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MY CHILDHOOD STORY
I was born at my grandfather’s house in Shaw Road, Royton, a small cotton mill township in the North of England and I was baptised in St. Ann’s church, Shaw Road End, and Christened Selwyn, after a Welsh Methodist minister; my grandma’s wish. She nearly got her wish too.
My grandfather’s house always held a strong fascination for me. Even as a boy of five I left home and walked seven miles to Royton, from my parent’s house, to be there, without my parents knowing. To my mind granddad’s house was a mysterious place of treasures and hidden things in drawers and cupboards and it was so unlike Lee Street where I lived; so unlike any home I had been in, save aunty Evelene’s, which had Chinese treasures, ancient Chinese vases and a Buddha. Granddad’s house had a grandfather clock which chimed on the hour and the quater, a gleaming clock face of glass and silver fingers, and a gold pendulum that never stopped swinging. A great polished dresser with a glass mirror, which reflected everything in the room, stood alongside one wall, facing the open fireplace on the other. Grandma’s rocking chair stood beside the fireplace, and on the shelf above her head was the toffee tin. On the opposite wall, facing grandma’s rocking chair, was a couch, the sort you see in films of great houses and palaces where ladies with long dresses might sit comfortably, and gentlemen sat and smoked pipes or cigarettes. No one ever sat on it. Granddad sat and smoked a pipe on a rocking chair facing grandma. Preparing the pipe to smoke was a ritual I was fascinated by, especially lighting the pipe and puffing the first blue clouds of smoke. The odour was soothing and pungent. Everything granddad did was tidy and spruce like, like blacking and polishing his clogs and shoes. He wore the clogs to the mill like everybody else did in those days. They made a loud clanging noise on the pavements outside, which echoed down the street, maybe fifty clogs at once, going to work in the early morning and returning home in the late afternoon.
Granddad was a miner at the mill. Everybody in the neighbourhood called him John Willie Perry. My grandma called him John Willie Perry as well. She was a woman of few words but had a heart of gold, whereas granddad liked to talk and I liked to listen. He told me of how my dad learned the piano when he was my age, and how he passed his exams at the London College of Music and became a Teacher of music. He told me about when he went to America to work in a new cotton mill and all about New York. My dad was only a baby then.
Mrs. Young and Mrs Everet often visited us and I liked to listen to their conversations about people in the neighbourhood, who were old and who were young, who was dying and who was going off to war. They talked a lot about dying and death. Grandma told me about the bottom drawer in the dresser that had ‘laying out’ clothes in it ready for when granddad and grandma died. I liked to listen to talks about death and what happened when life ended on earth and began again in heaven. So I was very much attached to granddad’s house. It was like an oasis in the desert and I was always brim full of happiness when I was there.
At home, in Lee Street, Oldham, I felt the difference between Granddad’s house and ours. Ours was lit by gas lamps and had a stone floor. My dad’s piano stood alongside one wall and alongside another was what my mum called a utility dresser; there was a table too which stood in the centre of the room; that was all, except mum’s wedding photo on the wall and the fireplace and the cornish. It was a bare place compared with granddad’s house. My mum hated it, the house, the open backyard shared by twenty four other families, and the air raid shelter in the middle. She often spoke of Whitegate Ave, and the semi-detached with a private back yard where we used to live. I don’t remember that place but it must have been wonderful because my mum loved it. We lived there for two years until dad’s hand started shaking; then we had to move to Lee Street. He lost his career in music and his job and could never hold a job for more than a few weeks on account of his hand and his illness. Mum never understood his illness, nor I. It was a mystery to us, a nightmare most of the time. But something happened after we moved to Lee Street, Oldham, that dwarfed everything else in fearful consequences.
