Victor John Bennett (12 Jan 1937 - 27 May 2019)

In loving memory of Victor John Bennett who sadly passed away on 27th May 2019 aged 82 Years. Family flowers only please with donations if desired in Victor`s memory for St Elizabeth Hospice, or if preferred you are welcome to make a private donation to your preferred choice of charity.

Dad was born a Brummie: A biography for Victor John Bennett:
Dad was born a Brummie in Selly Oak Hospital, and died a Brummie in Ipswich, despite having lived, at various other times, in Selly Park, Cyprus, London, Kings Heath, Tenby, South Wales and Redditch...and also, inspite of his lifelong reverence for the human voice with a BBC 'received pronunication'... I am personally glad to say he held his Midland's accent until his dying days. He just never believed it.
Being a Brummie made Dad proud. Not least because his beloved family and friends, in smaller and larger ways, had a very distinct input into the city's life, and, as a result, it was very much a part of him: from his own dad, mom, brothers and sisters, who he utterly adored; without exception or reservation.
There was his mother, Gladys Rose (and 'Nan Bennett' to many) who fed, bathed and battled to raise, with good manners, and an innate and profound decency, a brood of five, honest, salt of the earth people; including my dad with his 2 x brothers and 2 x sisters.
Being the youngest, Dad was literally doted upon by all of them, and given his considerable good looks, easy smile and intelligent charm, it is not hard to appreciate why.
They were not a financially 'rich' family, but they got by, and they upheld the strong values born of church and country; and from this, dad's family life was a beautiful and cherished gift, full of love, music and laughter, and no doubt a few tears along the way.
His mom did all of this, as well as taking in other people's washing AND working as a bar maid at one of the local pubs, of which his own, equally worshipped and heroic father, regularly frequented. He said that his mom "had it hard sometimes, but she never stopped working and managed to provide food for us always".
My dad's dad (grandad) was a skilled 'brass smith' (sometimes unemployed) and had been a regimental sergeant, complete with 'shouty voice', sash and stick, whose brave survival of the Great War led him to have a distinct view of civilian life. As a territorial, he was one of the first 'over there', he led the regimental orders and preparation for the King's visit to Birmingham at New Street, and he shook the hand of a future king in the trenches... he even got put on a charge for celebrating his survival, just a little too much, with his brother (who was another sergeant), after having gone on a suicidal 'recce mission' into 'No Man's Land/German territory'. The accompanying French Lieutenant received the 'Croix De Guerre' (one of France's highest honours) for being with them on the same mission. Which, understandably, dad could never reconcile, but which gave him a strong belief that 'we are all equal, but not necessarily equally treated'. As such he was a profound mixture of reverence for 'authority' and 'position', but dipped in a coating of indifference, because a person's character was not about how much you had, but more about who you were and how you behaved. Dad's 'respect' was consequently something to be earned, but pretty easily given, if you were the 'right type'.
One story that particularly gives you a clue into Dad's character and bearing, born from his own dad, is the one where his Dad was given the duty of escorting, in handcuffs, an army prisoner to a jail. This involved a very long train journey, which happened to pass through Birmingham. Both men, prisoner and escort, were from Birmingham, and as the train pulled up midday at the station, being a good judge of character, grandad said "you've got a mom and dad living here as well haven't you son ? Meet me back here at 8.00 sharp" and proceeded to release the handcuffs and prisoner, so that both of them could go off and visit their own parents. The 'prisoner' was stood waiting for him when he got back. It takes some kind of brave man, or a fool, to do that, but either way it's my kind of man, and it was very much our dad's too.
In his later days, we talked a lot, and Dad said of his father, that he 'was never a gardener and he liked a drink, sometimes to the point of leaving mom short, so that they would argue about money problems, but never once did he raise his hand and no matter what, always said "Good night son" when he went to bed.' This made Dad cry upon recounting.
The lives of dad's siblings were equally resplendent and impactful upon him. Their kindnesses and their loving made him see things others would not see, with their shared living. He remembered them all with such a deep sense of love and admiration.
