Dolly's War

by Dorothy Scannell

  I saw very few of my parents’ relatives when a child as I was at the tail end of a large family. There were too many of us to pour into an aunt’s or uncle’s house and of course it would have been impossible anyway for my parents to have afforded the train and bus fares. My mother’s relations were all country folk, Dorset, Wiltshire, Hampshire. All sweet innocent folk living a peaceful life working on farms or country-mansion gardens, caring for animals, happy in nature. My father’s people, on the other hand, were quite different. On his father’s side the Cornish sailors and merchants, but on his mother’s side, a different race altogether. My grandfather was Grandmother’s second husband, so it was whispered. Her surname was Rose and she was related to Jewish business people. My eldest brother and sister visited many of these exciting people every week-end when they were young, but I was grown up before I really heard about them.

  There were family names of Nathan, Levy, Skolinsky, Folingfan (or Pholingphan), Rose, and I did hear once that through the Levys there was a Rothschild! Uncles Nathan, or Levy, had a public house in Cable Street, Stepney. Aunt Temperance (what a combination if it went with Skolinsky or Pholingphan!) had a sweet-shop in the Mile End somewhere and Alftruda, a cousin, had a ‘posh’ restaurant at Windsor. We had an uncle Constantine in America and I used to think we may be an ordinary family, but we certainly possessed some unusual names. We gained two more unusual names with Chas’s grandmother for she was Miranda Minerva.

  But there, although I envied my paternal granny and my sister Amy for their bravery, they both possessed extra gentle husbands. It was all very well for Amy to think I could emulate her retaliatory behaviour. Chas would never raise his hand against me in an argument, but I had the feeling that had I struck the first blow his pride would have been so thoroughly injured that my blow would have been instantly and ‘lovingly’ returned. His reactions were so quick he wouldn’t stop to think what he was doing.

  No, much as I might have wanted to emulate Amy, we were entirely different characters. For one thing I really found nothing ecstatic in life, though I was always wishing to, whereas for Amy, everything was ecstatic and I envied her intense enjoyment of life. Even when she was away in hospital she turned this into a drama. After her first child was born she began to suffer poor health. My mother insisted Amy was not taking care of herself, but her first baby was a large child, always hungry, and it seemed really as though he was too robust for as tiny a mother as Amy was. A friend of mine saw Amy and her offspring out walking one day. Amy, always an expert needlewoman, had made pram-coverings etc. unusually luxurious for the neighbourhood, and her baby’s hand-made clothes would have been outstanding even in the West End shops. She, my friend, said the baby, in his lovely perambulator, looked much larger than Amy. ‘Mind you,’ said my friend, ‘Amy looked a cocky little bit.’ I assumed my friend was jealous, but Amy was getting thinner, Mother was getting worried about her and finally the doctor thought Amy should go away to Brompton Hospital for he thought she might be developing T.B. Mother was horrified, there had never been such a dread disease in any of our families, ostrich-like she was sure it was either a wrong diagnosis, or she blamed Amy’s other connections for this shadow which had come upon the Chegwiddens.

  Amy left Brompton Hospital. Mother was pleased the doctor had ‘ticked Amy off’ by saying, ‘You have a large healthy family. You don’t want to spoil your mother’s record, do you?’ Therefore, according to us all, ‘it was Amy’s own fault’. Off she went to a convalescent home in Surrey, where, as usual, Amy had a fine time, chopping down trees and enjoying weekly socials (it was a mixed home). She borrowed my little portable gramophone, the first in the family, which I never saw again. Mother was very sorry for James, because Mother always felt if a married man was denied affection, which was his by married right, he would fall by the wayside, for men, in Mother’s mind, were different glandular creatures from women. I think, personally, that Amy was the exception to Mother’s rule, and I think Mother was secretly proud of Amy, even though she thought her like our paternal grandmother. Amy said mysteriously, ‘You don’t want to worry about Jim.’ We thought this just bravado for there was nowhere at the convalescent-home, or so we thought, where gentle Jim could even kiss Amy, except on arrival or departure, but Amy was one day describing to me the lovely church there. Apparently this church had a small chapel in the corner. Solid walls at the bottom, but glass half way up. The chapel was really for mothers with babies so that, as it was sound-proof, mothers could listen to and watch the service through loud-speakers, or ear-phones perhaps, and a restless child would not disturb the worshippers in the main church. Now Amy and Jim would attend the service, but in the soundproof chapel, and Amy once said, ‘No one can see, from the main church, what is “going-on” below the solid part of the chapel walls.’ This sentence spoke volumes to me, for as one horrified member of the family said, ‘Surely, no one would “co-opt” in a holy place!’

