So called because of “Big” Arthur, his father, and to differentiate from him. An artist – but who knew? He was a picture on a wall with his sister (Dorothy). He then emerged into my conscious when he gave film shows in the “back room”, the general purpose room in which people sat, listening to the radio, and later watch the television, and in the window, a table round which everyone could gather. Differentiated from the “front room” which was a shrine to the three piece suite and in which guests were entertained.

His film shows, 35mm colour slides, were captivating, and artistic – few “family” pictures, and few people featuring at all. Sunsets, countryside, street scenes they were all beautifully done. Aunty Gladys was obviously very proud of him, and extolled the virtues of his photography, but I am not sure the absence of “family” was wholly accepted.

He inspired me, I have to say. And I followed in his footsteps to curate my own shows, eventually featuring mood setting music, recorded off The Light Programme late on a Friday night. A digression…

He would strap on his leathers – mentioned elsewhere in this site, he was off on a hot date. His motorbike started up just off the alleway in the front garden, and he was off. I would watch him dress up, thinking I wonder if it’s worth it – but he was mobile, he could go where he liked, he was independent, and that was so important in post-war Britain. Then, one day whilst we were round, off he went to meet Valerie! And, ‘ere long, he bought his house, another important statement in the late 50’s/early 60’s, and something Aunty was very proud of, him and Dorothy up at Lechlade Road.

Later, mid-sixties, he was found at Yardley Cemetry, and again, whilst we were visiting the grave of my Grandmother at Robin Hood Cemetry. On both occasions, I recall, he was working on grave stones, hand chipping away on the inscriptions. I can see his face now, so engaging, peaked with the winter cold, hands raw in finger-less mittens, pained by some early arthritis, and … smiling! “Hello, Aunty”, his voice so soft and mellow, slightly Brumish, but warm. I picture him looking up, I suppose he was working in a hold of sorts, certainly if he had to add a relative, I guess some access would have to be excavated.

His early jobs, I recall, would be for funeral directors directly, later I think we was sub-contracted. He would travel by public transport – ‘buss, and back again. By the time we saw him at Robin Hood, he was once again mobile, and an aspirational Reliant three-wheeler made life easier for him.

Years later, we had a house name made for our home, Worthy House. The mason was a jolly chap who explained that he was dylexic. I made a quip about variations of the name – just like Faulty Towers, when he unveiled it might it be Worty House or other variation? I enquired. He explained that because he suffered dyslexia, that wouldn’t happen, because he copied shapes, not letters or words – his apprenticeship consisted of Polish immigrants head stones in Southampton, so he figured he was immune to such mistakes – appreciation of an under-valued job rose in my eye. Digressing…

At the Funeral I asked after Arthur’s job, and he responded that he made jewellery! Trained at Birmingham Art college, he fell into stonemasonry, and he had had his fill of cold, damp conditions, and went back to his first love. A very warm and loving man, respectfully remembered, and I know Ian has commented on the artistic bent of the sisters, but their descendants are carrying on that trait.