Then there were the legends of his life... so many people... but one like his own grandmother, Fanny Maria, who received a small inheritance and promptly 'bought' her husband out of the army, to then work for the rest of her life as a metal polisher with orange lacquered fingers, whilst her adored husband sat on the canal bank, fishing...or his Uncle Sid, who used to rip off slithers of wallpaper from the wall next to him...not because he was re-decorating, but to make a note of his next bet on the horses...or his mom's uncle, who had a photography shop in New Street during Edwardian times, and who cried because the processing chemicals had disfigured his hands so much over the years, that he was unable to take the photographs at her wedding...or his Dad's cousins who helped to found the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, and who owned a huge percussion and brass instrument factory in Birmingham; one of whom had a gold cigarette case and the other, wearing orchestral dress tails, who gave his dad half a crown, because he was so hard up he had to ask for it (with dad present).
Dad had literally so many stories, of so many people, including himself, that it regularly seemed that that was actually the true purpose of his life... as a living repository; to store and recount the tales of what had made him a man, and that each of these stories were for everyone's benefit: to grow from and to be enriched in the hearing.
These people are the grit and foundation from which our own lives continue to run, and for literally anyone who met him, dad was never short of a story or tale of their individual and collective experiences and qualities; for dad was not least a 'generous' man in his appraisal of others who touched his life.
Birmingham's roads coursed through dad's boyhood like his very own veins, but none more so than Manilla Road, Selly Park, where he lived with his family until he was old enough to get married...and move all of two miles around the corner, to Kings Heath, with the other love of his life, our beautiful mother and his lovely wife, Elizabeth Ann Bennett (nee Clift).
Manilla Road, with its precisely x 100 houses, of which dad reckoned he knew every single inhabitant: from the lady whose garden she let him dig deep, 'pretend' trenches in, with his friends...and in which garden was later discovered an unexploded bomb... to the man who would come out and collect the 'rag n Bone' man's cart horses' droppings 'for his roses'... to the lady who owned the corner shop, who was never out of black because her husband had died in the Great War, and who once tried to entice an escaped monkey down from her roof with the only banana which could be found from miles around...
No wonder dad was a lifelong story teller when you think of it...
To be precise, 27 Manilla Road was the centre of the Brummie Bennett world, and Dad, with his youngest status, often the pivot around which it swung. There were fourteen years difference between himself and his eldest sibling, Edna; born in the 1920s, even her name reflected the age and times; if you have ever seen old films of Gracie Fields, or of factory girl life, then you could easily picture 'our Edna'... and then, in between, was 'our Olf' (Alf - Albert really), then 'our Reg.', then 'closest' in years, was 'our Rene' (Irene). A place filled with life, love and challenges, about to be turned upside down, again, by another impending global conflict, and the birth of 'our Vic.' (Victor).
1937 was to be an important year (as are all years to be fair), but in this one, apart from 'our Dad' joining the throngs at no. 27, King George VI was crowned, as his elder brother, the famously 'abdicated' King Edward VIII, was 'relegated' to the 'Duke of Windsor and Neville Chamberlain (he of 'there will be peace in our time' fame) was made prime minister. Windscreens became mandatory, the 999 emergency number was introduced, and nearly 4000 Basque child refugees from the Spanish Civil War (a terrible foretaste of the things to come) arrived at Southampton, as did the first Dandy comic, with its central hero, Desperate Dan...a man for all times...and the shadows of a global conflict, unlike any other, before or since, were being felt everywhere...into this potential maelstrom, Dad was born...

The point about trying to write about 'Dad', is that it is, literally, impossible to pin him down to just a mere few words. His ability to elucidate and shine light into the darkest recesses of his life and experience, means he left us all with this incredible and visual vault of his whole lifetime... it's like he 'added' his life to that of my own, and ours.
So...in the slight interests of 'some sort of brevity'...

Vic (Victor John) Bennett was born in Selly Oak Hospital, Birmingham, on the 12th January, 1937.
