A Moment to Remember

 
 
 

 
A Moment to Remember

 

 
DEE WILLIAMS

 
 
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Copyright © 2010 Dee Williams

 

 
The right of Dee Williams to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,
this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing
of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production,
in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the
Copyright Licensing Agency.

 
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010

 

 
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

 
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

 

eISBN : 978 0 7553 5892 2

 

 
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

 

 
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Table of Contents

 

 

THIS IS FOR ALL MY FAMILY.

 

For my lovely daughter Carol and my clever son-in-law Gez. I am so lucky to have them as they are always there for me when I need them.

 

Also my two lovely, clever granddaughters, Emma and Samantha. Both have university degrees and I am very, very proud of them.

 

For my sister Christine who is on the other side of the world and who I miss a lot.

 

For my brother Roy; although we don’t see a lot of each other, he is in my thoughts.

 

And all my nieces, nephews and cousins too numerous to mention by name.

The Red Cross and St Dunstan’s for the help and information I needed and received.

 

Thank you.

October 1908

 

‘
A
ND WHERE YOU bin?’

Milly stood and looked down at her well-worn black button-up boots.

‘Well answer me, gel.’

Her father was sitting in the room they used for everything. It had a table and three mismatched chairs; one had the back broken off. That was what her father did when he was in one of his frequent rages. They only possessed one armchair, which stood next to the fire. Nobody dared to sit in his chair. He moved his bulk and, picking up the brass poker, pushed it into the few paltry coals sitting in the grate, causing them to burst into flame.

‘Yer mother’s bin trying ter feed the kids while you’ve bin out gallivanting.’

Arthur Ash stood up. He was a tall, well-built man with a shock of black hair. His dark eyes were penetrating, and as he was still holding the poker, Milly cringed as she stepped back. She had felt the force of her father’s hand many times and stood waiting for the blow that would send her reeling across the room.

‘Lorst yer bleeding tongue, ’ave yer?’ He leaned towards her.

‘Milly, please answer your father.’ Ivy Ash was a pale, thin woman who, after having ten children in twelve years and trying to feed her family on the pittance her husband gave her, looked worn out.

‘I got caught up with all those women with banners and policemen; they was marching along the road and I couldn’t get through.’

‘What?’

‘There was lots of people and policemen and I couldn’t get past.’

‘Leave her be, Arthur. She couldn’t help it.’

‘I’ve seen those silly cows outside the docks carrying on about votes fer women. I ask yer, what the bloody ’ell d’ they want ter vote for? Wot der women know about fings like that? They should be ’ome looking after the old man. Don’t you let me find out yer wiv ’em, otherwise yer get another pasting. I can soon knock that rubbish out o’yer.’

Milly looked at her mother. ‘Honest, Mum. There was such a lot of people and I just got caught up in ’em.’

Her father grabbed her arm.

‘Please, Arthur, leave it.’

‘I bet she was flinging herself at ’em, hoping ter join ’em. She’s nothing but a dirty tramp.’

Milly began to cry, and four pairs of eyes looked anxiously up at her from where her younger siblings were sitting on the floor. She was the eldest of the eight surviving Ash children.

What was the point of trying to talk to her father when he was in one of his moods? Not that she could ever talk to him. She didn’t like him or the way he treated her dear mum. Milly, who was thirteen, knew what a bully he was and wondered why her mum kept having babies, babies that she couldn’t look after.

Milly herself had helped to deliver the last one. That day she had been terrified her mum was going to die. Old Mrs Grant, the woman who was with her mum, called for Milly to help. She had held her mother’s hand and mopped her brow, and all the while her mum had tightened her grip on Milly’s hand and cried out in pain. Milly had stood wide-eyed and speechless when the baby came into the world. Mrs Grant handed her the silent scrap covered with blood and instructed her: ‘Wrap her up in that old towel, hold her close and keep her warm and make sure she don’t stop breathing.’ Terrified, Milly did as she was told and held the baby close. Baby Helen was a tiny, fragile little thing who had fought for her life; now, seven months later, she was a frail, sad little girl with big blue eyes and a lovely smile.

