When my Dad was 13 years old his father, my Grandad, lost his life fighting in the ‘Great War’. He had joined the Coldstream Guards and then volunteered for the Machine Gunners which were a body of men taken from all the guards’ regiments. Grandma was told he had been killed at Cambrai in France, on the 30th March 1918.

He was 35 years old and had four children, three sons and one daughter, (his youngest daughter, Mary, had died when she was just two years old, while he was fighting in France).

Dad talked a lot about Grandad and evidently he had been quite a character, rather a hit with the ladies but that’s another story. His father (Great Grandad Johan Heinrich Stier) was born in Germany and came to England in the 1860’s, married an English girl and had two sons and three daughters that we knew about; then  his wife died and he married a spiritualist called Martha Poole who and my dad, as a little lad, was terrified of her. Grandad wasn’t very nice to her, calling her ‘Martha the Mad Magician’ among other things.

About 1911 Great Grandad suddenly upped sticks, sold just about everything he owned, which was quite a lot, and sailed off to America taking all his family with him, apart from Grandad and his family, they had refused to go, not understanding what all the rush was for. When the war against Germany was declared in 1914, Grandad got it into his head that his father had been an undercover German spy and knew that a war was imminent which must have been the reason for rushing abroad. He had never got on very well with his father and hated his stepmother so decided that the only thing he could do was to join the British army, help win the war then he would go to America and give them both a ‘bloody good kicking’.

Dad always said Martha Poole-Stier had detested Grandad and, with her crystal ball, must have guided the shell that killed him on 30th March 1918.  We did hear later that Great Grandad moved to Canada and when he died there just after the war, Martha returned to England and tricked Grandma into signing away any rights that they had on a property in Barbican Road, York. By the time dad was old enough to do anything about it, everything was sold and she’d gone back to Canada leaving them destitute. Dad was bitter about that all his life.

This is the story of how John Henry was eventually found:

In 1998 on the 80th  anniversary of the war ending, there was a story in the Evening Press about a book in the Minster called ‘The King’s Book of Fallen Heroes’ which said that there was a paragraph, and photograph, of every York man who had died in the first world war.

We had never heard of this book and as it happened our niece, Ruth, was visiting from New Zealand for Christmas so we decided to go and have a look. When we arrived at the Minster a very nice lady in the information desk rang through to the security office and they sent a guard to find out what exactly we required. Having heard our story, he went away and returned with a large bunch of keys. We followed him into a beautiful little chapel where he opened a big glass show case. Enclosed in it was a massive book with carved wooden outer covers, it measured about four feet by three feet. Each page was in alphabetical order and held sixteen photographs of the fallen heroes. We were very emotional on reaching the S’s and there, on the top right hand corner was a photograph of Grandad and underneath was written:     
John Henry Stier: Private.
Guard’s Machine Gun Regiment.
Aged 35 Years.  Born in York. 
Last resided at   7, James Street,  York
Killed in action  30th March 1918.  On the Western Front.

Coincidentally there had been a letter in the paper, written by a Mr. Joe Street of Barnsley, advertising a bus tour to the First World War graves in France. He told us about the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and we got information regarding Grandad’s death. It seems he had been blown to pieces during the battle and had no known grave. His name is carved in stone on the memorial to the dead in a French town called Arras. No member of the family ever had the means or the opportunity to visit the area where Grandad had died for his country, so my sister Betty and I decided that after more than Eighty years, it was time we showed him the respect he deserved. We booked two places on Joe Street’s bus tour, ensuring that he knew which cemetery we wanted to visit and ordered a poppy wreath emblazoned with Regimental Badge, to place at the memorial.

We were pretty nervous when we set off because, having paid our expenses some time before, we had no tickets, no idea which hotel we were staying in and we didn’t even know the town in France we were visiting. All we had were instructions from Joe telling us to remember our passports and meet the bus outside Doncaster railway station at 8.45am on Thursday 23rd September 1999. We set off from York on the 7.42am train, arriving in Doncaster at 8.09am with plenty of time to find our way outside.  There was not a soul in sight. We waited about 10 minutes when a couple arrived by taxi and to our utter relief asked if we were waiting for Joe Street’s bus. Eventually there were ten people waiting with us. The bus duly arrived at exactly 8.45am, Joe introduced himself, told us our bus seat numbers, stored our cases in the boot and we were off. We made several  stops on the way picking up passengers until the fifty seater bus was full.

