Blanche Patricia Bass née Greathead (1928-2008)
c.1947 in Isle of Wight just after getting engaged to Bert
| Parents | Blanche Grace Roche | Alfred James Greathead | (Shipping Clerk) | |
| Siblings | Thelma Grace | |||
| Partners | Bert | |||
| Children | Maggie | Paul Bass |
Friary Park 1962
Funeral Words for Blanche Patricia Bass
Blanche Patricia Bass (known to her friends and husband as ‘Terry’), mother, grandmother and great grandmother was born in Limehouse in the East End of London on 5th January 1928.
It was discovered that she had a leaky heart valve and was sent to live in three different convents, where she stayed until she was 10 years old. At the outbreak of WW2 she was evacuated to Bath which was the first time that she had lived with her parents and sister.
When she left school she went to work at the Admiralty along with her father and sister, at the weekends she sang with ‘Arthur Clark and his Pump Room Orchestra’.
After the war the whole family moved back to London where she got a job at Nestles, and met her future husband Bert.
They married in 1948 and a year later Margaret was born and six years after Paul arrived.
During their time living in London she worked as a ‘bought ledger clerk’ and in her spare time ran a youth club and taught at Sunday school.
When Bert retired they moved out of London to Little Paxton where Bert became a water Bailiff and they bought some River frontage… reading her diaries this was something she loved mentioning how wonderful it was to see swans flying overhead or a kingfisher sitting on the end of your fishing rod. Despite being retired they had a busy life. ‘Terry’ campaigned, with John Major then the local MP, to open a weekly clinic in the village with a visiting dentist, doctor and a baby clinic. She became a parish councilor, was on the Highways and Byways Committee and was President of the local Women’s Institute, was on the Village Hall Committee, ran the village ‘Friendship Club’ and wrote for the local paper.
After some years in Little Paxton they decided to retire properly and to move to Bournemouth… after a few months there they decided to join a ‘Help the Aged’ club. But, true to form, within a very short time they took over its running including a luncheon club, entertainment and a holiday club. They organized day trips all over England and then started organizing holidays in Europe.
A few years later they decided that it really was time to take a back seat and as they were finding it harder to get around they made the move to Thanet buying the house next door to Margaret.
After a couple of years here she found it harder and harder to go on outings with the family or even out for lunch despite two hip operations. Not daunted she continued to keep her mind active with the Daily Mail crossword puzzle and other puzzles as well as being an avid reader. She also wrote poems and stories.
Maggie says that her memory of her mum when she was young was of her teaching her lots of music-hall songs. She also fondly remembers when mum saw a chalet for sale in Minster on the Isle of Sheppey for £100. They couldn’t afford this so mum asked the owner if he would accept £20 a month, which he did. So every Easter and Summer holidays mum, Paul and me and our dog Bobbie would spend all our time their with dad coming down at the weekends.
Mum had a great sense of humour and loved to laugh, was a very generous person who loved her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren and that love was returned so we will all miss her very much.
HYMNS
Arrive to ‘Jesu joy of man’s desiring’
‘I heard the voice of Jesus say…’
‘the day thou gavest Lord is over’
~~~~~~~~~~
Matt’s tribute (2025)
A Chip (On and) Off The Old Block
My Nan was born in Limehouse
East London
1928.
Raised on the dockside
amongst the Triads and freight.
Witnessing the Battle of Cable Street
at the tender age of eight.
She saw the oppressed
rail against black-shirted hate.
Mosley’s crew ran amok
judging those in that dock
who had the audacity
to sell on their block
fish and chips
imported on ships.
They shall not pass!
cried the working class.
It goes on today
We’ve not learnt from the past
And here’s where my story starts to unfold
Unwrapped in newspaper
ready to be told.
An origin story —
but if I may be so bold —
I’ll now wind it forward
to days not as old.
1976
After that long hot summer
that those in the know
use as the yardstick
Now it’s true Scorchio .
Blanche —
or Kit —
or to me just my Nan —
picked me up outside school
And picked up my bag.
Exhaling the smoke
That she drew from her fag.
We were literally minutes away from my flat
but she had other ideas.
So much better than that.
Long before holding hands with folks
was “uncool.”
Her thumb gently stroked me
Back the long way from school.
Up Halliwick Road
to Colney Hatch Lane —
past the spot
where a mate who
played chicken was slain
Finally
the parade.
And the glow of the chip shop
open for trade.
Nan would ask for a small bag of bits
the crispy detritus
formed in hot oil
that spits.
Classic grand-parenting —
“We’ll get these, Matty,” she’d say,
“but don’t tell your mum.”
“Nanny, throw in a wally and mum’s the word.”
I didn’t say that.
I wish that I had
But I wasn’t that cheeky
when I was a lad.
I knew it best
Not to cheek my old Nan
or to rock the boat
that delivered that scran.
We’d walk much more slowly
down Muswell Hill
sharing those scraps
And enjoying our fill.
Laughing and crunching
through that creased-up chip bag.
She’d be ninety-eight now
had she not
succumbed
to those fags.