Snapshot: My father’s friend, killed in Cyprus
This memorial card shows the face of a young policeman, Gerald Rooney, who was shot dead by an EOKA (National Organisation of Cypriot Fighters) gunman in Cyprus in 1956. Born in Northern Ireland but serving in Kent constabulary, he volunteered, along with several hundred other officers, including my father, from Durham constabulary, to help the British army maintain order during the Cyprus emergency that led up to the island’s independence. Most of the volunteers saw it as an opportunity to escape a humdrum existence in Britain and enjoy two years of sun and excitement in a foreign country, albeit one not without its dangers.
Gerald and my father, Don, were, at 24, the two youngest British police officers on the island and were soon firm friends. They also shared a strong Catholic faith. On the morning of his death, Gerald couldn’t find his hat and asked my father, who had just come off duty, if he could borrow his. I’d heard the story before, but listened again as my father reminisced on his deathbed last year about how his friend had been wearing his hat when he was shot in the head on Ledra Street, the so-called murder mile, in Nicosia later that day. I then found an old news report on YouTube about the murder of Gerald Rooney. He is covered with a blanket, dead on the street, his foot sticking out. I kept the report to myself, not wanting to upset my father.
Three hundred or so British soldiers and policemen died in Cyprus. It was all rather pointless, my father always said, given that independence was granted soon after. Yet Cyprus determined the course of his life, as he went on to enjoy a long career as a police inspector in Britain, marry a Greek Cypriot, my mother, with whom he had eight children, become a grandfather to nine, and live to 85. He was lucky and had his life; his friend was unlucky and lost his – that’s how it goes, my father must have often thought over the following 60 years. I found this memorial card in his wallet the day after his death.
Andreas Smith
Playlist: Dad’s lullaby performances
“Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak / Somewhere in this town / Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak / So don’t you be around …”
My dad was 25 when he had me, and 31 when my brother Jack was born. For most of our childhood he worked in Belfast, a 90-minute drive from our small rural village. Dad taught creative writing for a charity that helped victims and survivors of Northern Ireland’s Troubles to tell their stories.
In those volatile years before the Good Friday agreement, he was often in quite dangerous situations, working with community groups in nationalist and loyalist areas where there had been violence. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but in retrospect it must have been scary for him and my mum.
One of my most vivid childhood memories is of Dad singing us bedtime lullabies. We were treated to classics by the Drifters, Aretha Franklin, the Bee Gees … but most of all by Thin Lizzy. Dad would perform their entire song Jailbreak for us, including one section where his voice would descend to a whisper and he’d pretend to leave the room, only to turn around unexpectedly and shout: “Breakout!”, before launching into a spate of air-guitar. My brother and I lapped all this up with the enthusiasm of a stadium audience. I think these lullaby performances were something of a release for Dad: a spell of sheer unadulterated silliness at the end of a stressful day.
My dad’s brother Brendan, who died too young, also loved the music of Thin Lizzy. Brendan’s son is named Philip after their supremely talented frontman, Phil Lynott. My cousin Phil recently married the love of his life, and at their wedding, we boogied to a few Thin Lizzy numbers. Judging by his display on the dancefloor, I can confirm that my dad still has his mojo.
Molly Goyer Gorman
We love to eat: Egg mornay – a ‘sophisticated supper’
Ingredients
Two eggs per person
1oz (50g) butter/marg
1oz flour
½ pint (285ml) milk
Plenty of grated cheddar cheese
Salt and pepper
Toast – one or more slices per person
Hard boil the eggs and make the cheese sauce: put milk in pot, sprinkle in flour, season, then add marg. Stir continuously over low heat to remove lumps and add the cheese. Leave on very low heat and stir occasionally. Roughly slice the eggs. Place in a casserole dish and pour cheese sauce over. Grate extra cheese on top. Serve on toast with some salad.
This is one of the very few dishes I learned to cook at school. It was described as a “sophisticated supper”, even though no salad was present at that point. This was the 1970s. The sophisticated bit came, I think, because the teacher cut the toast into small triangles and decorated the edge of the dish with them. That seemed a big faff, so when I made it at home, I dolloped it on a slice of toast. Also, she made a proper cheese sauce, which I did, too, until I realised the fast method works just as well as long as you stir out the lumps. It continued to impress when I invited friends for dinner as a student away from home. It remained a favourite in my house as my children grew up, usually served midweek when food supplies were low.
Maureen Blackwell
We’d love to hear your stories
We will pay £25 for every Letter to, Playlist, Snapshot or We Love to Eat we publish. Write to Family Life, The Guardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way, London N1 9GU or email family@theguardian.com. Please include your address and phone number.