It was unexpected and unimaginable. One day in September 1939, the voice of the British Prime Minister spoke over the radio from number 10 Dawning Street, London. He said, ‘Britain is at war with Germany.’ The archbishop of Canterbury, William Temple, supported the prime minister. But there were many who did not. We were a Christian country and Jesus Christ taught us to love our enemies and that those who fought with the sword would die by the sword. Those words came true as millions of soldiers on both sides died fighting on the battlefields, in air, land and sea. Mum and dad did not believe in war but there was nothing we could do about it but wait to see the consequences, which we knew would be terrible and heartbreaking. Granddad never spoke for or against it but he and grandma talked about what they would do if there was an air raid in Royton. Where would they shelter? What if granddad’s house was hit with a bomb? I was six years old when Royton was bombed. I was staying at granddad’s house. I woke up during the night by a great explosion. Although it was night the street was lit up like daylight. The Shilo cotton mill on the corner of High Barn and Shaw Road had been hit by bombs and the flames, like tongues of fire, turned night into day. Grandma wanted to shelter in the cellar because she couldn’t walk much but granddad took my hand and walked down the street to the shelter. I was terrified. I could see the German planes hovering overhead and search lights trying to spot them and shoot them down. Granddad told me not to worry because they were not trying to kill people but strike targets like the cotton mill. He had nerves of steel and walked slowly down the street as if it were a fireworks display. On another occasion I was at home in Lee Street, when the sirens went off in the middle of the night and we rushed downstairs to the air raid shelter in our back yard. We waited for the air raid to strike and it did but this time the bombs were flying bombs and fell from the sky like meteorites from heaven. They hit Abbeyhills Road and flattened a row of houses. The next day dad took me to see the damage. There was rubble and mangled roofs everywhere on the ground. The air raid wardens were searching for bodies. My dad shook like a leaf. After seeing the destruction I hated war because it was another word for murdering mummies, babies and innocent people. War was evil. The news was very scary. Manchester, Liverpool and London had been bombed badly. The News reels at the cinema showed Hitler commanding his thousands of troops. They marched like a machine that has legs. Hitler, it seemed was winning the war but Winston Churchill came on the radio and told everyone in Britain to fight, and if we didn’t have guns to shoot the Germans with to hit them over the head with bottles. My mum said, ‘He’s a ‘war monger’.
One day Bertrand Russell, the philosopher was interviewed on the radio. He said, ‘There is no God.’ My mum stood stock still in the living room and thundered. ‘He is a bad man!’ I had never heard my mum so angry. Britain was a Christian country so I was surprised to hear a clever man speak like that. I had always believed in God because he was everywhere. He was in the stars, the sun and the moon; he was in time too. Our calendar, from one month to the next, was all about the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. He was God’s Son, and no month went by without celebrating his life on earth; even when he was crucified on the cross, which was sad, we soon celebrated his resurrection from the dead and his ascension into heaven. Then there was harvest festivals and advent which was preparing for Christmas when he was born on earth, and saints days, those who had followed Jesus and were remembered for their faith in God and witness to his Son, Jesus. And although we were at war I was sure that God would save us from the Germans. The Whitsuntide walks in Oldham were spectacular. All the churches marched through the town holding their banners and flags. The walk were about a mile long and the whole town stood and watched them.
When I was five I attended Werneth Primary School on the coppice. Everyday, school began with prayers and hymns. When I went to Junior School and then to Hollin’s Secondary School, we had prayers and hymns before we went to class. God was everywhere, in the past, the present and he was in the future too.
We won the war. In 1945, Germany surrendered to Britain, and America and Russia, who had also joined the war against Hitler. But there was something terribly sad and heartbreaking for the United States dropped atom bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Millions of people died in one bombing. When the news came on the radio my mum cried. War was evil and we knew then what it was capable of doing. Life went on just the same after the war. Rationing continued and the soldiers returned home but thousands of children in Britain had no dads and many no mums. They had been killed in battle or were missing never to be found.
I began to realise what sin and transgressions were and how sinful mankind was to cause wars and pride themselves on being victors. There was nothing to be proud of; it was all sad to me.