  Alfred, Marjorie’s husband, was now demobbed and one afternoon we were listening, with great interest, to the army tales Chas and Alf were swopping, when Amy, probably bored by it all, or perhaps a little chagrined that she possessed no returning hero, interrupted with, ‘It was much worse for Jim in the Home Guard, and he never received a gratuity or lovely underclothes.’ Marjorie’s face became scarlet with indignation. ‘Gratuity!’ A choking pause. ‘Lovely clothes!... Do you think two sets of long pants of inferior quality, a suit off the rack, and £78 compensates a wife and child for the long separation from a loved one?’ ‘Well,’ said Amy defiantly (I knew she’d never give in), ‘he was never in the firing line.’ This I thought was hitting below the belt, for Alfred had been in the Syrian desert with the front line of communications. He had been terribly ill (gravely so), and was even, after demob, a pale shadow of his former robust self. Jimmy had been the M.O. in his Home Guard troop and thought his whole war had been somewhat on the hilarious side. Amy had worked at various jobs, so that with Jimmy’s full and increased pay from his reserved occupation, and Amy’s salaries, the £78 Marjorie received for five years’ separation and hardship was only cigarette money compared to Amy’s affluence. But some civilians were like this towards serving soldiers. Chas, abroad for three years and one of the soldiers of the First Army who had missed embarkation leave (Churchill apologised publicly for this rushing away of the men) was once on seven days’ leave after many many months, yet two or three people said, when meeting us out walking, ‘On leave again? You always seem to be at home!’

  Marjorie, near to tears at the suggestion that her husband was not a battle-scarred warrior (even though I had said to Amy, ‘Monty was very pleased Chas and Alfred were on the same side’) was somewhat cheered by my father’s sudden interest in her flaxen locks. ‘Your hair looks a treat, Marjorie,’ he said. ‘I never remembered how fair you were.’ Naturally Amy resented Father’s spontaneous compliment on Marjorie’s hair; considering he never remarked on the attraction of any female, the compliment was the greater and more sincere. But Amy was silent now, possibly to atone for her previous remarks, but she knew and I knew and Marjorie knew that when she, Marjorie, had told my father her extra brilliance was because she had been in the sun rather a lot in the country, it was untrue. Peroxide was the operative word. But she looked so attractive that I decided I would try to merit the same spontaneous compliment from my father. Unfortunately I had no idea that this beauty liquid had to be diluted. I used the whole bottle, my scalp stung and I had white spots on my fingers, but pride feels no pain, and I went upstairs after my hair had dried. Possibly it was because my hair was a different colour to start with, but it had turned a most peculiar shade of marigold. When I entered the room to the astonished silence of my brothers and sisters, my father’s yell came first, ‘Christ, here’s another one of them that’s been in the bloody sun.’ He had realised instantly that he had been ‘conned’ by his baby, innocent little Marjorie.

  My brother David often came with his wife Lydia to our family get-toget
hers and they both joined in the fun. David had been discharged early on in the war, through deafness. Again Mother would not have it that his debility was due to family deficiency in any way. Someone had told her that men go deaf when attending to big guns during the war, and this she claimed must have been the cause! I was happy for David, who like so many men, were not born fighters. Like them he would have made the best of Army life, but he was a sensitive chap and civilian life was the best for him, and in spite of his deafness I was glad he was out of the war.

  Lydia had a great sense of humour and loved the thrust and parry which went on between everyone. My father said he could hear us all when he was a long way off whilst returning home from his football-match. He would say, ‘It sounds like a Jewish Parliament.’ There was plenty of opportunity for the family to ‘criticise’ me for I often absented myself from the roaring debate and fierce arguments, for when many of the grandchildren were present, ever worried they would quarrel, or even fight, I would spend much time tearing up and down stairs to the back garden, settling arguments among the children, pouring oil on troubled waters, but ostensibly ‘watching’ my own offspring’s interests. There were so many differing personalities amongst our children.