His parents, Gladys Rose and Alf (Alfred) Bennett, brought him up at 27 Manilla Road, Selly Park; along with his x 2 brothers and x 2 sisters. They descended in age from Edna (the eldest by x 14 years to Vic) to Alf, then Reg., then Irene (with just x 4 years difference between them) and finally to Vic... the 'baby' of the family.
There was not a lot of money, but Vic lived and thrived in a happy, caring, sharing and busy household, with many friends and relatives visiting, and on a road where he knew every single one of its x 100 housefulls of occupants.
He lived through the Second World War there and would vividly recount tales of bombs, both exploded and unexploded, Bren guns being displayed in corner shop windows and crying at being in the top bunk of the Anderson Shelter, during regular Luftwaffe bombing raids, as he 'thought he was the nearest to them', and therefore likely to 'cop it first'.
He went to the local schools, including a very appropriate move to the Technical College, where he studied Mechanics and Engineering... To be honest, Vic was such a bright lad, he could probably have thrived anywhere, with his strong sense of diligence to learning, and a long held desire to be a journalist, following a particular love for his English lessons.
But it was no surprise that when he was conscripted in the 1950s, he was made a very proud part of The R.E.M.E. (i.e. 'Royal and Mechanical Engineers') Regiment. His love of all things mechanical, particularly bicycles, motorbikes and cars gave him a natural direction toward a life filled with repairing and renovating any and all 'machines'.
What possibly was a surprise, was his deployment to Cyprus for x 2 long years, where initially, his sense of home sickness was almost debilitatingly strong. But, given time and many memorable friends, he got used to military and R.E.M.E. life; even if he was constantly aware of the 'Intifada' or 'Cyprus Emergency' (with EOKA battling it out with the opposing TMT forces), or living in a tent in a pretty constant 100º, or nearly losing his life by going over a mountain cliff side in an Army wagon, on his first ever driving lesson (if you know the last scene in 'The Italian Job', you will be able to recreate precisely the predicament). All of this kept him on his toes. His time in the forces and Cyprus held mixed memories, but, without a doubt, became a pivotal point in his life; of which he became increasingly fond of, as the 'pain' subsided over the years. His favourite ever film was 'The Hill'...it's all about the army's pretty brutal 'initial training', and of which dad claimed was true in every way.
Following this period, he returned to the 'white cliffs of Dover' (which, by the way, on first leaving led him to think, with tears in his eyes, 'he would never return')..
He was relieved to be re-embraced into the familial, and familiar, bosom of his Manilla Road home; though was somewhat frustrated to find that his mother really had sold the powerful motorbike he had stored, for his return, in the shed. He never forgot that first discovery of there being 'no bike'; such was her love for him, and her fears that he would have an accident. Not only did he forgive her immediately, but loved her the more for being so caring.
He got work at 'Harper Harris', in Digbeth, Birmingham; where he trained to become a 'mechanical typewriter engineer'. It is probably not too strong a thing to say, that he loved the people he worked with there, and they would go on to be life long friends, though, as is the way, all have sadly passed away now.
During this time, Vic met the true love of his life, Elizabeth Ann Clift. She was sixteen and beautiful, and Victor, being no 'slouch' himself, decided he was 'on to a good thing'. He and 'Bet', or 'Betty', courted around Birmingham, often going out in his Moggie (Morris Minor) Van, but always, like a princess, having to return her home by 10.00 at the latest.
Such was Vic's confidence at that time, that HE offered 'Harper Harris' an ultimatum. Give him an immediate pay rise, he was clearly 'worth it to them', had a newly acquired mortgage and soon to be wife, or he was leaving. He was not idly asking, and unfortunately for them, their offer was too low and too slow...and so Vic left, even though he knew it was into the relative 'unknown'; such was his strength of character and determination to move on.