By that time James was born and I had a younger brother. We were very poor and my dad was the cause of all our unhappiness at home. He had a reputation for owing money to shops for cigarettes which he smoked all the time. His hand shook badly and he had days when his eyes stirred up at the ceiling as if glued there. Then he would call out ‘O Lord help me!’ a hundred times and walk about the house in his shirt tails. My dad’s illness was a mystery to me and to my mum. Some days he wandered about the house with his eyes glued to the ceiling, his hand shaking badly. His mind seemed to leave him as if it had wandered off to another world. Then other days he was my dad again, played the piano, talked about getting work and was good company. But as I got older his condition was embarrassing and unpredictable. My mum despaired of keeping us all together. By that time I had two brothers, James and Ronald. That is when I began to really fear we would be separated for in a moment of anger she burst out, ‘You will be the death of me Jim. I would be better putting the children in a home.’ That was a dreaded nightmare. She never repeated her words but they remained with me for years. She could not understand why dad was ill one day and well the next. His illness was a mystery to her and me. She began to think that he was lazy and didn’t care about us. There were many harsh words spoken. My dad tried and tried to keep a job but failed and we were left to live on a sickness benefit from the government which was very small. What with food shortages and the cost of living mum had a hard time to make ends meet but somehow she did. Even so she blamed my dad for everything. There were harsh words spoken by her and I began to take mums side in the conflict between them. I began to feel anger and hate towards him. Most of it I kept to myself but I wanted the anger to end and my dad to live somewhere else. I had reached sixteen by that time. My whole life seemed to be dominated by the war in our home. There were never any blows between them but mum’s anger was unbearable. I felt marooned on a desert island where I had to stay and where no one would come. I began to have pains in my chest and wondered if I was having a heart attack. I went to the doctor and the hospital but they just asked me if I was worried about anything. I knew immediately what they meant. Of course I was worried but how could worry cause pain? The pains were sharp and my abdomen went into a spasm causing me to double up. The pains in my chest continued for days and there did not seem to be any help from doctors. The pains came and went without warning.
One evening I went to see a film at the Grosvenor Cinema called ‘The Robe.’ It was the first film in which Jesus was acted. I was desperate to keep my mind occupied and so I went to see it. A full account of this is written about in my book, ‘Beautiful Oldham.’ I am only going to write about this briefly, here. The film showed Jesus being crucified on the cross. Up to that point in the film I had been engrossed and intrigued by the character and life of Jesus but the crucifixion staggered me. It seemed that I was knocking the nails into his hands. I, who hated my dad, seemed to identify myself with the soldiers and the priests who wanted him dead. Was that it? Did I really want my dad dead? Then, as the nails were hammered into his hands and his feet and the cross was raised for all to see, I burst into tears. The words of Jesus pierced my heart: ‘Father forgive them for they know not what they do.’ I almost ran from the cinema in tears. My walk home was slow and ponderous. My own sinfulness glared at me in the mirror of my own heart and the heart of Jesus. It was the meeting of our hearts that made me feel terribly ashamed and grieved. I felt I had lost myself. When I arrived home it was late.
Everyone had gone to bed when I arrived home. The house was quiet and peaceful. We had a family bible in the front room that had lain there for years, dusty and forgotten. I opened the first pages and read the story of creation. Everything was good. All that God made was perfect. It was the truth my mind had accepted since my earliest years. so I knelt down in the front room and prayed, ‘Lord help me’. The prayer was ironical because for years my dad, when he was sick, had called out to God as he wandered around the house, ‘O Lord help me.’ I went to bed and slept like a log as if a big burden had been lifted from me.
The next morning when I awoke I was calm and peaceful. I wandered what had happened to me. I felt no pain and no fear of pain. It was uncanny. That whole day I wandered from place to place, the park, the library, the museum and still the calmness remained and still there was no pain. I was perplexed because it seemed that there was a presence with me, the invisible presence of a Spirit, for I felt that I was not alone, like suddenly meeting an old friend and feeling happy. As I say, it was uncanny. That evening I decided to go and see the film again and this time pay for my ticket instead of sneaking in by the back door. I watched the film in a steady frame of mind, taking in every detail of the life of Jesus and his disciples and their enemies. I waited of course, for the scene of the cross most of all. I wanted to hear the words of Jesus again, ‘Father forgive them for they know not what they do.’ The scene was just as appalling and bloody as before but in a flash I realised that Jesus was the Son of God. Who else could he be? As I pondered this realisation I was filled with God’s Presence of love and peace that I cannot describe in words. I had no sense of sin or separation from God, and a new peace with God had come into my life. I felt at one with God and I was assured that God loved me and was much more than a belief in God but a knowledge of God.
