Jack stopped for a breather and to wipe away the sweat from his forehead. Hard work, this digging lark, for a man of his years anyway. No Robbie-lad to lend him a hand since he went away to war, never to return. Jack could see him standing there now, leaning on the gate post, whistling some tune off the radio, whilst stabbing at the dirt with the toe of his boot. "You'll wear them boots away, our Robbie-lad, leave ground alone, you'll disturb t'grubs," his head shaking in jest as he playfully chastised his only son.

"Ah, get away Da, that's what them for, getting grubby in t'dirt." Robbie-lad tipped his cap to the lass that walked by. She were a looker if ever he saw one. Had he been on his own he would've chanced a whistle but knowing his da he'd get a clip around the ear. Unbeknown to him, his father knew exactly what he was thinking. Those were the days, the two of them, spending a few hours up at the allotment before calling in at the Wagon and Horses for a nifty one before tea. Mam did a proper tea on a Sunday, wi' best butter an trifle.

 

Mavis pined for her precious boy, Robbie-lad. It was a mother's worst nightmare to lose their child, though she knew that her Jack were hurting just as much as she were. Yes, they had other children, all moved out of home now, making their own way in the world but she and Jack couldn't move on, ever. There was an unspoken dialogue between them which was never discussed, for The Lord only knew what emotions could break free if it were. A memorial plaque for their son was in the cemetery. Every time they tended it, it hurt a little bit more. Just seeing his name on that cross stirred the anger that raged inside them, which when settled gave way to such a painful, throbbing heartache. It ate them alive.

 

'In memory of Robert 'Robbie-lad' Simmonds'

Killed In Action 1920-1943

Much loved son, brother and grandson

Cherished Forever

 

Marguerite was sitting in the garden, it was such a lovely afternoon. The back windows were wide open and inside her daughter, Lettice, had the gramophone playing. Since losing her father she liked to play his favourite records, finding comfort from them. They had been so very close until he was called up and had lost his life for this country.

 

'On a little street in Singapore 

We'd meet beside a lotus-covered door

A veil of moonlight on a lonely face 

How pale the hands that held me in embrace 

 

My sails tonight are filled with perfume of Shalimar 

And temple bells will guide me to the shore 

And then I'll hold her in my arms 

And love the way I loved before 

On a little street in Singapore…'

 

They were both totally heartbroken but Marguerite had had to hold it together for the sake of her young daughter. Stefan's clothes still hung in the wardrobe and a pot of Brylcreem remained in the bathroom cabinet. They had been lucky to have Lettice for Marguerite had previously lost two babies in the early stages of her pregnancy. The day she received the news that her husband had been killed in action was the last time she had seen Lettice smile from her pretty eyes. Most afternoons before tea, her daughter would be down at the cemetery, sitting by his headstone, chattering away to her daddy. She had lost count of the nights that she had heard her child sobbing herself to sleep, calling out for her father. Marguerite felt that she had lost them both in a way. She, herself, felt the huge void that his death had created but kept all her feelings locked away. God only knows what would become of them both should she ever let her veil slip. It didn't bear thinking about. She opted instead to cry quietly before sleeping, deep into her pillow, silently wishing that her husband's arms were tightly wrapped around her.

 

'In memory of Stefan Koltun'

Killed In Action 1904-1943

A Beloved Husband And Father

Forever In Our Hearts

 

Jim and Nancy had just got off the bus having been to see Nancy's brother Bert, who was in poor health. He seemed to appreciate the bit of baking that his sister took him every week, though she wasn't sure that he was actually eating it for he was wasting away, all skin and bones. Perhaps he fed it to the birds, it was hard to tell. She reached for the cake tin, it was empty but for a few crumbs. Removing the greaseproof paper, she replaced it with some fresh. "There's apple pies and jam tarts for you Bert, strawberry, your favourite." Her brother simply nodded in response and lit up another cigarette. His cough seemed to be getting worse. The doctor had told him to stop but that was never going to happen; he'd been smoking since he was twelve. Nancy put the kettle on and busied herself tidying up.

 

It was all Bert could do to join in any conversation today. He felt so full of melancholy, just sitting there in that well worn chair, staring out of the window, pining for his darling Mabel. She was his sweetheart who had died whilst serving her country. She was kind and so full of life, the best nurse anyone could wish for, dedicated to her profession. But she was gone now, snatched away so cruelly, leaving Bert to puff away on his cigarettes and drown in his own private misery. He wanted to fight but he just didn't have the energy.

 

On the table, shells from a couple of boiled eggs were left discarded on a blue side plate, an open packet of biscuits were left to go stale whilst a filthy ashtray overflowed. "You could do with a bath, our Bert," muttered Nancy, aware that her brother was starting to lose his sense of pride. "I'll make you up a corned beef sandwich for later, you can have it for your tea with some pickled cabbage. Or there's a tin of pear halves you might prefer with some bread and butter? What d'you fancy?"

"Owt, don't fuss our lass," muttered Bert who then merely smiled, nodded and returned to look out of the window at Jim, who was busying himself mending the gate.

 

Sometimes, at night, Mabel would appear to Bert in his dreams. The second of three sisters, all close in age, the eldest being Rita, the youngest, Bonnie. She was also the tallest and the most spirited. Locals would call them, 'The Andrews Sisters' and they wouldn't half play up to it, for they were wildly carefree and full of youthful spirit, great fun to be around. On Saturday nights they would go dancing, a crowd of them. Mabel could dance the Lindy Hop like no other and would make everyone chuckle with her rendition of 'Hold Tight, Hold Tight (Want Some Seafood, Mama). Those were the days. He could hear her now…

 

'Fododo dya, Fododo dya Fododo-de-yacka saki

Want some seafood Mama

Oh, won't you give it to me 

'Cause I'm as happy as can be

When the seafood comes to me

La-da-da, la-da-da, la-da-da…'

 

A few treasured possessions were kept in an old tin box under his bed. They were all he had, a few photographs and a collection of her letters, which were always signed, 'Love you, Bertie boy, your Mabel x…' He liked to get them out occasionally and sit on the bed to read them, skimming his fingers over her words and holding the paper up to his nose, just in case he might smell her perfume. But Mabel wouldn't be wearing any, not when away working, that he was certain. He'd heard that Rita was a teacher, who had settled somewhere else a few years ago and Bonnie, apparently she worked at a farm over in Skethington.

 

Bonnie had never married and had been close to Mabel. It was raining on and off today but she had caught the bus to the cemetery, which she often did when she had a little time off. It was important to her that she kept her sister's grave looking respectful and tidy, with freshly picked wildflowers, which Mabel would have loved. Sometimes she would think of Bert, she had heard that he wasn't too well. Maybe their paths would cross again one day, though she knew it was most unlikely. Would Mabel have wanted her to keep in touch with him? Deciding that all that was probably best left in the past, she finished tidying, checked her watch and made for the bus, turning back before closing the gate to whisper goodbye, "See you, Mabel, I love you."

 

Bert meanwhile, had his memories, his cigarettes and a few jam tarts in a tin.

 

Rest In Peace

Mabel Andrews

1918-1944

For King And Country 

 

Respect to all. Lest We Forget, Mrs WH

 

Song 1: Written by: BILLY HILL, PETER DE ROSE

Lyrics © RESERVOIR MEDIA MANAGEMENT INC

 

Song 2: Written by: DICK BRANDOW, LEONARD KENT, JOSEPH MILLER, GEORGE ROBINSON, WILLIE SPOTTSWOOD, LEON WARE

Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Both sets of Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind

 

 

© 2023. Mrs WH