We travelled via Dover/Calais sailing on the ‘Pride of Dover’ ferry at 5.15hrs and after a smooth crossing arrived at 16.45 hrs in Calais, and it was pouring down. We adjusted our watches to French time 17.45 hrs and set out for Lille, this was our base for the duration of our stay. The traffic in Lille was gridlocked but we reached the Hotel Mas de Flandre in time to get ready for dinner at 20.30 hrs. The two storey hotel was situated on an industrial estate, fronting a main road . We were on the ground floor and the windows of our room opened straight out onto the street, so for security we had to keep the windows and shutters closed all the time we were out which made it rather stuffy and musty but considering that we were out all day it was adequate.

Dinner was really nice, lots of fresh bread and butter, thick parsnip and pepper soup to start, chicken breast with gravy, sliced potatoes cooked in a cheese sauce, peas and carrots. Then for pudding we had chocolate/vanilla ice cream. It was lovely. We both had a shandy lager then went to bed at 23.00 hrs setting our alarm for 06.45 hrs

Friday 24th September was glorious, we had a continental breakfast at 07.30 hrs and boarded the bus at 08.15 hrs. Joe gave a running commentary as we drove through the flat French country side. Le Touret was the first of three cemeteries built on the spot where three field hospitals had stood. The Tommies had nicknamed them Bandingem, right on the front line where all you got were bandages, Dosingem, a few metres away from the front line, where you might get something to ease your pain, and Mendingem, back towards the rear, where with a bit of luck you were mended, or died. With the number of graves there, most of them must have died. There are still shells and bones, from the First World War, being found in this area.

In November 1998 a French farmer was killed by a 25lb unexploded bomb.  When they do discover anything, the shells are marked for bomb disposal, the bones are collected, together with any identification, and put into caskets for burial by the War Graves Commission. A very frail old man was looking for the grave of his father so that a wreath could be laid, we were so touched by his tears and looked around the cemetery at all the many other graves. I placed a little wooden cross on one with the name of F. Bradford, noticing sadly that most of them were killed in 1915 and were very, very young.

Next was an Australian and New Zealand memorial named ‘Ration Farm’.   The British and French also fought, died and were buried there, we also found two German gravestones. We’re all the same in death. As we searched for a requested grave, there was a tremendous explosion which sounded like a bomb going off, all the old soldiers were quite shaken and stunned by this but we never found out what it was. Our most tragic stop was at Locre Church where two young boys were buried side by side. These two, who were Royal Scots Fusiliers, had gone absent without leave but on returning to their regiment were tried, found guilty of desertion and executed ‘shot at dawn’. The most terrible part was that Private Evans was only 17 years old and Private Byers was only 16 years old, they were not legally old enough to be there and as Joe said, “If they had returned to their regiment, they hadn’t deserted.”

Another great story was about an Irish Major, William Redmond. It seems that he hated the British but hated the Germans even more, so he fought with the allies on condition that, if he was killed, his body would not be buried in a British cemetery. Inevitably he was killed and was buried in the grounds of Locre Hospice where his grave was tended by the local Nuns until they became too old and frail to continue.

The British authorities then arranged for him to be interred just outside the cemetery gates so that his grave could be kept as neat and tidy as all the others. Wherever we traveled in the Somme area of France and Belgium there were war graves and memorials, some holding thousands, some with only a few graves but they were all kept immaculately by workers employed by the War Graves Commission. 

In Brandhoek Cemetery we saw the grave of a hero called Captain Noel Chevasse. He had been a fine athlete, representing Britain in the 1908 Olympic Games.   He entered Oxford University and became a Doctor enlisting in the Royal Army Medical Corps at the onset of war. He had three brothers and one sister and they all served in France during the war. Noel insisted on going to the front to help the wounded and set up a field hospital just behind the front line bunkers. He was awarded the Military Cross when, wounded, he went out into no-man’s land and for over forty eight hours looked for injured and dying men, bringing them back to the field hospital.  He also built a hospital shelter in the trenches, kept a cow for milk and got his men beer at Christmas. The first day of the battle of the Somme July 1916, over 50,000 men were killed. It was rightly called ‘Death Valley‘.  During the night Captain Chevasse and four assistants again went out into no-man’s land looking for his men, whistling for them so they would know where he was and all this in full view of the Germans. He was awarded the Victoria Cross for successfully carrying a wounded man to safety even though he himself was hit by shrapnel and injured. His Superior Officers reprimanded him for criticising the way the ambulance service operated and they sent him away from the front line as punishment; however, Doctors were in short supply, so in 1917 he was allowed back to set up a first aid tent near the front line trenches at Paschendael. Whilst tending an injured man he received a head wound, but carried on for two days without treatment, then while he slept, a shell landed on his bunker seriously injuring him. He crawled 800 yards but died in the field hospital, his last words ‘Duty Calls’ were for his wife and family. A Second Victoria Cross was awarded to him posthumously. His father was the Bishop of Liverpool and his twin brother became Bishop of Rochester. It was he who wrote the well known verse beginning ‘Give me your hand my brother’.

