This story had its beginning much further back. It was the 28th April 1938 and I was about to be born. At the same time, the world was teetering on the edge of a new war. Over in China and Japan, things were getting out of hand. Just 10 months before, in July 1937, Japan had invaded mainland China and things were beginning to unravel in those parts. Over in Germany, the fascists were showing their darker side and it was becoming obvious that a storm was brewing. In Malta, however, life continued on as usual with no knowledge of the dark cloud that would soon overshadow the island.
George West in Floriana Football Club
It would seem I nearly did not make it here at all since six years before I was born, I nearly lost one of my parents. My father was a draughtsman and worked at the Malta Dry Docks. During his free time, he was an amateur footballer and was considered one of the best on the island. Even now, more than half a century later, he is still written about. He played for Floriana football club and was such a fast runner, his team-mates called him ‘The Gazelle’. The supporters gave him the name, ‘Gentleman George West’ because he was never known to have fouled anyone.
The club would send a car to collect him from our home in Pieta and on one particular day, the cab turned up but with a new driver. The man drove like a maniac and, later it was discovered that he was in fact drunk. As they were nearing the entrance to Porte des Bombes, the inevitable happened, the car went out of control, careering into a wall, killing the driver instantly and catapulting my father through the windscreen and into the gardens beyond.
Mum holding baby Irene
An ambulance was passing by on the other side of the road and, as it happened, it contained my mother on her way to the hospital to deliver my elder sister Irene. Dad was unconscious and lay in a coma for ten days. His jaw was broken, all his teeth were smashed and his lower gums had been damaged beyond repair. His face healed, and the scars all but disappeared. However, the accident had a permanent effect on his personality. My mother said he was never the same after that and I often wonder if the experience of coming so close to death had much to do with it. It may be that he experienced more during that episode than he let on.
From then on nothing seemed to worry him too much and mum often complained that he had no ambition and she got annoyed that he did not take charge of anything. She had to become the leader of the family though he was happy to do his fair share of work both in bringing in the finances and working around the home. I can never remember him saying an unkind word about anyone. He had a cheerful, positive outlook on life and did not seem to feel physical pain as much as other people. I cannot remember him moaning or complaining about anything. When I look back on it, I now realise that this made me very protective towards him.