Every family should have at least one eccentric aunt or uncle, I’ve decided. Mine did – in the form of Uncle Ivor: Dad’s best friend. They’d grown up together since meeting, aged five, at Miss Polly’s school in Purley, South London. We called him Uncle although he wasn’t related – when we were children it was the polite way to address adult friends. Uncle Ivor spent most weekends with us, mucking in with gardening or the restoration of our once derelict old house.
At least, I think that was the idea. I have vivid memories of him and Dad spending hours roaring with laughter as they moved heavy pieces of furniture from one room to another, or they’d be up trees sawing branches down in the wilderness that was our garden. While Dad had to maintain a modicum of parental authority, Uncle Ivor was Peter Pan personified. His clothes were threadbare, he’d giggle at things until tears rolled down his face and he smoked like a chimney. A confirmed bachelor, he lived with straight-laced parents so I guess being with us allowed him to let off steam and be himself.
He’d arrive on a Saturday, around teatime.
This was a source of amusement: as a family we didn’t recognise teatime so were never sure what time Ivor meant – Dad teased him about it which made Ivor all the more insistent that teatime would be when he would arrive. Generally, we discovered, this meant any time between three and five in the afternoon and he’d expect a cup of tea and slice of cake which Mum always provided. He’d usually stay the night, sometimes even stay for lunch on Sunday, but more often than not he would suddenly announce his departure and before we knew it, he was gone. He wasn’t good at goodbyes.
Ivor was more than willing to join in my imaginary games. I was a tomboy and fanatical about Robin Hood, assuming the role at every opportunity. Ivor played Sheriff of Nottingham and was happy to be tied to a deckchair with a skipping rope while my sister, as Friar Tuck (she didn’t know any better) and I rescued Maid Marion (Mum) from her kitchen. Dad was usually on the way back from a crusade, I think, which meant that in reality he was either finishing off a job or fetching a couple of beers from the fridge.
Firework night always included Ivor. Mum would be in charge of supper while Dad and he would be in charge of our firework display. My sister and I would watch from a safe distance behind the dining room window as Dad and Ivor behaved like out of control boy scouts detached from their patrol. One particularly wet November 5th when the bonfire lighting was not going well, Ivor added a splash of petrol to the mix and we had an inferno.
Sometimes after supper, we’d sit around the table playing games – monopoly or cards; Ivor’s trump card would invariably be an ace or king. I think he cheated at monopoly. Whoever lost anything had to pay a forfeit and I remember Ivor running barefoot outside in mid winter, snow up to his ankles.
He even came on holidays with us. How long suffering my mother must have been. He never came for the whole time but would pitch up for a few days, usually without any luggage. More than once I remember us rushing to the nearest town for Ivor to stock up on underpants. When I was about eleven, we had our first holiday abroad. Dad drove us, via the Cherbourg ferry, to south Brittany. This was adventuring! We were like the Larkin family from H.E. Bates’ The Darling Buds of May. Ivor followed on by train and we met him at the station. He arrived without a bag: situation normal.
One evening, we went to a self-service cafe. We had settled down with our food but Ivor was still at the counter. He picked up a bottle of fizzy drink and shouted over the heads of the mainly French clientele, to ask us if we’d like some Pschitt – although his pronunciation left something to be desired. He and Dad were off again, giggling like school boys. My sister and I only got the joke once I’d started attending secondary school and my education included profanities.
There is a last Ivor-ism I must leave you with. All his working life he commuted to the City of London, to a job in insurance which he hated. He’d try finding amusement during his journey to make the day more bearable. His train stopped at stations along his route, one of which was Leatherhead, in Surrey. In those days, before digital announcements, the guard would shout the destination from the platform. Upon hearing “Leatherhead” shouted for the umpteenth time, Ivor pushed down the window, leant out and shouted back “Fishface!”
A couple of days ago, I googled the derivation of the insult, “Fishface.” One of the answers claimed that the expression had originated in Leatherhead. Ivor would be so proud.
As we grow up, parents become a source of embarrassment: it’s a fact of life, happens to us all. Somehow, eccentric aunts and uncles bypass this stage and remain as they’ve ever been – accepted for their foibles. I hope that one day someone somewhere will regard me as their eccentric aunt. I’m working on it.
