The story of a lad from a Yorkshire village who dared to dream​ - Christa Ackroyd

An old pen knife, his policeman’s whistle, a bedside torch and a battered stud and collar box that belonged to grandad filled with old stamps and coins and yet still containing a set of pearl collar studs that belonged to an age of elegance that is long gone.

But there is one thing of dad’s that is incongruous in its beauty and special in its history. It was never used and in fact was tucked out of sight for most of its life.

Though we spoke often about its significance. It is a beautiful figured and somewhat tarnished small sold silver tray or dish. Around the edges are delicately crafted doves of peace, 16 of them in total.

It is ornate and I suppose quite valuable, but it is the words in the middle which I focus on today and mean more than the price of silver in the lesson they teach us.

I don’t know everything about its history, though the inscription speaks for itself. I don’t know if dad even knew who gave it to his parents to give to him, but it is a thing of beauty.

It’s story tells the story of my father and his father and how the latter, my grandad, came to travel the world in search of new possibilities and means of supporting his bride and the family which followed.

It is inscribed in French and I remember the only time we ever regularly got it out of the cupboard was to practice my school girl language learning, after which mum would take the opportunity to get out the creamy silver polish with it’s distinctive pinkish tone and smell, an old rag from under the stairs, and give it a gentle clean before it was placed carefully back where it was kept, out of sight but never out of mind, too precious to be there for all to see and for dad almost too showy to have on display.

To the world he was a down to earth Yorkshire bobby who rose the ranks and did well for himself and his family. Bradford through and through.

But that silver tray is as much a part of his story as the set of pips from his police uniform kept then and now in the aforementioned stud box in his bedside drawer.

I will roughly translate again the words upon it, as we did together when I was a teenager.

The inscription reads: ‘The little Jesus was offered myrrh in the manger when he was born. But Maurice (dad) son of Swire (grandad) is given this plate. Signed Le G.C.with the name Maurice Ackroyd June 6 1927.’

We never did find out what Le G.C was, possibly some gentleman’s club grandad joined while living in the crazy city that was Paris in the 1920s with Grandma Emily.

We know they lived the high life, visited the opera, the art galleries and possibly the jazz clubs that sprang up in that heady post war era.

But apart from that we knew little else, other than when you open dad’s birth certificate which I have also kept, there it is in black and white.

Born in Paris at L’hôpital de Angleterre, June 6 1927. And considering when I knew them grandad and grandma were running a little egg farm in Barnoldswick that fact seems both incongruous and incredible. The story of how and why is even more so.

Grandad was born in a village on the outskirts of Bradford. He left school at 14 and having lost much of his left hand in an machine accident in the mills he found himself working in the great hall of the Wool Exchange in Bradford.

JB Priestley was working in those offices and grandad had at first a lowly job answering telegraphs from international salesmen the world over.

The spark was lit and grandad decided that was the life for him. And so as a newly wed he packed his bags and took his young bride travelling, selling wool from Bradford, cotton from Lancashire and importing silk from the Far East.

They sailed away to find work in India, Malaysia with the East India Company and in Japan.

But it was Paris where they made their home with grandad travelling Europe to such an extent he spoke, as I recall at least eight languages languages including Urdu, Japanese, French, German and Italian.

And it was in Paris dad was born.

And then came the 1930s crash. They returned home. Had another son and bought the egg farm where they lived among their memorabilia with their reminders of exciting times when travel was open, trade was free and dreams were easily turned into possibilities.

What a life they had. Grandma once said she had been to every major opera house in the world except Sydney and grandad used to shout at his pet dog in what ever language he fancied.

No regrets. Minds broadened and a son with Paris on his passport.

So why am I telling you this.

Because whatever the outcome of what I fear will be a long battle for leadership of the Labour party the one thing I have heard so far that excited me comes from one of the would be candidates and that is the rejoining of the European Union in some form.

I care not what the Brexit result was. It was based on lies and it cost us momentarily the trust and support of our allies in Europe.

But it cost so much more. It cost us our freedom to travel simply, to live and work where we want to and it made us smaller, weaker and definitely more narrow minded as a nation.

Had it not been for recent conflicts I doubt we would have attempted to make amends with our neighbours in Europe.

Grandad lost everything in the crash. But my goodness he had lived. He was clever, deep and intelligent, but then you know what they say travel broadens the mind. And it does.

He returned to his native Yorkshire without regrets but with sights and sounds and experiences that at the time were daring and life changing.

Years later and long before dad died I travelled to Paris with a school friend. We did the usual sights. The Eiffel tower, the Louvre, walked along the River Seine.

But we also did a detour to the English hospital where dad was born and he was so quietly proud we had done so.

Today, and every day, as I look at that little silver dish I am reminded of the story of a lad from a Bradford village who dared to dream, to seek new horizons and lived that dream because he could and that it was easier more than 100 years ago than it is now.

That is all I want for this generation and the next.

And above an end to this insular attitude that we can and should stand alone, because in doing so it costs us too much, not just economically but spiritually too.

Europe is part of our history. As the little dish reminds me, it certainly is and always will be part of mine too.