I left the cinema rejoicing. It was pouring with rain but I thought the rain was dancing in tune to my heart. How was I to explain all this to mum and dad? Would they think that I had gone out of my mind. Truly I had for my mind was now made up to try and help my dad and my mum. I wanted them back, both of them. I had an impulse then and there to cross the road and enter the Salvation Army hall where a Saturday night meeting was in progress. I sat at the back and listened. The officer appealed for people to come forward to the mercy seat and I stood up without hesitation and walked the whole length of the hall and knelt at the bench they call the mercy seat. A Salvation Army soldier came and knelt beside me. He asked me if I had a problem and whether I wanted counseling. I replied, ‘No, I have just come here to thank God for answering my prayers.’
Actions speak louder than words and the first thing I did when I returned home was to arrange a visit to see my dad’s doctor. Dr. Stewart was an elderly man who had prescribed tablets for my dad for years. I asked him what was wrong with my dad that he could not work and kept being ill. He explained to me what Parkinson’s disease was and said there was no medical treatment available to cure him. ‘But,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘there is a new surgical operation on the brain.’ ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘could my dad have the operation?’ He explained that it was a serious operation that only certain selected patients could have. I asked him to write to the surgeon and ask if he might see my dad. He agreed. I was hopeful and prayed for God’s help. I knew that God would help my dad. How could I doubt it? A letter arrived in the mail one day soon afterwards and my dad opened it and looked astonished. My mum, after reading the letter, was excited. They had no idea that I had seen Dr. Stewart. After a long discussion my dad decided to go and see Dr. Macdonald at the Cavendish Clinic in Macclesfield, a neuro-surgical unit not far from Manchester. The appointment was arranged and he and mum went together to see the surgeon. A number of examinations were carried out, X rays, blood tests, history, all the usual things when operations are planned. They told my dad that they would let him know if he was suitable for the operation after the tests had been studied. A few days later a another letter arrived from the neurosurgeon. It was an appointment to have further tests and preparations for surgery. He was accepted for the brain operation.
I was, of course, very excited too. But I knew that my dad was scared to death of hospitals. He had an appointment for a lumbar puncture once and ran out of the hospital before they could do it. I prayed more and more because if my dad’s condition could be cured what a difference it would make to him and everybody else, especially my mum. The day of the operation came and my dad went with mum to be admitted and have the operation the next day. Later, he told me that he was about to leave the hospital but something stopped him. He said I decided to trust in God. And so he had the brain surgery.
The next day my mum rang the clinic and asked when she could come and see Jim. She was told that she could come at any time. We went together, mum and I. We took the train to Manchester and then the bus to Macclesfield and so to the clinic. We waited in the waiting room and eventually a doctor, came to see us. He invited us into his office and said, ‘Would you like to see Jim. He is in recovery, Mrs. Perry?’ My mum was dithering with nerves. The thought that she might get her Jim back safe and well was too much for her to hope for. We followed the doctor into recover and he gave us two chairs to sit on by the trolley where day was lying. His head was all bandaged up and his eyes were closed. He was awake but he said nothing. So we waited to see if he would speak but not a word came out of his mouth. After a quarter of an hour my mum could hold her tongue no longer. ‘Jim!’ she said, ‘What about your hand?’ My dad didn’t reply but lifted his arm out of the blanket and held it up. His hand was perfectly steady, no tremor. He then told us how during the operation the doctor had asked him to hold up his hand. He said it was shaking badly. Then, as if by magic the shaking stopped and he could move all his fingers and there was no tremor in them at all. My mum was overcome with joy and happiness. He came home without a tremor and without any further disability or signs of Parkinson’s disease. People in the street stared at him in wonderment. He walk upright and looked a new man. He got a job as a carpenter and worked for the company who employed him for twenty four years. I was so happy when in the last years of their lives I visited two people who loved each other and cared for each other.