We had lunch at Ypres a lovely medieval town which was all but destroyed during the war but has been rebuilt in its original form. From there we visited the Battle Grounds and cemetery at Sanctuary Wood. The Germans had control of the railway at Ypres and were entrenched on a hill over looking the town, it was called Hill 60. The first Australian Division tunnelled hundreds of yards under the hill and laid 22 mines.  In the 2nd battle of  Messines, the mines were detonated and 19 exploded, decimating the German soldiers. (In 1955 another of the mines exploded, so there are still 2 mines to find somewhere between Hill 60 and Hill 62  Plugstreet.)  At the top of this hill overlooking Sanctuary Wood there is a Canadian Memorial.  It is a circular dais with arrows carved on top pointing to all the major towns involved in this battle. The road up to it is lined with Canadian Maple trees.  The shell holes and trenches can still be seen in the wood and surrounding area. It must have been hell on earth. Just up the Menin road is a place called Guilevelt nicknamed ‘Tommy’s café’. This was where the first flame throwers were used here in 1915.

Our next visit was to Tyne Cot which is about one mile from Paschendael Ridge where the enemy were firmly established (gas was used as a weapon for the first time here). The French Moroccans were attacking and were so terrified that they ran in panic from the great clouds of gas. 18,000 Canadian soldiers were sent forward to fill the gap and 2,000 of them died within minutes and are buried nearby. We noticed graves for the Cyclist Brigade who were interred here. The last bunker battle of the war took place here also, and the man who wiped it out is buried in the cemetery having won the Victoria Cross for his gallantry. The Bunker is now preserved in its original form. 
We thought this area was beautiful, with yet another Canadian Memorial nicknamed ‘Vancouver Corner’. A large statue of a soldier, with arms reversed, showing respect for his fallen comrades made us weep for the futility of war.

There is also a rebuilt windmill known as the ‘Windmill of Death’ which was used as an observation post by both sides and was shelled by both sides, you knew your number was up if your duties for the day was as an observer.

Later on the Lille road we passed Langemark where the youth of the
German army was killed. 44,000 are buried in one mass grave, it’s known as the ‘Slaughter of the Innocents’. One interesting piece of information was that Adolph Hitler had been injured here in June 1917 and treated at a nearby church hospital. We couldn’t get to see the cemetery because the road was closed for a cycle race taking place in town. For our last call of the day we returned to Ypres to watch the Menin Gate Ceremony. This is performed every evening. Men from the local fire brigade play the last post at Plug Street Memorial then travel to the Menin Gate and play it again at exactly 8.pm. Two to Six buglers play on silver bugles which have been donated by the Royal British legion. The Menin Gate is a massive entrance into the town of Ypres and the ceremony was very moving, watched by hundreds of people.  We were told that at Christmas 1914 the German and British soldiers played football in a nearby field, it then got the nickname ‘Hyde Park Corner‘.

Saturday 25th September was another glorious day, our first stop was St. Léger le Pleque, there are about sixteen war graves in the civilian churchyard, one of our company had an uncle buried there. Then we went to the Selridge British Cemetery, which is on a very lonely windswept ridge.  There are 147 graves here all dated 10th or 12th October 1918; poor devils almost made it didn’t they? The road sign read - Cambrai - that name rang a bell, and then we remembered, this was where Grandad had been killed.  It was also the scene, on 15th September 1916 of the first tank battle in history. The Germans being crafty beggars captured some of the British Tanks and used them against us.  Is that sporting or what?

We were on our way to the Grand Lochnagar Mine Crater Memorial, named by the Scots in the Lochnagar trenches nearby. The Germans again were on high ground and the British Army tunnelled underneath them to detonate, simultaneously, several mines creating a terrific crater which took us nearly ten minutes to walk round. Pieces of shrapnel and unexploded shells are still being found, and in November 1998, human remains were discovered after the Armistice ceremony. A Skeleton and dog tag were seen just below the surface. It was identified as a Soldier of the Northumberland Fusiliers who had gone missing on the 1st July 1916. His sister was still alive and the authorities brought her over for the burial in a cemetery in the nearby town of Albert. This was the British Army Headquarters until 1917.