So, from this very strong, but somewhat uncertain foundation, Vic got an excellent sales and repping job with the iconic Italian typewriter company, Olivetti. One of the first companies to have a hugely developed 'Brand Identity', which required considerable intensive training to get you up to 'Olivetti scratch'. This unfortunately did not involve travel to Italy, but it did require training in London for over a month, where he never looked anything less than a dapper young man and would regularly visit Jazz sessions at the famous 'Ronnie Scott's'... it makes me smile that he only remembered seeing Humphrey Lyttelton, when at that time the 'world of Jazz music', and many of its legendary luminaries were virtually based there. It is very likely that Vic may have heard in the flesh, Thelonious Monk ('The Monk'), Charlie Parker ('The Bird') or even Miles Davis perform, legends to a man, without giving it a single thought.
He excelled at his selling job, in what was a very 'cut-throat' business, and he managed to keep it, even when other reps. around him where constantly losing theirs. Again however, he got frustrated that this did not seem to be being recognised by his Olivetti bosses, and even though they told him 'they had greater things in mind for him', he walked away...
He then managed a Typewriter shop for 'Mike Ridout', his previous boss at 'Harper Harris'. This was later turned into a 'second hand' shop, owned by the Aunty of the drummer from 'The Move' and 'E.L.O'... again, the fact that he actually knew the legendary Bev Bevan personally, and would often see him to chat, when visiting his aunty or her shop, kind of escaped Vic's notice.
At any rate, as a child I remember well the things he would bring home of any significant interest to him, like watches, clocks or books. At one time he had a beautiful wooden and Victorian 'Music Box', which produced magical tunes from its brass tines, when it was hand-wound. Another time, I remember the 'disagreement' my mother had with him, regarding the air rifle he had brought home... and then just as immediately took back. Most of all I remember the piles, several feet high, of comics and annuals, British and American, which he would bring home for me, and then 'us', when Roger came along...I so wish I had them now.
During this time, he and Betty got very happily married (in 1963), borrowing Mike Ridout's car for their wedding.
Emboldened by his now considerable experience, expertise and reputation, and not least a supportive wife, Vic. decided to go into business for himself
and so set up, 'Typewell', in the front room of their relatively small Waterloo Road, Kings Heath home; together with his wife working alongside him doing the finances and admin.
This partnership enabled a flourishing of both Vic's family and business.
In the fullness of time he was the proud father of four children. Little was said over the years, but it is nevertheless important to say, that Vic and Betty's second child was called Julie, who lived for a total of only eleven, short but very profound, hours. This tragic time must have been incredibly difficult for them both, but, thankfully, they managed to carry on and, as Vic would put it, were 'blessed' with a son (Andrew), followed by Julie, then another son (Roger), and a beautiful daughter (Kay); who love him (and their mom) to this very day.
Vic went from strength to strength with 'Typewell', moving to the front living room of a small terraced house, to a shop unit on the Vicarage Road, and then, from there, to his very own corner shop; complete with an upstairs flat and 'goods' yard at the rear. His business had flourished upon his exceptional reputation and a redoubtable, long opening hours, work ethic, and in pre-computer days he was regularly busy with people waiting to see him about purchases, or repairs, or even a cup of tea and a 'chin wag' (which was actually Vic's favourite occupation): from the regular 'man in the street', to a famous BBC screenwriter, the Beverley Sisters, and even to UB40 (who visited several times and sat 'out in the back', 'chewing the fat' and drinking cups of tea with Vic, who, apart from thinking 'they were nice young blokes, with an interest in his stories of Birmingham (and no doubt Cyprus)' he had literally no idea of who they were, or that they were riding high in the 'pop charts', though he did understand that they were 'setting up a recording studio around the corner' - the famous 'Abattoir studios').
Vic was a 'good man'. To some extent 'stuck' in a generation from a past world, but nevertheless one which made him adhere to certain high principles of public behaviour and decorum. He was never seen without his shirt, tie and jacket until at least the age of x 80. Even on holiday or on a beach, he wore socks with his sandals, a 'cardi' and tweed jacket with big pockets, for his collection of assorted paraphernalia: fags and lighter, assorted penknives, often a broken watch or two, possibly a coin he liked, usually a handkerchief, packet of polos, set of watchmaker's screwdrivers, a magnifying glass and a 'loupe'...oh and a book, and always a pair of binoculars and a camera around his neck.