This is a true story of how all things can work together for good to those who love the Lord. It was the beginning of a new life for me of walking with God and not just believing in God. I knew my heart and the heart of Jesus were one and that his heart was pure and holy. There is one text from the bible that has a special significance for me. ‘Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.’ {Ephesians 2:20}
I was born at my grandfather’s house in Shaw Road, Royton, a small cotton mill township in the North of England and I was baptised in St. Ann’s church, Shaw Road End, and Christened Selwyn, after a Welsh Methodist minister; my grandma’s wish. She nearly got her wish too.
My grandfather’s house always held a strong fascination for me. Even as a boy of five I left home and walked seven miles to Royton, from my parent’s house, to be there, without my parents knowing. To my mind granddad’s house was a mysterious place of treasures and hidden things in drawers and cupboards and it was so unlike Lee Street where I lived; so unlike any home I had been in, save aunty Evelene’s, which had Chinese treasures, ancient Chinese vases and a Buddha. Granddad’s house had a grandfather clock which chimed on the hour and the quater, a gleaming clock face of glass and silver fingers, and a gold pendulum that never stopped swinging. A great polished dresser with a glass mirror, which reflected everything in the room, stood alongside one wall, facing the open fireplace on the other. Grandma’s rocking chair stood beside the fireplace, and on the shelf above her head was the toffee tin. On the opposite wall, facing grandma’s rocking chair, was a couch, the sort you see in films of great houses and palaces where ladies with long dresses might sit comfortably, and gentlemen sat and smoked pipes or cigarettes. No one ever sat on it. Granddad sat and smoked a pipe on a rocking chair facing grandma. Preparing the pipe to smoke was a ritual I was fascinated by, especially lighting the pipe and puffing the first blue clouds of smoke. The odour was soothing and pungent. Everything granddad did was tidy and spruce like, like blacking and polishing his clogs and shoes. He wore the clogs to the mill like everybody else did in those days. They made a loud clanging noise on the pavements outside, which echoed down the street, maybe fifty clogs at once, going to work in the early morning and returning home in the late afternoon.
Granddad was a miner at the mill. Everybody in the neighbourhood called him John Willie Perry. My grandma called him John Willie Perry as well. She was a woman of few words but had a heart of gold, whereas granddad liked to talk and I liked to listen. He told me of how my dad learned the piano when he was my age, and how he passed his exams at the London College of Music and became a Teacher of music. He told me about when he went to America to work in a new cotton mill and all about New York. My dad was only a baby then.
Mrs. Young and Mrs Everet often visited us and I liked to listen to their conversations about people in the neighbourhood, who were old and who were young, who was dying and who was going off to war. They talked a lot about dying and death. Grandma told me about the bottom drawer in the dresser that had ‘laying out’ clothes in it ready for when granddad and grandma died. I liked to listen to talks about death and what happened when life ended on earth and began again in heaven. So I was very much attached to granddad’s house. It was like an oasis in the desert and I was always brim full of happiness when I was there.
At home, in Lee Street, Oldham, I felt the difference between Granddad’s house and ours. Ours was lit by gas lamps and had a stone floor. My dad’s piano stood alongside one wall and alongside another was what my mum called a utility dresser; there was a table too which stood in the centre of the room; that was all, except mum’s wedding photo on the wall and the fireplace and the cornish. It was a bare place compared with granddad’s house. My mum hated it, the house, the open backyard shared by twenty four other families, and the air raid shelter in the middle. She often spoke of Whitegate Ave, and the semi-detached with a private back yard where we used to live. I don’t remember that place but it must have been wonderful because my mum loved it. We lived there for two years until dad’s hand started shaking; then we had to move to Lee Street. He lost his career in music and his job and could never hold a job for more than a few weeks on account of his hand and his illness. Mum never understood his illness, nor I. It was a mystery to us, a nightmare most of the time. But something happened after we moved to Lee Street, Oldham, that dwarfed everything else in fearful consequences.