  Margaret, Winifred’s daughter, a very intelligent child, was a born leader, so who should be ‘teacher’ in their games but she. Susan, rather on the timid side, was one day delegated by the ‘teacher’ to be the ‘naughty’ child in the class. On one of my visits downstairs she was obviously upset about something. ‘It’s that Margaret teacher,’ said young David, Lydia’s son, in a hoarse and conspiratorial whisper. ‘She’s too strict.’ ‘Oh dear,’ I said, all worried. ‘Don’t worry, Auntie Dolly,’ said Dave’s young son, suddenly the champion of Susan and me, ‘I’ll kick the teacher, when she ain’t looking.’ Since he was as in awe of the ‘teacher’ as much as Susan was, I thought him extremely brave, but at the same time deemed it diplomatic to dissuade him from this course of violent action, not only did I not relish his chances, but I wished to avoid any dissension from the mums and dads upstairs. Young David would do anything for Susan. One day they were playing tea-parties. It was a cold day and I refused them real water to play with. Therefore when I went to call them I was surprised to find they had ‘real’ tea. Little David had ‘obliged’ Susan by ‘weeing’ in the teapot. I prayed they had only pretended to partake of this unusually brewed concoction. Cecil, in the Navy, seemed to thoroughly enjoy the war. He was a Gunner’s Mate and had some exciting times, especially when chasing the Graf Spee. He had done well and was Chief Petty Officer. He was a champion pistol shot in the Navy and loved target-shooting. He once got into the King’s hundred at Bisley.

  We saw little of my brother Charlie and his wife, Edith. He was now ‘mine host’ at a public house in Essex. He, like Amy, seemed afraid of nothing. He was extremely popular with his customers, being ‘Charlie’ to all. A transport-driver I met in Suffolk during the war was very excited when he discovered Charlie was my brother, he said he’d never forget him, he was a real character, and he never knew what Charlie would be up to when he arrived. Once he was flying a huge kite and another time practising all-in wrestling with an all-in wrestling customer who wanted more experience for a forthcoming bout.

  Brother Arthur once stayed with Charlie and his wife for a week-end, but was horrified at something which happened in the saloon bar. Charlie’s wife, Edie, asked Arthur and his wife what they would like to drink. She then asked several other people present and after serving the drinks presented the bill to Arthur with a ‘That’ll be £..., Arthur.’ She had a dead-pan face.

  Charlie was once on a luxury passenger-liner, where he was a plumber. At the Sunday morning service the ‘tape-recorder’ which played the hymns, broke down. The Captain tried to start the congregation off with a well-known hymn, couldn’t get the note to start it, then the padre tried; he too failed, and so it went on through the officers, the bosun, all hypnotised into failure, all men’s voices-trying different notes to get the ‘off’ until finally one of the passengers struck the right note. Charlie said it was one of the most hilarious incidents he had witnessed. Jimmy James, the comedian, wasn’t ‘in it’.

  *

  I was unable to back Marjorie up in her recriminations about Amy, for Amy was to take care of Susan while I was in hospital for the birth of my baby, now imminent.

  At last the day came when I knew I must journey to the local hospital. Chas was at work, my parents upstairs having their breakfast. I picked up my little case, kissed Mother good-bye and left the house. I felt very lonely as I walked to my assignation and then I met Ivy. ‘Good God, Dolly,’ she said. ‘You can’t go alone, nobody does.’ She ran her little son home to Nell, caught me up and took my case. The maternity wing of the hospital was attached to a work-house-cum-old-people’s-cum-mental home and as we entered the gates a vacant-looking old man approached us. He was dressed in the grey cap and clothes worn by the inmates of such institutions. He literally beamed at me as he said, ‘You’ll have a lovely baby, missus, just like I was.’ ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Ivy indignantly. ‘That’s all the good wishes you’ll need, Dolly.’ This amused me and I was laughing as I entered the building.

