The Guernsey boy who never grew up...

DAVID RICHARD BROWN

Born Guernsey 1929

Died Oldham, Lancashire 1942

 Aged 13

A collage entitled 'From Our Garden, L'ancresse Bay

and Guernsey Harbour'

The mail boat 'Isle of Guernsey'

My uncle might have grown up to be an artist. My uncle should have grown up, of course, but the sad truth is that he never got the chance. He died in the second world war when he was just thirteen years old; not from a bomb or a bullet, but  from a knock on the head by a football.

David Richard Brown died in 1942  during soccer practice for his school  team in Oldham, Lancashire. He  had been evacuated to Oldham Hulme Grammar School, England, from Amherst School, Guernsey, along with many others,  when  Hitler's troops occupied the Channel Islands. David, it seems, was a quietly spoken boy with a love of  sport, but  the only time he was truly happy was when his thoughts turned to home. He would sit in his bedroom for hours at a time staring out at the unfamiliar streets, with their terraced houses and soot-clad chimneys, whilst sketching  the sea and sunshine of his beloved island.

One of my most treasured possessions   is the quaintly-titled 'Brush-Drawing Book' (above)  issued  from the County Borough of Oldham Education Committee for the use of local schoolchildren. Poignantly,  David's   homesickness was reflected in  his sketches.

My favourite  is a 'collage' ( though I doubt if he knew what the word meant at the time) of three sketches entitled 'From our Garden,' Lancresse Bay' and 'Guernsey Harbour. '  Other pages depict the Isle of Guernsey, the mail boat, as it was affectionately called by islanders, that regularly travelled from Guernsey to Southampton or Weymouth before the war. Then there is the touchingly titled  'A corner of our bungalow' and a  'A goal' , a more upbeat sketch depicting a triumphant Guernsey footballer hitting the back of the net.

My late father Harry Brown,  a freelance journalist, wrote prolifically throughout his life,  yet   never  himself  recorded the impact on the family of his brother's tragic death.
My grandmother, very occasionally, would  reminisce about her younger son, but then her face would cloud over and the words,all too soon, would die on her lips.