[Edna Bold’s father Edward was a baker who ran his own business. Her mother, from Lancashire, was a weaver before marriage]

[My father] was the first person I consciously recognised. Sitting on his knee he sang a medley of pop songs. He seemed to prefer sad ballads, for he always began with “Goodbye Dolly, I must leave you”, “I am sitting on the style, Mary”, “Robin Adair”, before he began on “Daisy, Daisy”, “The Lily of Laguna”, etc. At the change of mood he would jog his knee, take my hand in his and whistle for very joy. 

Where was my mother? Where was my brother? Where were we sitting? What was the time of day? I don’t remember. Some deep content, some extraordinary rapport blanketed non-essential details from memory.