It was unexpected and unimaginable. One day in September 1939, the voice of the British Prime Minister spoke over the radio from number 10 Dawning Street, London. He said, ‘Britain is at war with Germany.’ The archbishop of Canterbury, William Temple, supported the prime minister. But there were many who did not. We were a Christian country and Jesus Christ taught us to love our enemies and that those who fought with the sword would die by the sword. Those words came true as millions of soldiers on both sides died fighting on the battlefields, in air, land and sea. Mum and dad did not believe in war but there was nothing we could do about it but wait to see the consequences, which we knew would be terrible and heartbreaking. Granddad never spoke for or against it but he and grandma talked about what they would do if there was an air raid in Royton. Where would they shelter? What if granddad’s house was hit with a bomb? I was six years old when Royton was bombed. I was staying at granddad’s house. I woke up during the night by a great explosion. Although it was night the street was lit up like daylight. The Shilo cotton mill on the corner of High Barn and Shaw Road had been hit by bombs and the flames, like tongues of fire, turned night into day. Grandma wanted to shelter in the cellar because she couldn’t walk much but granddad took my hand and walked down the street to the shelter. I was terrified. I could see the German planes hovering overhead and search lights trying to spot them and shoot them down. Granddad told me not to worry because they were not trying to kill people but strike targets like the cotton mill. He had nerves of steel and walked slowly down the street as if it were a fireworks display. On another occasion I was at home in Lee Street, when the sirens went off in the middle of the night and we rushed downstairs to the air raid shelter in our back yard. We waited for the air raid to strike and it did but this time the bombs were flying bombs and fell from the sky like meteorites from heaven. They hit Abbeyhills Road and flattened a row of houses. The next day dad took me to see the damage. There was rubble and mangled roofs everywhere on the ground. The air raid wardens were searching for bodies. My dad shook like a leaf. After seeing the destruction I hated war because it was another word for murdering mummies, babies and innocent people. War was evil. The news was very scary. Manchester, Liverpool and London had been bombed badly. The News reels at the cinema showed Hitler commanding his thousands of troops. They marched like a machine that has legs. Hitler, it seemed was winning the war but Winston Churchill came on the radio and told everyone in Britain to fight, and if we didn’t have guns to shoot the Germans with to hit them over the head with bottles. My mum said, ‘He’s a ‘war monger’.
One day Bertrand Russell, the philosopher was interviewed on the radio. He said, ‘There is no God.’ My mum stood stock still in the living room and thundered. ‘He is a bad man!’ I had never heard my mum so angry. Britain was a Christian country so I was surprised to hear a clever man speak like that. I had always believed in God because he was everywhere. He was in the stars, the sun and the moon; he was in time too. Our calendar, from one month to the next, was all about the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. He was God’s Son, and no month went by without celebrating his life on earth; even when he was crucified on the cross, which was sad, we soon celebrated his resurrection from the dead and his ascension into heaven. Then there was harvest festivals and advent which was preparing for Christmas when he was born on earth, and saints days, those who had followed Jesus and were remembered for their faith in God and witness to his Son, Jesus. And although we were at war I was sure that God would save us from the Germans. The Whitsuntide walks in Oldham were spectacular. All the churches marched through the town holding their banners and flags. The walk were about a mile long and the whole town stood and watched them.
When I was five I attended Werneth Primary School on the coppice. Everyday, school began with prayers and hymns. When I went to Junior School and then to Hollin’s Secondary School, we had prayers and hymns before we went to class. God was everywhere, in the past, the present and he was in the future too.
We won the war. In 1945, Germany surrendered to Britain, and America and Russia, who had also joined the war against Hitler. But there was something terribly sad and heartbreaking for the United States dropped atom bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Millions of people died in one bombing. When the news came on the radio my mum cried. War was evil and we knew then what it was capable of doing. Life went on just the same after the war. Rationing continued and the soldiers returned home but thousands of children in Britain had no dads and many no mums. They had been killed in battle or were missing never to be found.
I began to realise what sin and transgressions were and how sinful mankind was to cause wars and pride themselves on being victors. There was nothing to be proud of; it was all sad to me.
