Life by Keith Richards, James Fox (Contributor)

earth." And they sang "The Red Flag" at his funeral, a song they have only just stopped singing at the Labour Party conferences. I'd never taken in the touchiness of the lyrics.
Then raise the scarlet standard high,
Within its shade we'll live and die,
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We'll keep the red flag flying here.
    And Ernie's job? He was a gardener, and he worked for the same food-production firm for thirty-five years. But Eliza, my grandmother, was, if anything, saltier--she was elected a councillor before Ernie, and in 1941 she became the mayor of Walthamstow. Like Ernie she had risen through the political hierarchy. Her origins were Bermondsey working class, and she more or less invented child welfare for Walthamstow--a real reformer. She must have been a piece of work--she became chairman of the housing committee in a borough that had one of the biggest programs of council house expansion in the country. Doris always complained that Eliza was so upright she wouldn't let her and Bert have a council house when they were first married--wouldn't push them up the list. "I can't give you a house. You're my daughter-in-law." Not just strict but rigid. So it's always intrigued me: the unlikelihood of somebody from that family getting together with this other lot of libertines.
    Doris and her six sisters--I come from a matriarchy on both sides of my family--grew up in two bedrooms, one for them and another for my grandparents Gus and Emma, in Islington. That's tight accommodation. One front room that was only used on special days and a kitchen and parlor in the back. That whole family in those rooms and that small kitchen; another family living upstairs.
    My grandfather Gus--God bless him--I owe so much of my love of music to him. I write him notes frequently and pin them up. "Thanks, Granddad." Theodore Augustus Dupree, the patriarch of this family, surrounded by women, lived near Seven Sisters Road, with seven daughters, at 13 Crossley Street, N7. And he'd say, "It's not just the seven daughters, with the wife that makes eight." His wife was Emma, my long-suffering grandmother, whose maiden name was Turner, and who was a very good piano player. Emma was really a step above Gus--very ladylike, spoke French. How he got his hands on her I don't know. They met on a Ferris wheel at the agricultural fair in Islington. Gus was a looker, and he always had a gag; he could always laugh. He used that humor, that habit of laughing, to keep everything alive and going in dire times. Many of his generation were like that. Doris certainly inherited his insane sense of humor, as well as his musicality.
    We're supposed not to know where Gus came from. But then none of us know where we come from--the pits of hell, maybe. Family rumor is that that elaborate name wasn't his real name. For some weird reason none of us ever bothered to find out, but there it is on the census form: Theodore Dupree, born in 1892, from a large family in Hackney, one of eleven children. His father is listed as "paper hanger," born in Southwark. Dupree is a Huguenot name, and many of those came originally from the Channel Islands--Protestant refugees from France. Gus had left school at thirteen and trained and worked as a pastry cook around Islington and learned to play violin from one of his father's friends in Camden Passage. He was an all-round musician. He had a dance band in the '30s. He played saxophone then, but he claimed he got gassed in the First World War and couldn't blow afterwards. But I don't know. There are so many stories. Gus managed to cover himself in cobwebs and mists. Bert said he was in the catering detachment--from his trade as a pastry cook--and he wasn't in the front line. He was just baking bread. And Bert said to me, "If he got gassed it was in his own oven." But my aunt Marje, who knows everything and still lives as this is written, aged ninety-something, says that Gus was called up in 1916 and was a sniper in WWI. She said that