He cared very little for 'modern music', from the Beatles onwards, but anything from Frank Sinatra (his favourite actor) and before, was generally enjoyed by him.. though he was memorably taken with Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. To this end, he often had very little regard, and/or real knowledge of more 'modern', 'superficial', and somehow 'lower quality' and 'throwaway' times. He was not particularly fond of James Bond films past Sean Connery, for example; and in his retirement, spent a great deal of time catching up on Norman Wisdom, George Formby and Will Hay (who his own dad had loved), amongst many, many others, but generally always in 'Black and White'...he could completely disassemble a 2,000 part typewriter, a clockwork watch, bicycle or a motorbike, and then (completely without YouTube !, or even reference books) restore, renovate and put them back together again in pristine order; with out a single 'spare' part left...usually. This was just one of his gifts, and the fact that he never 'went on the Internet', owned a mobile phone which he could actually use, or even touched a computer once in his whole life, says profound things indeed.
Though, in 'typewriter' terms it was his 'undoing'.
Electrical machines were no problem...but then 'technology' and 'electronics' came along, and finally, the true hammer blow were computers...and that was very certainly not Vic's world.
Around 1976, Betty became a 'witness of Jehovah' and though this was also a strain in time for them both (particularly for Vic, where he questioned what impact this change would have), Vic came to the longstanding conclusion that it was in fact, a 'good' thing, and indeed, though never becoming a follower himself, Vic made very many, well thought of and well loved friends in Betty's various congregations over the years. Vic was a man of great faith, who prayed every night before his meal and believed, utterly wholeheartedly, that he would meet those who had gone before him again... even to the recent point of stating 'he wasn't afraid of dying, why should he be'.
So 'Typewell' was closed and Vic, along with his wife (and towing along Kay), made the decision to make a long held passion come true, and so moved, lock, stock and barrel, to be 'by the seaside' and so to Tenby in South Wales...land of dreams and rich plenty. Vic. tried and succeeded for a while to make a go of 'Typewell Tenby'...but soon enough the onslaught of technology, and the ability of people to buy a computer from Argos, paid a toll, so Vic looked for work elsewhere.
He picked potatoes (where his back hurt terribly), he painted and decorated (where his meticulous attention to detail slowed him down to the point of them not keeping him on, even though his work was 'excellent'), and he even worked at an abattoir (for one horrendous week). Then he got a very happy, and well liked job, as a gardener at Saundersfoot Bay Caravan Site; where he could regularly be seen driving about on a Massey Ferguson Tractor; which he called 'Fergy'.
Tenby is a beautiful place and many happy times were had...including his driving around on a BSA based design, 'MZ' motorbike...but the pull of 'being closer to the family', led Vic and Betty back to Redditch in the Midlands. Again Vic sought work, to such an extent that he walked the streets in a suit and tie, knocking on factory and business doors to see if there was anything available for him. He worked at the local hospital, the 'Alex', in the kitchens with a bullying chef, who he hated (this man swore and shouted at people, and all the time played very loud modern music in the kitchen. To dad, a man with quite a gentile disposition and a 'good' upbringing, this was very hard to 'take' and extremely bad manners). He did also meet and make many other people who became friends, and were regular receivers of his purposely and daily learned jokes.
However, with his mechanical skills, he landed a longer term job at 'Patent Ferrels' as a machinist; which was back breaking and often mind numbingly boring for him...but, just as in Tenby, he pushed himself to work, in order to provide for himself, but more importantly, for his wife and household. This was a strong and inbuilt essence in his nature, no doubt born a little of financially hard times in his youth, but at least as equally from his strong sense of duty to those who relied upon him. Vic was always a good friend to everyone he met, but particularly to those who called him a friend in return.
Some years later, the desire to be 'by the seaside again', led Vic and Betty to Ipswich, where they had happily lived together for over a decade. Again, Vic immediately sought, and found work, and became a cleaner on the wards and corridors of Ipswich General Hospital. A massive place, but one where yet again Vic never walked without finding a new friend, or getting a smile or laugh from those he loved talking to.