By that time James was born and I had a younger brother. We were very poor and my dad was the cause of all our unhappiness at home. He had a reputation for owing money to shops for cigarettes which he smoked all the time. His hand shook badly and he had days when his eyes stirred up at the ceiling as if glued there. Then he would call out ‘O Lord help me!’ a hundred times and walk about the house in his shirt tails. My dad’s illness was a mystery to me and to my mum. Some days he wandered about the house with his eyes glued to the ceiling, his hand shaking badly. His mind seemed to leave him as if it had wandered off to another world. Then other days he was my dad again, played the piano, talked about getting work and was good company. But as I got older his condition was embarrassing and unpredictable. My mum despaired of keeping us all together. By that time I had two brothers, James and Ronald. That is when I began to really fear we would be separated for in a moment of anger she burst out, ‘You will be the death of me Jim. I would be better putting the children in a home.’ That was a dreaded nightmare. She never repeated her words but they remained with me for years. She could not understand why dad was ill one day and well the next. His illness was a mystery to her and me. She began to think that he was lazy and didn’t care about us. There were many harsh words spoken. My dad tried and tried to keep a job but failed and we were left to live on a sickness benefit from the government which was very small. What with food shortages and the cost of living mum had a hard time to make ends meet but somehow she did. Even so she blamed my dad for everything. There were harsh words spoken by her and I began to take mums side in the conflict between them. I began to feel anger and hate towards him. Most of it I kept to myself but I wanted the anger to end and my dad to live somewhere else. I had reached sixteen by that time. My whole life seemed to be dominated by the war in our home. There were never any blows between them but mum’s anger was unbearable. I felt marooned on a desert island where I had to stay and where no one would come. I began to have pains in my chest and wondered if I was having a heart attack. I went to the doctor and the hospital but they just asked me if I was worried about anything. I knew immediately what they meant. Of course I was worried but how could worry cause pain? The pains were sharp and my abdomen went into a spasm causing me to double up. The pains in my chest continued for days and there did not seem to be any help from doctors. The pains came and went without warning.
One evening I went to see a film at the Grosvenor Cinema called ‘The Robe.’ It was the first film in which Jesus was acted. I was desperate to keep my mind occupied and so I went to see it. A full account of this is written about in my book, ‘Beautiful Oldham.’ I am only going to write about this briefly, here. The film showed Jesus being crucified on the cross. Up to that point in the film I had been engrossed and intrigued by the character and life of Jesus but the crucifixion staggered me. It seemed that I was knocking the nails into his hands. I, who hated my dad, seemed to identify myself with the soldiers and the priests who wanted him dead. Was that it? Did I really want my dad dead? Then, as the nails were hammered into his hands and his feet and the cross was raised for all to see, I burst into tears. The words of Jesus pierced my heart: ‘Father forgive them for they know not what they do.’ I almost ran from the cinema in tears. My walk home was slow and ponderous. My own sinfulness glared at me in the mirror of my own heart and the heart of Jesus. It was the meeting of our hearts that made me feel terribly ashamed and grieved. I felt I had lost myself. When I arrived home it was late.
Everyone had gone to bed when I arrived home. The house was quiet and peaceful. We had a family bible in the front room that had lain there for years, dusty and forgotten. I opened the first pages and read the story of creation. Everything was good. All that God made was perfect. It was the truth my mind had accepted since my earliest years. so I knelt down in the front room and prayed, ‘Lord help me’. The prayer was ironical because for years my dad, when he was sick, had called out to God as he wandered around the house, ‘O Lord help me.’ I went to bed and slept like a log as if a big burden had been lifted from me.
The next morning when I awoke I was calm and peaceful. I wandered what had happened to me. I felt no pain and no fear of pain. It was uncanny. That whole day I wandered from place to place, the park, the library, the museum and still the calmness remained and still there was no pain. I was perplexed because it seemed that there was a presence with me, the invisible presence of a Spirit, for I felt that I was not alone, like suddenly meeting an old friend and feeling happy. As I say, it was uncanny. That evening I decided to go and see the film again and this time pay for my ticket instead of sneaking in by the back door. I watched the film in a steady frame of mind, taking in every detail of the life of Jesus and his disciples and their enemies. I waited of course, for the scene of the cross most of all. I wanted to hear the words of Jesus again, ‘Father forgive them for they know not what they do.’ The scene was just as appalling and bloody as before but in a flash I realised that Jesus was the Son of God. Who else could he be? As I pondered this realisation I was filled with God’s Presence of love and peace that I cannot describe in words. I had no sense of sin or separation from God, and a new peace with God had come into my life. I felt at one with God and I was assured that God loved me and was much more than a belief in God but a knowledge of God.
