My Mum was as feisty as they come. Before I was born, there was an incident when it was their wedding anniversary. Dad was a Sergeant Major in the British Army, an instructor in the use of mustard gases in World War I. Stationed in Otley, Yorkshire, Mum lived off base in a rented house belonging to a Mrs. Burnell. My oldest sister, Mae, was a baby, and as their Wedding Anniversary was coming up, Dad asked Mum to organize a baby sitter, and he would take her out to dinner. That was a big deal in those days.
So, Mrs. Burnell came in to sit with Mae, Mum got all gussied up, ready for her big night out. Nine o’clock came, then ten o’clock, and as Mum’s hopes dropped, and her embarrassment grew, she and Mrs. Burnell sat in the two armchairs each side of the fireplace. Eventually, they heard the sound of the key trying to find the lock. Eventually, Dad staggered in, very happy, completely oblivious of the fact that he had broken his promise, said good night and proceeded to bed.
Mum got his cold water razor, and shaved off just one half of his Sargeant Major waxed moustache as he slept.
Next morning she awoke to the sound of shaving in the bathroom. He removed the other half, took a cup of tea to Mum in bed, kissed her goodbye, never mentioned the incident, and went off to war for another day. She remembers him having a very pale upper lip, compared to the rest of his ruddy complexion.
From that day until the day that he died, he never mentioned it. Neither did Mum.