He generally woke at 5.00 a.m., every morning, getting a lift in from a very dedicated Betty, or catching the bus, or even trudging in on foot for several miles in the deep snow (because the buses and car were not available, his sense of duty, and because he believed in the need for ward cleanliness and doing a good job; because of its potential impact on those who were ill and staying there).
He did this until he was seventy five. His work, even at this age, was considered salutary and it is a true mark of the man, that he was not 'sacked', but rather left in the end, because a new contractor sought to cut costs and corners, by increasing workloads and buying less effective mops and cleaning materials; even at a time of increased ward infections and so on.
Vic was never a man to think anyone 'beneath him', but equally, though he had a huge strength of honour and respect for others, he was not a man to think anyone 'above him' either.
Vic enjoyed his final retirement, by still getting up pretty much every morning at 5.00, to spend the early hours sat in the garden, listening to the pond fountain and birdsong, rolling cigarettes and reading profusely. His love of books and learning, instilled greatly into his children, never left him and he now used this time to 'catch up' on the ones he hadn't read yet. Alexander Kent with 'Bolitho', Jeffrey Archer's short stories, Bernard Cornwell's 'Sharpe', Billy Bunter, P.G. Wodehouse and so many more were finished voraciously. He was no fan of Shakespeare, but loved Charles Dickens.
Vic, with the unfortunate exception of smoking until the age of eighty, lived a pretty healthy and fit life. At the age of seventy five he was still probably fitter than his eldest, and much younger, son !
At the age of eighty, cancer began to hit Vic in an ever stronger way. Firstly with cancer of the Bowel, where he unfortunately had to have his intestines/colon removed, along with other major changes this included the addition of an ileostomy and stoma; something which he greatly struggled with, not least because he found it undignified and personally repellant; such was his pride in his self, even to the end... The cancer spread into his liver, kidneys and finally to his lungs, which simply served to exacerbate his considerable COPD...the prognosis was a further spread into his brain...and then, in the last few days, more painfully, into his bones.
Throughout this time, and it really is only in the last few and short months, where he was increasingly immobilised, that Vic became slightly 'less than himself', and then becoming finally, pretty bed ridden for only a couple of weeks or so. He even decided to grow his very first beard, as long as it was trimmed neatly.
His level of love and care could genuinely not have been bettered, or more superbly handled or carried out by the NHS, the St. Elizabeth Hospice, his lovely visiting carers, the providers of his hospital bed, or his family, who I am glad to say were very much here and able to say goodbye to him.
Vic died quietly, without pain, in the early hours of Monday, 27th May, 2019. His wife Betty sat with him, holding his hand for half an hour, before she called in his children, who did exactly the same in turn or together. It was a very loving moment, and to be honest, the best possible outcome; especially given the trajectory of his combined illnesses. In finality his ending was a 'good one'.
Dad, for that is who he was, was well and fit for eighty of his eighty two years, and 'not so well' for only two.
I think, all things considered, having a life as full and as generally fit and healthy as he was, for 98 % of a lifetime, is truly admirable, and as good as one could hope to expect.
We will all miss him, and increasingly do so, without exception.
For his: personality and character, for the truly infinite list of stories and memories, for the profound sense of the importance and enthusiasm he had for lifelong learning and education, for his determined and dogged sense to never give up, for his often deep and sensible wisdom and an encyclopaedic body of life learning and knowledge, for his ridiculous, zany and ribald sense of humour, for the laughs, for the piano and accordion tunes, for his listening to Holst The Planets at pretty much 'full volume'...but, perhaps most of all, for the sense of love and simple care, and the need for manners and respect that he instilled in us, his children, and his grandchildren.
If you think about it, Vic was truly a man quite unlike any other.
Betty has only one, but extremely 'telling' sentence to add, and that is 'that she loved him at the beginning, and she still loved him at the end'.
The world will be a lesser place for his having left it, but, like many of his tales told with glee, to inform or crack a joke, this is not actually the end. He will live on in our minds, memories and our own stories to come; of this I am certain.