Open Writing

We all remember years for one reason or another - because they were very good, good, bad or indifferent. Marriages, births, deaths, anniversaries, holidays when it rained all the time (what to do to amuse the children?) or when the sun shone each day and everybody felt happy. These memories do not slip easily from our minds.

1950 for me is a year for ever imprinted on my mind. It started off well: the usual family Christmas followed by an uneventful New Year. I was married in 1948 and was thoroughly enjoying living in a beautiful and friendly village in my own home which, in spite of its sparse furnishings, I loved to polish and fill with flowers. We had a huge garden and planting-out was always a source of pleasure. There were sheep and lambs in the field adjoining us.

My parents were frequent visitors, my father content to occupy himself with jobs around the garden and chat to the locals. On sunny days it gave me pleasure to see him relaxing as his health was causing concern.

In March we were excited by the news that I was pregnant with our first baby. The delight was blighted by morning sicknes and a constant feeling of nausea. There were tears when I found I could not wear many of my clothes. Maternity clothing was not available so expectant mothers took to smocks and dresses several sizes too large.
A mixed summer gradually turned to autumn. In October my husband's application for a change of duties was granted. This meant a move from our idyllic surroundings and many friends: an early realisation that this is how our life would be - we moved house ten times in the service of the police force.

We then lived in a designated police house on the North Orbital Road, Smallford, with a gravel pit opposite for a view. It was cold inside, not cosy for the arrival of our new baby. We settled in, though, looking forward to December. In late November my father and mother came to see us and brought the news that Dad was to be admitted to hospital in Enfield - a suspected ulcer, he said.

Because of my condition and, of course, no car, I was advised all the time that there was no need for me to visit as all was going well. Afterwards, my mother said they had had so many problems in their married life she did not think for one moment that they would not get through this one.

Deciding to telephone the hospital myself, I learned that Dad was recovering from his second operation (I did not know about the first one). Alone at the time, and shocked to hear this news, I set off by various buses, first telling my neighbour that I was going. She alerted everyone else and I was greeted at the hospital by my brother. It was the last time I saw my father. He died two days later, on 11th December, of cancer. He has always exerted a powerful influence on my life.

I went into labour on the day of his funeral and the following day, 20th December, after a very difficult confinement at home, our son, weighing ten and a half pounds, was born, a great comfort to us all, especially as the weather became extremely bad until well into the New Year.