Albert was famous for a Golden Madonna atop the spire of the local Basilican Church. This had been fought over by the French, German and British at various times.  On 1st July 1916 it was retrieved and kept safe for the remainder of the war. Money from all over the world has been donated for rebuilding Albert and restoring the Golden Madonna.

In the afternoon we went to Lonsdale cemetery which isn’t often visited.  One of our company had an uncle buried among some thousands of graves.  From there we went to the Tank Memorial. On the opposite side of the road to this was a Memorial to the Australians, they lost more men on this ridge than on any other battlefield of the war. It’s called Poziers Windmill. Close by is London Road Cemetery at High Wood, woods are notoriously difficult to clear and a lot of men died trying. The last Cavalry charge was made at High Wood by the Dacca Horse, an Indian Cavalry Regiment; they were shot to pieces by the German machine gunners.

The Glasgow highlanders also fought and died here, they had a custom of picking up a pebble and putting them in a pile when they went into action, picking one up again when they returned. It was very clear then how many had not returned. In 1982 a Cairn was erected, from pebbles, and dedicated to their memory, a statue of a Highlander 5 foot 7 inches tall, which was the regimental minimum height, is on top of the cairn. There is also a marble cross nearby, erected to soldiers of the London Division who were lost here.

The South African Memorial and Museum was our next port of call. Their troops held Delville Wood against all odds and the memorial was raised by public funds, all the trees in the wood were eventually destroyed but have since been replaced and it looks so beautiful.  The 1st South African Infantry Brigade, made up of four Regiments, represented the four provinces of the new Union of South Africa. During the battle of the Somme they fought as part of the British 9th Scottish Division. 3,153 South Africans entered the wood at 600 hrs on the 15th July 1916. They penetrated German lines and thus were attacked on three sides. They were eventually relieved at 1800hrs on the 20th July 1916, six days of hell and only two wounded officers and 140 men managed to walk out of the wood. The following day 755 men paraded before their Commander. 662 men had been killed in action or were missing presumed dead, while a further 104 died later from their injuries. Of all those lost only 113 have identifiable graves in the cemetery. 65 were unidentified and left buried in Delville Wood marked as Soldiers of the Great War, Known unto God. The remains of 538 Soldiers lie undiscovered in the wood itself, making it both their burial place and hallowed ground. Their names are carved on the ‘Monument to the Missing of the Somme’ at Thiepval.

We headed back towards Lille, leaving Delville Wood, and going along the ‘Road to Hell’ at Langevelle where the trench warfare had been terrible. A father and son asked for the bus to stop en route, to lay crosses in a field on the road side. It seems they had visited Kew in London to study the Regimental War Diaries and learned that the officer’s report showed almost exactly where the older man’s father had been killed. It was roughly 400 yards in from the road, two miles from Guillemont.  They didn’t go into the field very far because it was being ploughed, but they said a few prayers and so did we.  His body had never been found and his name is on the memorial at Thiepval. 

We went to a Hyper Market to buy duty free goods before returning to our hotel where we had a great dinner. A buffet was set out with every kind of starter you could wish for. We had cous cous, stuffed vine leaves, mushrooms and rolled herring. To tell the truth we thought that was the main meal, then we had to find room for steak, potatoes, onions and French beans;  to finish off we then had apple tart and cream, talk about bloated.  We retired to bed at 11pm for the early morning start. This completed our second day, the next day we go to find Grandad.

Sunday 26th September dawned with the rain pelting down. We hoped that the weather would improve later because our memorial was the last call of the day. First call of the day was another Tank Cemetery where 64 men of the Cameron Highlanders were buried together in a mass grave. They had died in 1917 at the battle of Cavalry Farm; their comrades had dressed them in their best kilted uniforms and laid them shoulder to shoulder. All the gravestones were in a long line touching, strangely that was quite comforting; it helped quell the feeling of despair at the senseless slaughter. 