Thanks for sharing such great memories! Ivor sounds like quite the character…I love people like him. 🙂
Thanks Jill, he was certainly a character and an adopted member of our family!
Where I’m from we often call people like Ivor ‘uncle’ too. Sounds like he made things so much better. We need more Ivors!
Don’t we just! I can see your last sentence there plastered on a protest sign outside Parliament…
My (resolutely) single best friend can’t wait until I have children, so that ‘Aunty Katy’ can teach them everything that’s ‘really’ important. I’m looking forward to and dreading this in equal measure. Great post – Uncle Ivor sounds wonderful! Jx
And I’m sure that they’ll be all the richer for whatever Aunty Katy teaches them! Thanks for reading.
One of the most confusing things about moving to England is “teatime”. When is it? What is it? And why is it different from “high tea”? As an American, the last time I had guests for tea, their names were Mr. Bear and Miss Dolly. Now it rules the afternoon, controls the traffic, and determines when shops close. I was told to pick up the dog from the kennel at teatime, so that she would have already had her tea.
I love every minute of teatime. Little sandwiches, clotted cream, home made preserves. No wonder Uncle Ivor showed up for then! He sounds like a wonderful addition to your memories. Thanks for sharing him with us.
I like the idea of teatime – especially if its served on one of those tiered china plates with mismatched cups and saucers – but all that unnecessary food between lunch and dinner…a ride in the Vomit Comet would definitely be out after that lot.
(If anyone’s wondering what on earth I’m talking about – head over to Barb’s place and read her latest post – it’s hilarious).
BTW — our family had Uncle Carl. He was a perennial student, moving from his librarian degree to anthropology to law and on to classics, although as far as I know, the only job he ever had was as a night watchman. He was a painfully shy bachelor who would show up for dinner, eat vast quantities, and call all of us children “baby doll” — undoubtedly because he couldn’t tell us apart. I think your family lucked out with Uncle Ivor!
He sounds great – was he a real relative? His eating vast quantities has just reminded me of another friend of Dad’s who occasionally came for supper and hoovered up everything in sight. My sister was particularly outraged as there were never any leftover puddings to be consumed by us the next day.
I think he was the brother of my mother’s best friend. They moved away and we inherited Uncle Carl. But somehow, whenever we moved after that, he came too. My mother’s cooking may not have been gourmet, but she was used to cooking ginormous amounts (10 kids and nonstop additional guests) so perhaps that was the lure.
What a lovely, affectionate account of Uncle Ivor. The bloggers are right; every family should have one.It speaks of a different time, when we lived nearer family and friends and our lives revolved around this special group of people.
You’re right – I think distance has a lot to do with families becoming less extended these days, even with the weight of traffic on the roads – it’s obviously not on the way to visiting relations!
Great picture of Ivor, brings back the memory of him doing the Haka on the lawn much to the amazement of the brother, I don’t think you would have enough space on your blog to include all the Ivorisms which in a way is rather a nice compliment to him. ‘The silly ol fool’
Gosh, yes, I’d forgotten the Haka. There are so many – and I kicked myself last night when I realised I had left out the Glenshee incident – maybe it would warrant a post of its own!
What a great story! Thanks. 🙂
Thanks for reading…
Jenny, you made Uncle Ivor a legend! This is a wonderful tribute to him and makes us all wish we, too, had such an interesting uncle.
A legend! He’d love that!
What a delightful string of observations of a very entertaining character. Hope he is still alive, if not, you have brought him to life by this lovely piece. Well done.
Sadly, Ivor died ages ago – but has never been forgotten and is often remembered with much love and hilarity at family reunions.
Great story. I keep wondering why he never had clothes?
How wonderful for Ivor that your family, not just your dad, adopted him.
Love the ‘fishface’ incident.
Thanks Rod. He probably did have clothes – he just never brought luggage with him on holidays – or at least, that’s how I remember it!
He sounds brilliant. I have an eccentric and very funny cousin, who teaches. I really wish he taught my children, but sadly not.
See, all families have someone, or if they’re lucky, two or even three slightly off the wall members – makes life so much fun!