Tribute, Ivan Spurdens, May 31, 2019

A big welcome to you all. Dad had lots of friends around Beccles. It’s great to see so many here today. Thank you all for coming.
Soon after dad passed away, I phoned to tell uncle Gerald. As he turned away from the phone for a moment I overheard him say: “It’s Spuddy he’s gone”… and I had to smile. I had forgotten how widely dad was known as Spuddy – starting from school friends, through workmates, and to his brothers-in-law (apparently). To many others of course he was Ivan; and to close family he will always be our dad, grandad or great grandad.

Dad lived 65 years of indivisible partnership with mum (Sylvia), his beloved Syl., 70 years if you include their 5-year engagement.

He complemented her style perfectly – if she was the strongly opinionated Lois Lane – positive, energetic and sometimes challenging; he was her bespectacled Clark Kent – contentedly in the background, modest about his talents – yet so capable of making things happen. He was her Superman. They flew together. He was never quite the same after her passing.

Can I do justice to the life of a Superman in 10 minutes? Of course not. So please do come along afterwards, to Ringsfield Village Hall, and let’s share some more memories. For now, I’ll try to give you a brief portrait of the man we’ve lost:

Ivan was born 29th March, 1926 in Wenhaston. He was the third child – following a brother lost soon after birth and his big sister Kathleen. His father was a policeman, his mother ran the home. Dad was 5 when they moved to Ringsfield. Ringsfield was where he grew up and called home.

Dad was born with a lazy eye. An attempt at corrective surgery made it worse, and he lived his whole life with precious little sight on the left. Look closely at many of his photos and you will see that he left eye is partially closed. But he wasn’t one to dwell on such things – he got on with life and barely mentioned it.

Life in Ringsfield as son of the local bobby wasn’t always easy. On top of that his mother (born under Queen Victoria in 1890) had a somewhat Victorian outlook on parenting. Children should be ‘seen but not heard’. Rules were strictly enforced; especially table manners. Much later, this resurfaced as contention between grandma Spurdens and our, more liberal, 20th century mum. There was only ever going to be one winner at these times. And dad was expert at keeping out of the firing line.

Dad’s father was different, he’d spent much of his childhood in London, picked up the accent, and sometimes infuriated grandma with a choice turn of phrase. Dad’s uncle Bob used to recount the story of a Sunday dinner – all were seated around the table in their Sunday best. The adults were talking. Something was said and 5-year-old Ivan suddenly blurted out ‘that’s a bloody good idea’. For years later, Bob, still laughing, would say to dad: “boy, you near killed me, I near choked to death, I had to leave the room to recover – your mother’s face”.

Dad’s school reports were good. Christmas term 1932, position in class 1st – teachers comment: Ivan’s work has been very good this term. He is very painstaking and an energetic worker, very anxious to ‘get on’.

At age 11 he went from village school to the Council School on Castle Hill in Beccles. He was often scathing about the head master’s liberal use of the cane – he was no supporter of corporal punishment; but he relished the new-found freedom of cycling to Beccles every day.

He left school in 1940 and started at Clowes Printing Works; in the bindery. He was refused an apprenticeship – on the grounds they wouldn’t have enough jobs on the return of those called up. He hated the work. He lasted 3 months.

Then came the move that changed his life. He found a job in the workshop of the road haulage firm, Robinson’s Transport –out on the London Road. Starting at the bottom, he thrived in the wartime atmosphere of ‘if you are good enough you are old enough’. He’d found his calling.

He learned the trade hands-on. He quickly learnt to drive the lorries – he never did take a driving test, nor did he ever have a serious motor accident. He repaired the lorries and he travelled as driver’s mate. They’d race to be in-and-out of London in daylight, before the next night’s Luftwaffe raid. He shipped supplies to the local American airfields – he loved it when they gave him a pass to eat with the GIs in the Mess.

His father had delayed retirement to cover the war years. Dad sometimes went with him - experiencing incendiary bombs, butterfly bombs and aircraft crashes. A grateful airman from a downed Liberator gave dad his sheepskin flying glove – I still have it. Dad helped grandad construct their chicken house roof from Liberator bomb doors.

Sometime in the 1940s he acquired a motorbike. He rode with a group of young friends – and his experiences left him adamant that his boys should never have motorbikes. One of his favourite stories was of he and his mates helping a boy who’d had a few too many drinks. Taking him home on the back of a motorbike, they failed to notice his feet were dragging on the ground. As they carried him in, they realised he had no soles left on his shoes. Dad said: “I was out there fast; before his mother noticed.”

In1948 the government nationalised long distance road haulage and dad found himself working for British Road Services (BRS). By now he had shown his worth – when he refused relocation to Great Yarmouth, they relented, and put him in charge of the Beccles workshop.

In the early 50s (1951) came denationalisation – individuals and companies were invited to bid for ex-BRS vehicles. Dad pooled money with Ivor Westwood, Bob Bailey and Frank Clark; they bought 3 lorries and Westwood Transport was born. They rented repair-shop space at Brands (Agricultural) Engineers, at the top of South Road.  Eventually, they purchased the site and operated two businesses from there for over 40 years: Westwood Transport and Brands (Motor Engineers).

1948 was the start of mum and dad’s long partnership. They were engaged - Dad 21, mum 18. A couple of months ago we took him for a ride around Southwold; he recalled with great glee how he and mum would cycle there on a Sunday, spend the day on the beach, returning home, tired, badly sunburnt, but happy.