For miles throughout our travels we had seen a massive memorial in the distance of the French countryside and Joe told us that this was Thiepval the main memorial for the Somme battlefields. On arrival there, an official wreath laying ceremony took place and the Exultation was spoken.  Everyone was respectfully dressed, the old soldiers very smart in Regimental Blazers. Joe asked if we had any relatives who had served in the forces throughout the years and had since died. If we wanted to, their names would be read out together with all the others, during the ceremony.  We decided to include our Grandad John Henry Stier, Private, Guards machine Gun Regt, our dad John Henry Stier, Private, KSLI, our nephew David Stier, CPO, New Zealand Navy and Betty’s husband Fred Fawcett, Sergeant, Seaforth Highlanders. When the list was read out our hankies were sodden with tears. After the ceremony we had time to look around the monument and cemetery and were delighted to notice a beautiful poppy wreath which had been left by the pupils and staff of St. Peter’s School York. ‘In grateful remembrance for the sacrifice you made’. The cemetery held thousands of gravestones, mostly British and French, but there were also Australian, New Zealand, Canadian, Indian and Polish. Nearly all were Christian marked with the cross, but there were also Sikhs, Muslim and Jews. The Jewish graves were marked with the Star of David and small pebbles were laid on top of the gravestones, and of course no crosses were put on any but the Christian ones. We tend to forget how many French were killed and the majority of their graves were marked unknown or known unto God. Six of our company were looking for family graves to lay wreaths on.  The two men who had said prayers at the roadside near Guillemont were looking for their father’s name and it took ages, then just as we were about to give up, they noticed a new wall being re-carved and it was almost the last name on. Joe said if we had gone earlier in the year we wouldn’t have found it.

The Irish Tower was our next port of call; this was dedicated to the 36th Ulster Division by the Royal Irish Rangers. The names of nine Victoria Cross winners were included on the monument, five Irish Fusiliers, three Irish Rifles and one Royal Engineer. Five were officers, four were other ranks. They were among a group of 460 men advancing down a slope towards the enemy, not realising a machine gun team were hidden in a trench at the bottom of the hill, only eight of the men were un-harmed. The courage and bravery shown there must have been tremendous. We moved along from there to the Ancre Valley, a cemetery and memorial to both Soldiers and Sailors.  We hadn’t expected to see sailors’ graves on land but there were hundreds of them from the 63rd Royal navy Division. A Ship’s Anchor lay outside the gates. Inside there were 2,500 graves in a beautiful peaceful setting, most had been killed in November 1916.

A Lot of the gravestones had names carved on, with a statement ‘Believed to be buried in this Cemetery’.  A lady from our party found the grave of a friend who had served as a gunner in the Royal Navy and had died in the battle at Ancre, firing the ship’s guns which had been brought across country.

We next visited the Newfoundland War Memorial Park and although not a requested stop, it was absolutely beautiful. The whole area that the Newfoundlanders fought over has been classed as hallowed ground. A large sculpture of a Caribou, the National Emblem, stands on a rocky outcrop overlooking the park. It points in the direction of the fighting towards the German trenches. The base on which it stands has all the names of the dead and missing carved round it’s edge and on top, arrows point towards Newfoundland 2,500 miles away and to all the other memorials in the surrounding area, such as the Naval Division - 2 miles, New Zealand Division - 8 miles etc; 5,000 men came to fight and 1,305 were killed, most of them here, 800 with no known graves. It actually devastated Newfoundland because whole communities lost all their young men. Just one of the stories Joe told was about a business man, Mr. C. W. Ayres who lost four grandsons in this battle, consequently the company closed when he had no descendants to carry on his name. Like many others, this loss of life could have been lessened if common sense had been used.

The Germans were established on higher ground and were alerted to the imminent attack through an accumulation of troops plus a notice in the British Press stating that Whit Monday had been cancelled for the troops in this area. The zigzag trenches on the two front lines were no more than 50 metres apart and were often filled to overflowing with mud, snow, bodies and rats. The German trenches were higher at the back to stop being silhouetted against the sky line when going over the top. The Allies hadn’t thought of this and were slaughtered by machine gun fire because they had also been ordered to advance at a walking pace. Holes had been cut at intervals in the barbed wire for men to crawl through, but of course the Germans had spotted this and concentrated their machine gun fire at these holes, to deadly effect. It must have been like shooting fish in a barrel. Two thirds of the officers were killed early on so the men were leaderless.  Eventually on 13th November 1916, with reinforcements from the Royal Enniskillen Fusiliers and the 51st Highlanders, the Germans retreated. I think they were all heroes and the youngest man on the battlefield, a 17 year old Newfoundlander, won the Victoria Cross for his gallantry.

The trenches are still preserved, and a really nice young Newfoundland lady took us on a one hour guided tour through the park. In the peaceful setting of the cemetery she told us a strange but true story. A soldier called Rafferty had died and was buried here but evidently could not rest in peace because he kept appearing to his niece in a dream. He told her that there was an error on his gravestone; it stated that he was 32 years old when he died but he was actually only 22 years old and he wanted the details correcting. The family was so concerned about this that they saved up enough money to come and see. They were astounded when they realised that the dream was true, so they contacted the War Graves Commission who soon put matters right. 