  I was interviewed by an aloof and extremely haughty doctor. One glance at me seemed to overcome him with boredom. ‘What’s the story?’ he drawled in upper-class tones. His manner and mode of speech robbed me of any importance and stupidly I stammered, ‘I think I’m going to have a baby.’ He glanced quizzically at the hovering Sister and between them flashed the message, ‘An idiot mother, this.’ In the same bored manner he examined me and pronounced, ‘No, you are not having a baby, well, at least not this week, go home and attend the clinic next week.’ I went home feeling thoroughly disappointed, definitely not in the mood for resuming domestic chores. Mother tutted sympathetically and made me some tea but within an hour I was almost running to the hospital feeling frightened at having to stop and hold on to anything at hand to support the stabs of pain. Again I met my beaming old, grey friend and this time he was delightedly surprised. ‘Another baby already,’ he enthused. ‘That is good.’ He took my arm with great joy and led me to the entrance.

  This time Sister saw me, ‘You’ll just have time for a quick bath,’ she said leaving me alone in the bathroom. I undressed, Sister had insisted on the door being left open, and a woman who was passing put her head into the room and hissed, ‘You want to be careful, my baby was born down the lav, don’t you let them give you an enema.’ Although I hardly believed her and would not have been brave enough to refuse such medication, I decided not to bath for baby would have had no chance if born under water, and I just dampened the towel for the sake of appearances. Sister reappeared and said brightly, ‘Now come along and enjoy your lovely lunch.’ Since I couldn’t imagine obtaining enjoyment from even Coq-au-vin at that stage I certainly couldn’t eat the stale-looking corned beef and salad spread out before me by the side of a bed in a huge ward. The pain seemed to come in wave after wave and in the end I was unable to stop my groans. I was trying hard not to spoil lunch for the occupant of the bed by whose side I was sitting.

  ‘Call the nurse,’ she said. ‘They didn’t ought to have left you here like that.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘they know what they are doing.’ However this lady suddenly screamed out, ‘Nurse!’ in bloodcurdling tones and I was led, like a lamb to the slaughter, to a bed in the side room. ‘Ring if you need anything,’ said the nurse. Whatever does she mean, I thought, ‘need anything’? ‘Well, if you get panicky,’ added Nurse quickly leaving the room. Hardly a moment later came a pain so searing and so prolonged I pressed the bell. In came a differently dressed nurse, a midwife I supposed. ‘What on earth are you ringing the emergency bell for?’ she said irritably, but there was no need for me to reply for within a few minutes my son was born. ‘Dash,’ she said, ‘I suppose you know you’ve torn yourself.’ ‘I am sorry,’ I said apologetically and then I wondered why I was apologising, for I certainly wa
sn’t mistress of my fate at that time.

  I was now wrapped in a blanket, and sitting in a wheel-chair, I was deposited at the bottom of a flight of stone steps by an elevator in the corridor. The lift was marked ‘out of order’ and a passing nurse ordered a passing porter to take me up to another floor. ‘I’m the porter for this floor,’ he said, so I remained static. Finally another porter was fetched. He too was the wrong floor porter and the two of them began a heated debate as to their different floor duties. Finally when the argument became too fierce and the word ‘union’ was mentioned, two nurses and Sister assisted me up the stairs. ‘Bloody men,’ said the woman in the next bed when she heard about the fracas. ‘They want to have the kids, then they’d know all about it.’

  She was such a jolly woman. She said to me, ‘Look at this,’ and pulling back her bedclothes she exposed one white leg and foot and one black leg and foot. Apparently when her labour pains started she had been scrubbing a muddy floor. Shouting to her husband to fetch the ambulance she put one leg into her kitchen sink and washed it, but things became too urgent for any attention to the other leg. ‘Keep your bloomers on, missus,’ said the ambulance-man in the hope that that would slow things up and he could get to the hospital in time, but nothing can stem nature and her baby son was born in a terrific rush. She wasn’t allowed to feed him for the first few days. The complications caused by his speedy arrival meant that he had to be kept in a tilted cot. Eventually he arrived in the ward and we all cheered. ‘Is there any Chinamen in your family?’ my jolly neighbour asked when she first saw my son. Well, he certainly did have an oriental look about him, he was pale in comparison with the other red-looking babes and possessed no wrinkles.