David Hanson Brearley: – [Heath 1953–1960]
David ‘Harry’ Brearley was born on and was at Heath between 1953 and 1960. He was one of the walkers involved in the 1987 M6 crash.
He was 1st XV captain of Heath RUFC from 1966/67 to 1967/68 and Club Chairman between 1974 and 1985.
He died peacefully in Clover House Care Home, Halifax on , aged 82 years. His funeral was held at 2.15 pm on Tuesday, at Park Wood Crematorium followed by tea at the Rugby Club. Donations gratefully received in his memory will be given to The Rob Burrow Charity.
His daughter, Rachel Jones, paid the following tribute:
Hello everyone. Thank you for being here today. I am Rachel — David’s daughter and I just want to take this opportunity to celebrate dad’s life and share a few stories and memories with you.
Born on New Year’s Eve — to Mary and Harry Brearley, Dad was a much wanted and much loved son.
Right from the start there was confusion - what was he actually called? — David Hanson Brearley was a euphemistic way of addressing questionable lineage somewhere down the line in Boothtown. Was he a Hanson or a Brearley? This ambiguity around names would prove to be a recurring theme.
Dad had a happy childhood, growing up in Claremount; he attended the local junior school, he had a pet border collie, Shep, he kept rabbits and he was an altar boy at the local church of St Thomas’s. I am told this was due to looking like an angel — blond curls, blue eyes — rather than any particular devotion.
A bright boy, he was the first in his family to pass the grammar school test and from 1952 attended Heath. Where David Hanson Brearley was immediately rechristened Harry for reasons lost in the midst of time, and this new name stuck with him for the rest of his life. He was a talented boy — yes clever, intelligent (if not typically lazy), an able athlete but also creative — he liked making things and had an eye for art.
At Heath, he and his groups of friends anecdotally got away with murder – this included scattering caps on the stage so that when Mr Swale, the Head, walked into assembly he was greeted on all sides by artillery fire; on another occasion for some unknown reason a group of friends hid in the art room store cupboard so that when the art teacher, Honky Peace, looked through the key hole they blew paint down a straw straight into his eye. And there was other notoriety — he had the biggest head in Heath school — and as the only head that would fit the new school cap — he was chosen for the photograph in the Courier.
At school he settled into a successful rugby career. The school team of his era was celebrated and although small by modern standards, he was an excellent hooker. He enjoyed success at the Ilkley 7s — a grand day out for coach loads of Halifax supporters. He trialled for Yorkshire U18s and after University played at Ovenden Park and latterly for Heath.
Another first — he was the first person in his family to go to university, to study history — and to Kings College, Durham at that. No little achievement for the boy from Claremount. He stayed in lodgings with Mrs Hubbock in Whitley Bay — and his academic career was most notable for his climb of Newcastle Football Club Floodlights and the resulting night in a cell. Oh, and he also joined the Tom and Jerry Society.
After University he embarked on his teaching career firstly at Highlands — teaching history and a little bit of PE. They had a great social life there — where teachers had time at lunchtime to play bridge, dominoes — inter school football and cricket matches where they would umpire all day and send out for bacon butties for sustenance — they generally had a lot of fun.
In the late 1960s he moved to Whitcliffe Mount School — where he stayed for the rest of his career. Here, he enjoyed sending students to one of his colleague’s classrooms where they were told to ask for a long stand or given a bottle of fairy liquid to make a bubble for a spirit level. But he was a good teacher because, although often quiet and taciturn, when in the mood he could tell a compelling story. As a historian, his specialist subject was 1833 — it only dawned on me at about 17 when studying history A level myself that nothing of any significance happened then — only a few Whig reforms. Ever the troublemaker though, he enjoyed feeding me controversial theories — on the origins of the second world war for example — that succeeded in scuppering my whole history class whenever I mentioned them.
And in the 60s, he also looked the part — channeling a younger Michael Caine, black glasses, sharp suits, flowery ties, or as my friends said ‘your dad looks like that man from the Goodies’. In true Dad fashion, I don’t think he took the job too seriously — he wore roller skates to sixth form lessons and made the final answer to every history test Geoffrey Boycott. Students soon twigged on and so he switched it one week to ‘Which first class and international cricketer wears an earring?’ — certainly not Geoffrey (as the clueless class wrote down) but Derek Pringle — a Southerner, from Essex, who played shots and the epitome of the flashiness which plagued the game in my dad’s eyes.
He got married to Madeleine in 1965 and started his wedded life on the floodplain of Bradshaw, at New Grange View. Despite extensive draining issues, my brother came along in 1968 and then me in 1971. Throughout these life changes, Heath Rugby Club was an ongoing, constant fixture. He carried on playing rugby for a short while before acting as Chairman for a period. And he spent every Saturday afternoon down at West Vale.
Dad was always a d-i-y practical person — putting in his own central heating system, with only one quick trip to the hospital, building his own greenhouse — only for tomatoes really — he was green fingered and gardening remained a hobby, and latterly a job. He continued to live in Bradshaw — winning the much sought after awards Brain of Bradshaw and Domino champion at the Golden Fleece. These were richly deserved accolades when one considers how much time he invested training at the pub. My devout dad used to refer to it as ‘going to church.’
He enjoyed cooking but of the show pony variety — only breaking out into extravagant dishes when there was a dinner party. I remember vividly the party of the jugged hare — he brought home a whole hare and got me to help gut it and also his stock making for soup — once I nonchalantly opened the pan on the top of the cooker to discover a pig’s head staring up at me — probably two heart-stopping reasons I am now vegetarian.