‘Milly love, did you get the milk for Helen’s bottle?’ asked her mother, who was sitting on the hard wooden chair nursing her baby.

Milly knew she was trying to ease the tense situation and she just nodded. ‘I’ll go and warm it up.’

She hurried to the outhouse that was attached like a carbuncle to the back of the terraced house. The Ash family occupied the ground floor, which comprised a kitchen plus two rooms; the children all slept in one and Milly’s mother and father and baby Helen slept in the other. Her parents had a bed, but the children slept on the floor on a lumpy mattress that at times had the odd bug or two crawling in it. They shared the outhouse with a Mr and Mrs Booker and their four children, who lived upstairs. The Bookers had the same layout, two rooms and a kitchen. Even with four children under four, they were very quiet. Mr Booker was an accountant, and he often said he wanted to move from Rotherhithe to a better place, but he never did. Milly worried that her father wouldn’t be able to find the rent for the whole house if the Bookers moved. Mrs Booker was a quiet, thin lady who hardly ever spoke, and her children were very well behaved. They kept themselves to themselves and the only time the two families met was in the outhouse. As there wasn’t any water upstairs it had to be taken up in buckets and the slops brought down to the outside lav, which they also shared. The water came from the tap over a large white sink where they all had to do their washing. Cooking for both families was done on a black stove that stood in the corner and had to be fed with wood and coal. It had an oven and two holes on top that would be uncovered when a kettle or a pan needed to be heated. The outhouse was a cold place and at times the inside of the brick walls ran with water, especially when the women were doing their washing and boiling it on the stove. When it was icy outside, they had to scrape the ice off the inside of the window to be able to look out on the very small back yard.

Milly sat on an upturned wooden box and thought about the morning. She had been so excited when she heard the band playing and the women came marching along. Everybody was shouting and women were throwing flowers. When she was able to find a newspaper, she would take it home and with the help of her mother they would read all about everything that was happening in the world. She knew that these women were called suffragettes and they wanted women to have a vote. Not that she knew why they wanted to vote, but her mother tried to explain that they hoped to make things better for women. Milly knew that her mother, along with her Auntie Doris, her mother’s elder sister, had been very well brought up and properly educated; she also spoke differently to her dad and people who lived round here. Milly loved her mother dearly and often asked her why she’d married her father and didn’t work in a big house like she had told them their Auntie Doris did. Her mother always gave a soft smile and said that she loved him. Milly couldn’t see how anyone could love and marry a bully, but her mother said that he wasn’t always like that; he used to be kind and gentle but then he had an accident and injured his leg and couldn’t get regular work, so they had fallen on hard times. Milly could never remember her father being kind and gentle. Their mother had told them about how Doris worked in a big house, but they had never seen her, and she had never been here. Was Mum so ashamed at how she had finished up?

The milk boiling over brought Milly quickly to her feet. She silently prayed that her father wouldn’t come through to go out to the outside lav, as that would mean another smack round the head if he thought she’d been daydreaming.

The back door slammed back hard against the wall and two scruffy-looking boys came in laughing and pushing each other.

‘’ Allo, Mil. All right then?’ asked Billy, who was eleven.

‘He in?’ asked Daniel, cocking his head towards the kitchen door.

Milly nodded. She loved all her brothers and sisters, but somehow she could talk to Dan and he always seemed to be able to confide in her. Even at ten years old he had a very sensible head on his shoulders, while Billy was more of a bruiser, his fists ready for anything and anyone. She knew her father would have to watch his step in years to come when Billy was a man. ‘Did you manage to get some wood?’ she asked.

‘I should say so,’ said Billy proudly. ‘Bin down the railway sidings and got hold of some logs and a bit of coal.’

‘We think someone hid ’em and put ’em away till later,’ said Dan.

‘And we pinched ’em,’ said Billy gleefully.

‘Let’s hope whoever it was don’t find out it was you two,’ said Milly, testing baby Helen’s bottle on the back of her hand.

‘Na, they’re in the yard and the cart’s covered over.’ Billy cuffed the dewdrop that was hanging from his nose. ‘Fink somebody’s bin using our bog again, it don’t half stink.’