Bill would tell us stories of his work, holidays, and his biggest adventure: sailing across the Irish Sea to the Isle of Man in stormy weather. He spoke of being a sleeping child lifted onto his father's shoulders to see a German Zeppelin fly overhead during the Great War, and of working as a painter and decorator in the Westlands during the Great Strike of 1926.
"I heard some fuss down in the town, but I let 'em get on with it—daft buggers."
Bill dismissed the whole matter of industrial relations: "Honest day's work, fer an honest day's pay," he intoned solemnly, pronouncing the 'h' in 'honest'—much to the secret amusement of my brothers and me.
Bill seemed to know everything. Later, as a teenager, I joked with my father about Bill's encyclopedic knowledge. One summer, we took him to a country pub. We sat outside where a railway line ran alongside the beer garden at the bottom of a deep cutting. When a train rumbled through, interrupting our conversation, Bill checked his watch.
"That's the 6:20 from Crewe," he said, holding an unfiltered Park Drive cigarette in his brown-stained fingers. He glanced at his watch again. "He's ten minutes late."
My father and I exchanged smiles, laughing later after Bill had shuffled off home and his green gate had closed.
Bill also knew sporting figures and had a particular penchant for recounting his encounters with local football players like Gordon Banks, Jimmy Greenhoff, or Denis Smith of Stoke City.
"I saw Denis down Stoke the other day when I was going to the market," he'd begin. "'Denis!' I shouted. He saw me from across the street. 'How you doing, Bill?' he shouted back. 'You want to sharpen up on defending against crosses from the left,' I told him. 'That goal on Saturday wouldn't 'ave 'appened! Mark my words.' 'Right you are, Bill!' he said."
Bill had advice for everyone—sought or not—but he was such a natural gentleman that he was impossible to resist. You'd find yourself nodding sagely, following the gestures of his animated index finger, captivated by his raised eyebrows and the thorough showmanship of Bill Smith righting the world's wrongs.