I left the cinema rejoicing. It was pouring with rain but I thought the rain was dancing in tune to my heart. How was I to explain all this to mum and dad? Would they think that I had gone out of my mind. Truly I had for my mind was now made up to try and help my dad and my mum. I wanted them back, both of them. I had an impulse then and there to cross the road and enter the Salvation Army hall where a Saturday night meeting was in progress. I sat at the back and listened. The officer appealed for people to come forward to the mercy seat and I stood up without hesitation and walked the whole length of the hall and knelt at the bench they call the mercy seat. A Salvation Army soldier came and knelt beside me. He asked me if I had a problem and whether I wanted counseling. I replied, ‘No, I have just come here to thank God for answering my prayers.’
Actions speak louder than words and the first thing I did when I returned home was to arrange a visit to see my dad’s doctor. Dr. Stewart was an elderly man who had prescribed tablets for my dad for years. I asked him what was wrong with my dad that he could not work and kept being ill. He explained to me what Parkinson’s disease was and said there was no medical treatment available to cure him. ‘But,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘there is a new surgical operation on the brain.’ ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘could my dad have the operation?’ He explained that it was a serious operation that only certain selected patients could have. I asked him to write to the surgeon and ask if he might see my dad. He agreed. I was hopeful and prayed for God’s help. I knew that God would help my dad. How could I doubt it? A letter arrived in the mail one day soon afterwards and my dad opened it and looked astonished. My mum, after reading the letter, was excited. They had no idea that I had seen Dr. Stewart. After a long discussion my dad decided to go and see Dr. Macdonald at the Cavendish Clinic in Macclesfield, a neuro-surgical unit not far from Manchester. The appointment was arranged and he and mum went together to see the surgeon. A number of examinations were carried out, X rays, blood tests, history, all the usual things when operations are planned. They told my dad that they would let him know if he was suitable for the operation after the tests had been studied. A few days later a another letter arrived from the neurosurgeon. It was an appointment to have further tests and preparations for surgery. He was accepted for the brain operation.
I was, of course, very excited too. But I knew that my dad was scared to death of hospitals. He had an appointment for a lumbar puncture once and ran out of the hospital before they could do it. I prayed more and more because if my dad’s condition could be cured what a difference it would make to him and everybody else, especially my mum. The day of the operation came and my dad went with mum to be admitted and have the operation the next day. Later, he told me that he was about to leave the hospital but something stopped him. He said I decided to trust in God. And so he had the brain surgery.
The next day my mum rang the clinic and asked when she could come and see Jim. She was told that she could come at any time. We went together, mum and I. We took the train to Manchester and then the bus to Macclesfield and so to the clinic. We waited in the waiting room and eventually a doctor, came to see us. He invited us into his office and said, ‘Would you like to see Jim. He is in recovery, Mrs. Perry?’ My mum was dithering with nerves. The thought that she might get her Jim back safe and well was too much for her to hope for. We followed the doctor into recover and he gave us two chairs to sit on by the trolley where day was lying. His head was all bandaged up and his eyes were closed. He was awake but he said nothing. So we waited to see if he would speak but not a word came out of his mouth. After a quarter of an hour my mum could hold her tongue no longer. ‘Jim!’ she said, ‘What about your hand?’ My dad didn’t reply but lifted his arm out of the blanket and held it up. His hand was perfectly steady, no tremor. He then told us how during the operation the doctor had asked him to hold up his hand. He said it was shaking badly. Then, as if by magic the shaking stopped and he could move all his fingers and there was no tremor in them at all. My mum was overcome with joy and happiness. He came home without a tremor and without any further disability or signs of Parkinson’s disease. People in the street stared at him in wonderment. He walk upright and looked a new man. He got a job as a carpenter and worked for the company who employed him for twenty four years. I was so happy when in the last years of their lives I visited two people who loved each other and cared for each other.
This is a true story of how all things can work together for good to those who love the Lord. It was the beginning of a new life for me of walking with God and not just believing in God. I knew my heart and the heart of Jesus were one and that his heart was pure and holy. There is one text from the bible that has a special significance for me. ‘Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.’ {Ephesians 2:20}
