The Count

My Uncle Doug “The Count” Bilbie, looking very dapper in his WWII uniform.

One of my earliest memories was when I was a page boy at my cousin Wendy’s wedding. I was 4 years old, and I clearly remember getting excited as the preparation for the wedding came together. I remember my ‘uniform’ of blue velvet trousers, white shirt, bow tie and black patent leather shoes with silver buckles.

I was given the job of supervising my young cousin Andrew, who at just 2 years old, was my fellow page boy. It was a beautiful summer day, and Wendy and Pete were getting married at our local church (St. Lawrence) in North Wingfield. It’s a beautiful church that was started back in Norman times, and it took about 500 years of add-ons and rebuilding to get it to how it is today.

When I’m back in Derbyshire nowadays, I try and find time to visit that church, or more specifically, its graveyard. Up until my generation, most of my family were christened, married and buried in this church. Rev. Joyce was the vicar who christened me back in 1961, and he was the vicar that buried my mum 17 years later. I remember that we visited him on the day after my mum died, he was so kind and comforting, and took time to share the history of the church with us. He’d always seemed cold to me before (in truth, I found him a little scary looking when I was small), and so his warmth at that difficult time meant a lot to all of us.

Back to my cousin’s wedding. As I said it was a beautiful summer’s day, and I remember that we took a lot of time taking photos outside the church. After the ceremony, my mum had offered to host the reception at our house, which was less than a mile away. Back in those days, before my mum got sick, our home was usually the place where our family came together.

I don’t think that we stayed around for all of the photos after the ceremony, as my mum wanted to get back to put out the food. I remember trying to be helpful, but my mum decided that it would be better for me to sit quietly and “stay out from under everyone’s feet”. As the wedding party started to arrive, my brother John came into the room and suggested that we go outside to see if ‘The Count’ was there yet. I didn’t really understand what he was saying or who he was talking about, but I dutifully followed him outside. The ‘Count’ was not among the people who were parking their cars, and walking up our drive, and so we went to the bottom of the drive, and watched for people walking up the lane. Within a few minutes, my brother shouted “he’s here” and I looked to where he was pointing, to see my Uncle Doug walking up the lane.

Uncle Doug was the second youngest of the Bilbies (my mum was the youngest – a late addition to the family, and the only girl). My mum used to tell this story of how when she was born, Doug had been allowed to go upstairs and see their mother and the ‘surprise’ that was waiting for him. As my mum was born on November 4th, with Bonfire Night being the next day, my uncle had hoped that the surprise was fireworks, so he was more than a little disappointed to be greeted by a baby sister. I think that he got over it though, because right up until my mum’s death in 1978, she and Uncle Doug were very close.

As we waited at the gate, the figure of Uncle Doug became clearer. He was walking slowly, and he cut quite a figure. He was wearing a black cape over his suit, with a white silk airman’s scarf around his neck, and on his head, he wore a black bowler hat. Now, I’m sure that I’d met Uncle Doug many times before that, but I have no recollection of that now, and don’t think that I did then. That image of him walking up Seanor Lane is seared in my memory, as I’d never seen anyone like him before.

We walked with Uncle Doug into the house, and he’d greeted my mum, he went to sit down in the living room. He took off his bowler hat, scarf and cape, and it was almost like watching the flourish of a magician. My mum asked if he’d like a cup of tea, and he said “yes”, adding that he’d like a little Navy rum with it. In later years, when he’d visit on a Sunday afternoon, I’d be his co-conspirator in adding his favorite tipple to his tea. I don’t remember if John went to make his tea, but I remember that I just stood there transfixed. I’d never seen anyone quite like him before (in truth, I’ve never known anyone quite like Uncle Doug since; he truly was one of a kind).

As he settled into drinking his tea, he felt in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of Park Drive cigarettes. He then reached into his other pocket and pulled out a shiny cylindrical object. I must have leaned in to get a closer look, as he summoned me to move closer. He then proceeded to show me the object and how it worked. It was a brass bullet casing from World War 2 (Uncle Doug has served in the Tank Division in Africa) which had been converted into a cigarette lighter. After showing me how it worked a couple of times, he passed it to me and told me to light his cigarette for him. At that moment I felt so grown up. I felt that I was being trusted with an adult responsibility, and I was not going to let him down.

On my third attempt, I finally managed to coax a flame from the lighter and he cupped his hands around mine to steady them, as he lit his cigarette. At that moment, my mum came into the room and gave both of us a frown. She didn’t say anything, but I knew that I’d done something wrong, but somehow it didn’t take away from how exciting it felt.

I still don’t know to this day whether ‘The Count’ was a name that my brothers had coined. I know that it was to do with the way that he dressed for special occasions, but if they’d coined it that very day, it lasted until the day he died. I remember when my oldest brother David used to come home from college, and Uncle Doug would come up in conversation, he would always smile and ask “How is the Count?”