Gerry Beiny

“Hello, I must be going

I cannot stay, I came to say, “I must be going”

I’m glad I came, but just the same I must be going.”

The words of Groucho Marx .

When I was seven my Dad took me to the National Film Theatre on the South Bank to see Animal Crackers with The Marx Brothers. And in doing so, introduced me to a life of frivolity and humour.

And while acknowledging respect to the traditions and solemnity of this occasion I’m quite sure Dad would approve of me appropriating those words from one of his heroes and using them to set a fitting tone for today.

a life of frivolity and humour

Mark Gerald Beinstein, known since his teens as Gerry Beiny, was born in 1928, a mere ten years after the end of the First World War and he lived to the ripe old age of ninety six.

For the past several years Dad has been kept alive by fortnightly blood transfusions, making a mockery of our allotted three score years and ten. He managed four score and sixteen!

His parents were Ann and Manny Beiny, she a powerhouse, fowl-mouthed matriarch who was well known in the Stamford Hill community where they flocked to her eponymously named shop for extravagant and costly ladies’ gowns.

Manny was a gentle, kindly man. He was a taxi driver who went by the nickname Hookey. It was he who took me to my first Spurs game when I was seven or eight. In fact when I die I’d like the entire Spurs team to be at my graveside, so they can let me down one final time.

At the start of the Second World War Dad was eleven and so was evacuated  to Devon, curiously not too far from where his grandson Duncan and family now live.

After the war he returned to London with dreams of using his design and drawing skills to be an architect. But it turns out his abilities were better suited to women’s clothes, notably designing and cutting patterns for ladies’ coats and suits. His business for many years was called DebbieDee, the D being for Dad’s first grandson Duncan.

he was a legend in the industry

He married Mum in 1950. Mum is now an age-defying ninety six and we are blessed to have her here. Mum, we love you a lot.

Their marriage was a happy one; holidays around the globe with friends and family, never going short of anything and living a successful and satisfying life together.

Dad had his special interests but they were mainly seams, stitching and buttons on clothes worn by anyone entering the house. He would regularly turn his nose up at anything that didn’t meet his exacting standards.

He was not an easy man and had very strong views. He was demanding and has been known to upset people, but I am convinced his quirks were not intended to distress anyone and in the main were merely examples of him joking around.

His gang of like-minded and gregarious pals met every other Monday and so began the Monday Night get togethers , a sort of Jewish Bloomsbury group, where matters of the day, usually including a good smattering of gags, were discussed and debated.

Dad had known tragedy in his life. His younger sister Avril tragically passed away aged forty but his natural default was to channel his energies into work and humour.

Dad was known as a fastidious dresser. The word most often used to describe him was ‘dapper’. But more recently his mode of dress involved an ever-rising trouser waist band which eventually ended up about an inch below his armpit.

tangible demonstrations of his many eccentricities

It’s funny how you can know your father, in my case for seventy two years, and yet not know everything about them.

As is often the case with creative people, their organisation of practical matters sometimes leaves a bit to be desired. This was the case with Dad. Mum and Dad lived for almost seventy years at 102 Southover, the house where Rob (known in the family as Bobby Georgeous) and I grew up. We recently had the unenviable task of sorting through and removing from the house a lifetime of tangible demonstrations of his many eccentricities.

He had sufficient plastic bags to open a plastic bag museum, enough hangers to supply Marks & Spencer for the next several years, and a quantity of stationary that would make Rymans jealous. He had notebooks and old diaries going back sixty odd years which to my knowledge had not been viewed for many decades.

And in sorting through his belongings at the care home we came across some of the essentials of life; at least a dozen erasers, an unused petrol ratio book (petrol rationing ended in 1957), two sealed packets of Consulate menthol cigarettes consistent with packaging from the 70s,  and bank cheque stubs going back to when cheques were written with ink and quills….

When his first grandchild Duncan was born, instead of Papa, Zada, Grandpa or one of the other common names used to refer to a male grandparent, Dad insisted on being called, rather lavishly…. “Grandfather”. This was a mouthful for Duncan who despite going on to get a university degree in English, was unable at age eighteen months to say “Grandfather”. He made a decent attempt but it came out as “Farver”, which is what he has always been called by his four grandchildren Duncan, Owen, Josh and Jazz , and by his four great grandchildren Lotta, Lyla, Emerson and Dolly.

his one big regret in life is that he didn’t kill Hitler

For all but the past few weeks Dad retained most of his marbles, so it came as quite a shock to hear him talking in a confused manner under the influence of morphine. It was during this time we were inevitably discussing the past and he became quite solemn and said, out of the blue, that he had one big regret. I wondered what it might be, some far away land he wanted to visit or maybe he had a secret desire to go parachuting? No, he advised me his one big regret in life is that he didn’t kill Hitler.

Another curious thing I didn’t learn about Dad until his last few days was that 50s Swedish world heavyweight champion boxer Ingemar Johanssen introduced him to yoghurt in the Canary Islands. Mum claims it’s rubbish but I’d love that to be true.

Dad’s influence was significant. Here’s a perfect example. A few years ago I received a direct message on Facebook from someone I’d never heard of. I reacted with suspicion when my correspondent asked if I was related to Gerry Beiny . I cautiously admitted my heritage. The chap then revealed that he used to work with Dad and had always held him in high esteem. He revealed that it was Dad who first introduced this person to avocados in the 70s. Well I found it strange to say the least.

I was reminded earlier today by Rob of an occasion several years ago when I was waiting to meet someone at a bar and my surname was mentioned. The lady sitting next to me overheard and  asked if I was related to Dad. I cautiously said I was and she told me she worked at the Drapers Record. She told me he was a legend in the industry.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the Boltmans and Bermans for kindly including Mum and Dad in their family celebrations which I know they thoroughly enjoyed.

And also I have to express our gratitude to Claire, Lynda, Kirsty and all the others at Aarandale who cared for Dad over the past eighteen months or so. Their feelings for Dad went beyond the carer/cared for relationship and for that the family are hugely grateful.

So, it’s time to bid farewell to Dad with another few words from Groucho Marx……

“I’ll stay a week or two

I’ll stay the summer through

But I am telling you:

I must be going.”