The East Yorkshire Regiment also fought in this area and had heavy casualties; an unbelievable 75% were killed. The tragedy was that they were all from the same families, streets or villages. Lord Kitchener had promised that if they enlisted together, they would serve together, nobody mentioned the fact that they would die together. Their cemeteries are known as ‘The Barnsley Pals’ - ‘The Leeds Pals’ - ‘The Grimsby Chums’ and such like that. Many Brothers lay together and we even found a father and son next to each other. We passed a massive French cemetery at Serre with thousands of crosses, each holding two People. We estimated that there were about 50,000 dead there. One Cameron Highlander and a Prisoner of War were buried side by side; they were killed on Christmas Day 1918 whilst helping to clear the area of explosives.

The rain had continued on and off all day but as we approached Arras the sun came out and a beautiful rainbow appeared. We hoped this was a good omen. We were quite upset when Joe told us not to get our hopes up because memorials are so big, with names carved right up into the ceilings, that we may not be able to see Grandad’s name even with binoculars.  Arras was a large unattractive city and neither Joe nor the bus driver seemed to know the direction to take. We got more and more despondent as they searched the city. Up and down the same streets over and over again. We both thought it was so late in the day and every one else was tired, they might decide to give up. Then we noticed an ordinary bus stop with a map of the city attached, Joe got out, looked at the map and then to our joy said “I know where it is now!”  We turned a corner into a lovely Avenue of Trees, to find the beautiful memorial, with parkland either side and although it was absolutely pouring down, this cheered us up no end.

The white stone Memorial to the Dead commemorates 35,000 casualties and was designed by Sir Edward Lutyens. It is made up of cloisters, 25 feet high and 380 feet long, built on Doric Columns, facing west. The broader part of the colonnade forms a recessed and open court. In our mind it looked like the shape of a flower with each petal being a cloister. The central area was a lawned cemetery. The whole place looked really beautiful and was in an area called ‘Le Jardine de Allies’ which means ‘The Garden of Friends’.

Our minds raced. Grandad should be in Bay 1. Look for the bay numbers, this one is 6, round the corner is 5, further on 4-3-2- at last we find 1. We hold our breath and there on the wall just above our heads, plain for all to see. ‘Guards Machine Gun Regiment’ and just below - ‘Private. Stier. J. H.’  Found at last! Just a name but after more than 80 years, delighted doesn’t describe our feelings. We laid our poppy wreath on the stone seat below, then actually stood on the seat and touched his name, it was great. Betty wrote a little card saying “To Grandad. With love from your Grand-children and Great Grand-children. We wish we had known you“. We were so relieved, you could actually see the name, it was near enough to touch and clear enough to read. The War Graves Commission periodically re-carve the names and details. Grandad’s name looked brand new; He must have known we were coming. We had intended looking round the cemetery for an unknown machine gunner’s grave but the rain was coming down like stair rods and we had run out of time. We did manage to place a little wooden cross on one of the graves. Maybe he fought and died with Grandad, who knows? Every War Graves Cemetery and Monument has a book with the names of people buried or remembered there and there is also a visitors book so before leaving we put our names in the visitors book, including our Maiden name so that ‘Stier’ was written down there.

We arrived back at the hotel, tired but content, just in time to get ready for dinner at 7.30pm. The aroma was mouth wateringly good. Vegetable broth with lovely French bread rolls. Pork slices in gravy with sprouts and diced fried potatoes, then fruit salad and ice cream with a lovely dollop of fresh cream on the top. Great! This was our last night so we all went into the lounge for a drink and a ‘knees up’. After half a shandy, a brandy and a glass of rose wine I had them roaring with laughter over the story of me tipping poor old Bob out of his wheelchair.  hey must have thought me so callous, quite a change from the outward, ladylike façade I’d been showing.  And so to bed. Betty packed both our cases thank goodness, ready for travelling home the next day.

Monday 27th September dawned and it was still pouring down. After breakfast at 7.25am the bus departed at 8.30am. We were homeward bound, but there were still some sights to see. Vimy Ridge is a name you may have heard of in war stories, but you cannot begin to realise what it might mean to you once you’ve seen it. It is a beautiful part of France which the Germans had occupied to protect the nearby coalfields. The coal was needed to keep the war machinery turning and it was mined by slave labour. The Canadians have their Official  Monument on the highest point of the ridge. The drive up to the monument is through a very thick forest of 11,000 Canadian Maple Trees, one for every Canadian, missing with no known grave.