And then there was the cock. Dad brought home a cockerel from the Rural Studies department — it was meant to be dead in a sack but Lazarus like it emerged clucking and strutting into our strawberry patch. The invincible bird had a charmed life — it evaded both Simon and my dad’s best efforts as they chased it up Bradshaw Lane each armed with a pair of oven gloves and escaped to torture the neighbourhood with dawn awakenings — it became known as ‘that bloody cock’ and pitchforks were out for the person unidentified who had so stupidly brought it into our midst. We kept schtum.
Dad still went to Heath religiously and joined a walking group of rugby players and friends and they walked extensively near to home and further afield on the first Saturday of every month. They completed the Pennine Way, the Dales Way and such like.
Like a rugby game — Dad’s life was definitely one of two halves — before the accident and after the accident. was the day when everything changed. The walkers’ minibus was involved in a tragic crash at Lune Bridge on the M6. Dad was lucky; he escaped with his life — a bang on the head as he called it, and severe leg injury. But the loss of so many of his friends was beyond comprehension. This was the 1980s and he was fixed and bandaged up — brilliantly by the NHS — but sent on his way. No support, no after care, no emotional help. I would like to think that we know better and would do better now. His and our support came from family and friends in the immediate aftermath and in the years that followed.
It doesn’t serve to dwell on the trauma of that period because dad certainly didn’t. After the accident he settled into a different life but one which arguably he found more agreeable. Forced into early retirement, he instead spent his time dry stone walling, restoring furniture, working on building the Hebble Trail, gardening for a bevvy of old ladies from Skircoat Green, and contributing to Halifax Civic Trust. He moved to Wheatley to a new house. And he had a new companion. His dog — Nelly ‘the ferret’ — a Jack Russell cross — she adored him and he adored her. Together they truly were a partnership of chaos — she was a lovely dog if not the most obedient and, despite being barrel shaped, by god was she was a fast mover. They got into scrape after scrape. But she provided companionship and love in some difficult years.
Dad also began working as a cleaner down at Heath. And it proved to be an excellent source for his newfound joy of foraging. Whether it be used soap (from the plughole), wood for the fire (actually a brand new pub sign) or discarded clothing (our favourite being the orange Grimsby Fish Market T shirt). He also developed a different sense of fashion — mostly sponsored by the armed services. He had a penchant for 1970s tracksuits from Eastern Europe — retro before retro was a thing. He loved the army and navy stores and memorably purchased an SAS assault style balaclava, straight from the Falklands — which caused great consternation one morning in Bradshaw Post Office before he disrobed and announced with a flourish ‘It’s me David/Harry — a packet of yachtsman and fishermen’s friends, please.’
In the last few years of his life Dad’s eccentricities found their calling when he moved to Todmorden — so he could be closer to my brother — where he enjoyed watching cricket, frequenting the local take aways and dominating the quiz at the Help the Aged centre to such a degree that he had to be barred. But my brother and the people of Todmorden, and Cambridge Street looked after him — when he regularly went walkabout — Todmorden’s version of international rescue clicked seamlessly into operation. Finally, after a bout of Covid, he moved for one last time to Clover House, where the staff looked after dad with great care and kindness and where I know he was happy and content. And for him surprisingly chilled.
He was also latterly a proud father in law to Jayne (Olympic swimmer, allegedly) and Richard (Lancashire pillock, definitely) and very very proud grandparent. Firstly to Ben — the rugby protege and fellow hooker. Dad offered him his wisdom, his ability to pick a fight and unforgettably his well-used 1950s rugby shorts, and I know he enjoyed critiquing the referees at Ben’s matches; to Jonny – who captured Dad in paint for GCSE art — they shared an artistic bent and cheekbones to die for; to Eleanor — who looked after him very recently as his carer and his shopper and his cleaner and his cook. And who bought him far too much bloody tuna. And to Caitlin who loved destroying his electric bed — she could squash him between two mattresses in short shrift and with whom he appeared to enjoy binge watching ‘Come Dine with Me.’
We will all miss his infamous Christmas gifts in particular — an annual tradition normally purchased and wrapped with black electric tape in March and reliably inappropriate in every way — most notably a flame thrower for Ben aged 9, industrial quantities of seeds for Eleanor to ‘make her own muesli’ aged 8 and a cheeky bottle of rosé for Caitlin — aged 5. But as grandpa, he also gave all four of them much more — the confidence to cope with difference, with foibles and eccentricities, a model for how to crack on against the headwinds of life, and the understanding that however bleak the situation could be deemed — find humour.
Because, despite the difficulties and tragedy which marked much of Dad’s life — he never wallowed or moaned or complained. Yes, he could be and often was, bloody-minded, belligerent and difficult — a self-declared ‘awkward old sod.’ But who wouldn’t be faced with the challenges he must have encountered on a daily basis? It was actually these very qualities which helped him make the most of his own second half.
Dad’s life was, as Simon aptly described it a few weeks ago ‘a life of small pleasures’ whether that be boiling himself alive in the hottest of hot Radox baths, or sitting in his chair with a plate of three oat cakes (good for cholesterol) then piled high with mountains of butter and honey; a pint pot of extremely well mashed tea to the side — a Jack Russell cross, ferreting under his arm and a pipe in his hand puffing away; or more simply watching a match down at Heath.
Dad, you have rucked, and scrapped and mauled — very well played. And you have definitely now earned your ‘lig’ and as you would so often say to Simon or I when we were telling you off and you were beyond exasperated; now it is your time to — ‘just relax.’
Updated