the Wheatsheaf pub in Langham. Jeany the lurcher was often there with him, as were his ferrets which he’d let run up and down his arms.

Many of his friends were from the gamekeeping community and at one point he became a gamekeeper himself, on an estate near Belfast.

Laurens always liked to try new things and in 2016 he travelled to Australia with some of his closest mates. There he drove 100-ton earth-movers to earn extra cash.

Last year, his desire to travel took him to Thailand and it was there that he met his death in an accident on a hired motorcycle on the island resort of Koh Samui.

On the grim December day of his funeral, the sun came out for a brief moment, flooding the crematorium chapel with light and lifting the spirits of the hundreds of mourners of all ages. A friend of mine said he had never seen so many tweed caps at one gathering.

Afterwards we spent the afternoon and night celebrating his life in a marquee in the Wheatsheaf’s garden. It was a huge occasion and the highlight was his friend’s father, who owns a rare Beech 18 twin-engined aeroplane, flying over as a tribute.

Just like Laurens’ life, it was absolutely stunning.

Laurens Wells, born May 18, 1993, died November 23, 2017, aged 24.

 

Fireman Dave, the bandsman who set world records 

My husband Dave by Rose Reeves  

My nickname for my husband Dave was Merlin. He just made things happen, like a wizard.

We met at the fire station at Dudley in the West Midlands. I was in charge of the control room handling 999 calls and Dave was a firefighter.

We married in 1977, the year of the Silver Jubilee, and many years later Dave met the Queen when she presented him with an MBE. I couldn’t have been more proud of him as a chauffeur from the London Fire Brigade picked us up from the station and drove us to the Palace.

The award recognised the huge amounts Dave raised for charity.

I don’t know where he got the idea, but in 1984 he announced he was going to set up a concert band in which local firefighters could play in aid of good causes.

People thought he was crazy. He played the piano, but had no experience of running such an outfit, and many of those he recruited had never handled an instrument before. But he got in touch with Boosey & Hawkes, the London music shop, and persuaded them to lend the band instruments.

Dave and Rose met at the fire station at Dudley in the West Midlands when she was in charge of the control room handling 999 calls he was a firefighter

Dave and Rose met at the fire station at Dudley in the West Midlands when she was in charge of the control room handling 999 calls he was a firefighter

So the Band of the West Midlands Fire Service was formed, with Dave as musical director. While they rehearsed on their borrowed trumpets and tubas on Wednesday nights, despite working for up to 96 hours in some weeks, Dave wrote to companies until finally he got sponsorship so they could buy their own instruments.

The band’s many appearances included the Lord Mayor’s Show in London, the Birmingham International Tattoo and tennis tournaments at the Royal Albert Hall.

One concert in Birmingham raised thousands of pounds for the charity Muscular Dystrophy UK. On stage that night, Dave presented a cheque to its patron, the film star Richard Attenborough.

The band also got into the 1988 Guinness Book of World Records for a marathon concert lasting 102 hours, 43 minutes and 43 seconds. Anneka Rice and DJ David ‘Diddy’ Hamilton were among the celebrities who took turns conducting while I helped ferry food and drink to the band and Dave shouted ‘Keep your eyes open!’ at anyone in danger of dropping off.

After he’d retired, Dave and I spent many happy holidays in our caravan and later a motorhome. I don’t think there’s anywhere in Europe he hasn’t towed a van.

He also enjoyed painting watercolours. His creativity seemed never-ending, but the band was his proudest achievement. He reckoned it had raised more than a million pounds for charities.

As an officer, Dave always went into a building first to check it was safe for his men — without breathing apparatus if there wasn’t time to put it on. I’ve often wondered if that led to the lung cancer from which he died.

His legacy lives on because the band is still playing today.

David Reeves, born May 24, 1940, died April 29, 2016, aged 75.

 

Late-life love was the rock I relied on    

My friend Martin by Christine Clarke

You don’t really expect someone to write you a love song when you’re in your 70s — but gestures like that were typical of my lovely Martin.

He was my rock. When he came into my life, in October 2015, I was at my lowest ebb. My husband David had died of cancer in 2012, seven months after our golden wedding anniversary. 

After nursing him through his illness, I suffered complications from a back operation which left me with no balance and having to walk with a frame.

I met Martin through an internet dating site. After a few disappointing experiences I’d almost decided not to bother again, but I gave it one last try.

Christine and Martin. 'He was caring and loved me unconditionally, as I did him,' she said

Christine and Martin. 'He was caring and loved me unconditionally, as I did him,' she said

A widower from Wales, he had been an engineer in the Royal Navy and later made his living as a skilled signwriter.

As I live in Warwickshire, our first conversations were on Skype but then, one day, Martin suggested driving over and taking me out for lunch. I was nervous and dropped my fork, sending peas and gravy everywhere. But he was out of his seat like a shot, fetching me clean cutlery and reassuring me.

We had two and a half wonderful years together. My disabilities did not worry him. He was caring and loved me unconditionally, as I did him.

When he came to my house he cooked and shopped, pegged out laundry and did all sorts of DIY. He drove me to my multiple hospital appointments and took me out to meet friends, to lunch and for drives in the country.

We had so many plans — and then he was taken from me just as suddenly as he was sent to save me. He suffered a heart attack and died in my arms.

He was a healthy looking guy but I’ve since discovered he had been told he had heart problems. Either he hid them from me or was in denial. Always strong, always smiling. That was Martin.

He sang love songs to me every day and one he wrote for me was called You Are So Beautiful. One of the lines was ‘Being with you is so natural, together we are one.’ That summed us up.

Martin Duiker, born August 16, 1943, died April 8, 2018, aged 74.

 

 

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