The surrounding area is a mass of shell holes and craters which are still so dangerous, because of un-exploded shells, that no-one must wander from the pathways, they are lined with electric fencing to make sure that you don’t. The grass is cropped short by sheep and cattle. As we climbed the steps of the monument and saw the ‘Weeping Spirit of Canada’ weeping for her children, it was so heartbreaking I couldn’t stop crying, I felt such a fool. One of our companions told us the story of her father, a British Soldier, who had fought with the Canadians there. He had described to her how they had crawled through ‘Hell and High Water’ to get to the top of the ridge, through smoke, blood, screams and terrible noise. Then as they looked over the rim, there, set out before them, was a wonderful vista of the French valley below. He couldn’t understand the beauty of one side and the horror of the other.  The lady had us all in tears again as she described it as her father must have seen it. He had never returned to France but she wished he had been able to see this Monument before he died. The names of over 11,000 missing, in Rank order, then in alphabetical order, are carved around the stone base. We left there with very mixed feelings of elation and despair.

Further on our way towards Calais, we stopped at Choques cemetery which had been attached to a field hospital, every nationality and fighting force was represented here, plus nurses, doctors and chaplains, RAF, RFC, RAMC and 16 Chinese Labourers.  A lot of the graves were dated long after the war had ended. Although the weather was a bit showery, we put on our cagoules and wandered round looking at the graves. Further towards the centre, there were about fifty German graves in three rows. I was feeling a bit sad because we had no more wooden crosses to leave, but I was looking for a ‘Mueller’ which is my brother-in-law’s name, or a ‘Stier’ my maiden name, to say a prayer for. The thought going through my head was “I’m sorry I have nothing to leave but at least I can pay my respects.” Most of the graves were un-known. I was peering closely at one grave when someone said quite clearly “Have you found him? - Do you know him?” I said “No - it’s an un-known.” and turned round thinking it was Betty, but no-one was there, I spun in a complete circle, I was completely alone!  Everybody was at the far end of the cemetery. 

Betty saw me spin round and thought I was looking for her, so came over. It wasn’t frightening, but very strange. We decided that it must have been a distant relation of ours, or Horst’s, trying to communicate with us. Joe informed us that this cemetery gets very few visitors, so someone must have been pleased we called.

Our last stop before the Ferry was Longuenesse. This had also been a Military Hospital and there were rows and rows of nurses, many dated
into the 1920’s. Also some RAF from the 2nd World War. The majority of graves were named, a lot with two names, obviously colleagues who had worked and died together. We arrived at Calais in time to catch the 2.00pm Ferry, the ‘Pride of Dover’ again. The one and a half hour crossing wasn’t too bad and we arrived in Dover at 2.30pm BST. The long haul back to Doncaster was without any delays and we arrived back in York at 9.30pm absolutely shattered. 

Thanks to the patience, knowledge and kindness of Joe, his wife Pat and colleague John, we had a wonderful experience.

Would we go again?    -   You bet we would.

Since then we have found out that on the day Grandad died, there was only one Guards Machine gun unit destroyed, killing two men, so it must have been his unit. We had more time when we visited the cemetery the following year and were thrilled to discover the grave of a ‘Guardsman Corke’ of the Guards Machine Gun Regiment, who had been killed on the same day as Grandad. This can only have been the other member of the unit killed with him, but at least he had a grave to visit. So now we always put a cross on Guardsman Corke’s Grave.

This is a photograph of his headstone:

I was fed up, what’s fair about a girl having to set the table and a boy being allowed to chop sticks? My brother Brian was already outside playing pebble gratey, my younger sister Amy was dressing the cat up in dolls clothes, making it yowl and my older sister Betty, goody two shoes, was helping Mam wash and cut up the cabbage; this made me feel guilty because I didn’t want to help any more. I banged the plates down on the oil cloth covering our table, and as they rattled, Mam shouted, “Be careful with those plates, they’re all we’ve got and I can’t get any more. Go and change your dress before you get it even dirtier than it is!”

Mam was always angry with me, it wasn’t fair. I stamped upstairs as loud as I dared without causing Mam to shout again, changed into a dress that belonged to Betty and ran downstairs, just as I heard a knock on the door and Aggie Green ask if I could go out to play.

“Come down misery, you’ve got half an hour, don’t get dirty and don’t go too far away, your tea’s nearly ready.” Mam still sounded grumpy.

I shot through the kitchen before Betty realised that I had her dress on and escaped to freedom with Aggie. “Our Lenny says there’s a convoy of Yanks going past Tang Hall Lane, shall we go and have a look?” Aggie was one year older than me and her Mam let her go anywhere she liked, it wasn’t fair! I was six now but still had to stay in the street. “Your Mam won’t know - who’s going to tell? Come on it won’t take long.”

