Bank Holiday Weekend on the cusp of Economic collapse

On this bank holiday weekend 2022, I look back to when Harry Leslie Smith recounted his day trip to Southport just before the Great Depression struck. Like him long ago, we too are on the cusp of ruin. His times have become our times.

It was like the fourth day of creation when my family went to Southport in 1928 for a day’s adventure. The world looked like it was in firmament, waiting to be formed into a perfect summer’s day. Above me, fat, grey clouds floated in the sky like barrage balloons while seagulls darted between them with the deftness of barnstorming pilots. They screeched in pleasure over their acrobatics and command of the world above the land.

However, once they spotted my mum, dad, sister and me resting by the sea wall, they spiralled down from the heavens with menace in their thoughts. When they were just above our heads, a draft of wind thwarted their attempt at harassment and blew them back towards the horizon.

My mother raised a fist at the birds and promised them hellfire if they dared to shit on her, which caused me to laugh. My mum shooed me away. But as I was just a lad of five, I ignored her ill temper and ran in circles around her. I pretended I was one of those majestic birds, bestowed with the gift and freedom of flight.

My mother urged me to pack it in, while my dad told her to steady on and scooped me up into his giant miner’s arms. I scanned the deserted beach wet from the rain; while I rested on my father’s shoulders,. In the distance, I heard the wash, of the tide- but the sand seemed to stretch to what I thought was forever. Far away on the promenade, the noise from a merry-go-round whispered a delightful tune in my ear.

Excitedly, my dad exclaimed.

"The air tastes as fresh as morning."

"Can't you smell it, lad?" It smells of adventure and freedom."

To my dad, it must have smelt like that because he was a miner; on low wages, which compelled my family to live in the slums of Barnsley.

Just as a heavy gust of wind blew grit into our eyes; my sister cried out.

“Where is it then, this sea you promised?”

My mother concurred.

"If we’d gone to Blackpool, there’d be more to do than a march towards the sea. Blackpool has more amusements than Aladdin’s cave.”

But I held fast to my father’s dogged trek through the cold August sand.

“It’s all right Da; you’ll show them, won’t ya.”

“That’s right lad,” said my father optimistically, “it’s not much further. Don’t you fret; we will be knee-deep in the sea, just like I promised you.”

So with me riding like a young prince on top of my father’s shoulders and my mother and sister in pessimistic tow, we followed a strong scent of salt and fish in hopes of finding open water.

Suddenly, my sister cried out to our dad in a voice that knows she was loved but still demanded to be loved more than anyone else.

“What about me,” she pleaded “why can’t I ride up high.”

“Because you are older lass and your brother’s legs are not as strong as yours,” he said to console her.

“Why can’t you carry us both,” she responded defiantly.

“Would that I could, but I just don’t have the strength to lug both of you about."

There was melancholy in his cadence. Perhaps, he knew that his health was starting to fail him. Perhaps, he had a premonition that injury at the coal face would soon leave him an invalid and incapable of providing for his family.

I don't know. But in less than a year he’ was out of work along with millions of other men when the stock markets crashed. A whole generation became redundant, impoverished, homeless and destitute because capitalism swindled civilisation to enrich the few.

Yet, on that day at Southport, the Great Suffering and sadness of the Great Depression was only a storm gathering strength far out from land. My dad might have heard the sound of thunder in the distance, but he chose to ignore it to grab onto a few granules of happiness for him and his family.

When we reached the shoreline, he took me down from his shoulders and said.

“Remember it well, for there is nothing like a day at the beach.”

When my mother and sister joined us, we stood on the edge to watch the white caps rage on top of an angry sea. It was the first and last holiday; I had together with my family. The Great Depression drowned us all and in the end I was the only one lucky enough to swim to a shore where I found love and security following the Second World War.