Mum and dad married in 1952. They eventually saved enough for a mortgage on a semi on Kemps Lane. DIY dad took on that house – stripping distemper, replacing rotten window sills, painting, rewiring. He made it the first home for all three of us boys. An early memory for me is being with dad as he built the asbestos garage. Asbestos still a popular building material back then. And it’s fire resistance proved its worth more than once, after he bought me a Chemistry set.

Family life at Kemps Lane was good. Mum made friends with everyone, dad worked long hours, Westwood Transport grew. If the telephone rang at night, we knew what to expect. ‘Spuddy, I’m broken-down on the A12 at Colchester’ or ‘Ivan, I’m stuck at May’s Café, it won’t start’. Dad would call Bob Bailey, tools in the back of the car, and off they’d go. He’d return exhausted in the early hours of the morning; or even next evening after a full day’s work.

Sunday mornings. Mum wanted us at Sunday school.  We boys wanted to be ‘up the works’ with dad. He was king of his castle, we were in a wonderland of pressure lines, grease guns, lathes, band saws, you could make serious sparks with banks of 24V batteries. He’d send me to the compressor shed to switch it off. I’d go in, compressor would cut in without warning, I’d near jump out of my skin, he’d laugh out loud. I hated that compressor.

For all dad’s dedication to his business, he didn’t once assume we’d follow him into it. He knew the importance of letting us follow our passions. That said, when Alan did go for it, and ended up at Westwood’s, dad’s pride at having him alongside was palpable.

Dad was a great teacher to us. He taught by example, wasn’t afraid to trust us, and then pick up the pieces. When I was just 9 he showed me his model steam engine - then allowed me to play with it on my own. When I over tightened the pressure release valve and burst the boiler, he re-braised it for me and said: “you won’t do that again”. We didn’t tell mum.

He managed rather than suppressed Alan’s boyhood fascination with bonfires and air guns. He built a shed and work bench with Mark – and gave Mark many a summer job at Westwood’s.

He taught us all to drive – mum, me, Alan and Mark. I had hardly started when he put the L plates on the car and said drive me to Worksop, I need to look at some tractor units. He let us practice unsupervised around the Westwood yard. His restraint was admirable after Mark’s passable attempt at taking the side off of the car.

He never lost his belief that action spoke louder than words. He had no time for the sanctimonious, hypercritical or arrogant. His favourite charity was the Salvation Army –he’d say, ‘in a crisis, you see them, first on the scene, helping people pick up their lives’.

And he never lost his sense of fun. We all remember him dancing to Agadoo, Hokey Cokey or the Conga at parties and weddings.

Every year without fail he’d try to forget about Westwood’s for two weeks and take us on a family holiday – in tent or caravan – to coast or mountains – always the same successful formula. How do you pull a 5 birth caravan up a 1-in-4 hill in a fully loaded,1200cc, Fiat 124? Very slowly is the answer. Somehow we always made it.

In later years this expanded into countless days out and holiday breaks with his grandchildren. Mum in charge – dad buying the ice creams. Joel and Oliver, Charlene and Justin, Bradley and Keilin; they all have their memories of this time. Latterly his great-grandchildren brought him moments of joy. He would say to me: “that Lennie’s been here. He’s a boy, never stops does he”. Or, “Buddie – I can’t believe how big he is. Mum would have loved him”.

Dad retired twice. First in 1991, at age 66. Almost immediately he went back to guide the business through the recession of the early 90s – his concern, we saw it first hand, was for the livelihoods of his employees. He retired a second time in 1995 age 70, having successfully transferred the lorries and drivers to Bomford Haulage and the Brands business to the Colby Group.

We wondered how he’d adapt to retirement – he did it with ease. There was always a side of him beyond his businesses; he just expanded into it. He became the gofer behind mum’s chair ship of Beccles East Suffolk Association for the Blind (ESAB). Taxi-ing, street-collections, event organisation, minutes secretary. Together they made it work. Mum fronted it, dad in close support.

His one extravagance was his Lexus with the personalised plates – X31 VAN. It’s his Facebook cover picture. It didn’t have a Gardner 180 engine for him to tweak, but he loved it all the same.

Also, after retirement, he took up Lawn Bowls. Clays of Bungay gave him a set of bowling balls as a retirement gift and he became a regular at the Beccles Bowls Club. He made new friends and spent many happy hours there.

He only really gave up playing bowls after mum’s stroke. There he was at 91, visiting her every day in the James Paget (All Hallows) - every day for 4.5 months. He outlived her by 15 months and we tried our best to keep him upbeat through that time.

Many helped – there was Pam his caring neighbour, who also rescued him last December when he was having a heart attack. There was the visiting ministry from St Luke’s – Tony French. There was dear uncle Gerald, walking down to visit when he could no longer drive. There were cousin Heather’s visits and trips out. Peter Colby found time to visit – dad really appreciated that. To these and the others I have failed to mention – thank you all, so much.

To the end, dad was unassuming, quiet, determined to be self-sufficient; not wanting to cause anybody any trouble. Corina and I left him at 6:30 Saturday evening, May 4; he was tired and planned an early night. He arranged his things neatly on his bedside table – including his favourite night-time indulgence, his pot of jelly babies. He put on his pyjamas, he stowed his teeth, he climbed into bed and there fell asleep… forever.

He’s gone – but not forgotten. We celebrate his life today. We will, forever cherish our memories of this remarkable man… our very special, irreplaceable, dad/grandad/great grandad Ivan.

We will always remember him.