What's in a Name?

I've mentioned - probably numerous times - that I have a connection with Stourbridge: that Black Country town which is now in the greater West midlands conurbation. Stourbridge was where I went to study Fine Art at Westfield College, and from where I got my degree in 1978. My association with the town had started a few years earlier, as we used to go drinking there, partaking of some of the most iconic of Black Country brews; in particular the Batham's bitter at the The Royal Exchange in the town, which was in itself notable in that the Exchange was the only Batham's pub that served that glorious pale nectar with a head - all other Batham's outlets sold it Bass-flat. For some reason, it was a [very] local tradition which was accepted by all those of us in the know, without question or demurral. And very fine it was too.

One name that crops up frequently in the town's history is that of Foley. There is a Foley Arms at the top of town, and a few miles down the road towards Shropshire there was, until the early part of this century, a famous landmark known as The Stewponey & Foley Arms Hotel at Stourton [pictured above on a 1930's postcard, with its lido at the back]. Now, the Foley in question, marked by these pub names - as is usual in the UK - was one of the local landed gentry, one Edward Foley, lord of the manor. As was so often the case, 'twould seem the man was a bit of a wastrel given to squandering the family's wealth: who'd have thought it possible of a Tory MP? However, there is someone by the name Foley connected with Stourbridge that deserves - and has - recognition for being a rather more useful member of the human race: Frank Foley.

Whilst not being a scion of the town or even the county - he was born in Somerset - he retired to and died there in 1958 at the age of seventy-three. He, however, had a history that was both secretive and redemptive in equal measure. Major Francis Edward Foley was a British Secret Intelligence Service agent during the First and Second World Wars. His singular and most marked achievement during his career in the service was when working as the passport control officer in Berlin, before the outbreak of the second war in 1939. After Kristallnacht, he used his position to enable thousands of German Jews to escape Germany before the Nazis closed the door on them. The tragedy is that his exploits were not officially acknowledged until after his death, but he has latterly been styled as 'The British Schindler'. Extraordinary.