Never able to resist temptation, I ran with her as fast as we could go, up the street. 

As we turned the corner our Brian shouted. “Our Mary, you’re gonna be in a lot of trouble if Mam finds out.”

I’d forgotten that he was playing gratey with the other lads, it wasn’t fair.  I bet he tells. Ah well, if I’m going to be in trouble it might as well be for something worthwhile.

We could hear the rumble of the lorries before we turned the corner into Tang Hall Lane and the crowd of kids already congregating round the lamppost, were shouting and yelling. The massive lorries had canvas covered backs which were filled with soldiers in uniform, holding on to the tops and sides, leaning out to wave to the kids. Great big tyres singing as they moved at a steady pace along the Hull Road. We didn’t know any of the other kids and it wasn’t fair, they were bigger than us and had pockets full of stuff and still wanted more.

“Any gum chum?” They were shouting and we joined in.

“Any gum chum?”

The soldiers laughed at me and Aggie because we were the smallest, but they threw handfuls of goodies towards us. “Let the little ’uns have some.” They shouted, as the others ran to where we were. There was such a scrabble on the floor as we fought to get our share.

“They’re ours, they threw ‘em for us,” Aggie and I screeched as we helped each other. I pushed and shoved the others while she grabbed anything she could, filling her pinny pockets. Then we ran as fast as we could, back down the lane, into Hadrian Avenue, round the corner, into Wycliffe Avenue and into our garden, where we hid behind the shed and looked in wonder at what we’d got.

What a treasure! Little bars of chocolate about the size of Dad’s finger, wrapped in dark brown paper, chewing gum wrapped up like toffees, Jelly Beans that were a bit scuffed up because somebody had kicked and stood on them but still eatable. We even got an orange which had burst slightly through hitting the hard floor. With so much to choose from, we didn’t know what to eat first, so we started on the orange.

“Give us a bit!” Milly Parker had followed us from Hadrian Avenue. “Give us a bit or I’m going to knock on your door and tell your Mam.”

“Come round here so she can’t see you, dozy Parker, you can have some of the skin.”

While she was eating the skin we tried the chewing gum, it was real hard to start chewing and tasted like apples. When it was quite soft we stuck it behind our ears, making sure it didn’t stick into our hair. The Jelly Beans went next, six each, then the chocolate bars, two for Aggie, two for me and one for Milly. They were lovely and gooey.

“It’s not fair!” wailed Milly.  “You’ve both had more than me and I haven’t had any chewing gum yet.

“Well we went and got it all, you didn’t even ‘elp us.”  Aggie and I were raving. She always did this. Wherever we went she had to tag on behind us; if we had to run, she grabbed our clothes and we had to pull her along. The problem was she was shaped like a ball with chubby little legs.

“Anyway you shouldn’t be eating sweets you’re fat enough.”  Aggie shouted.

“Yeah and if you wasn’t so fat you could run on your own.” I added. We hoped she would go home but no, she started crying, so trying to shut her up Aggie gave her the chewing gum from behind her ear, but the crying got louder and louder. “You big baby!” I yelled and took my chewing gum and slapped it onto her head. That shut her up!

“Mary! What on earth do you think you are doing?” Mam stood there sounding and looking angrier than ever. “Just look at your dress, what’s that all down it?” I couldn’t believe it, melted chocolate dribbled all down the front. It wasn’t fair, Aggie had a pinny on so her dress was still spotless.

“Mam - Mam! that’s my school dress she’s wearing.” Our Betty stood there in tears. “What will I wear tomorrow?”  She cried.

“Get inside this minute and take that dress off.”

Aggie and Milly ran for their lives as I sidled passed Mam, trying to evade the slap that I knew was coming.

“You will help to wash your sister’s dress and then straight to bed, with no tea for you today.”

“Aw Mam - it’s not fair missing me tea, I‘m starving.”

“That’s just too bad,” was the reply. With a lot of grumbling and help from Mam, Betty’s dress was washed, wrung out in a towel and left for Mam to iron dry. Our Betty and Brian looked so smug when I had to go upstairs to bed.

I couldn’t sleep, the kids were still playing in the street and I knew that they were all having Cottage Pie and Cabbage for tea downstairs. My mouth watered and my stomach rumbled.

“Mary, you can come down stairs now and write to your Dad.”

Oh wonderful! Daddy was in the army and Mam wrote to him every day, making sure we all put a note in for him. He was never angry with me and didn’t send me to bed hungry either.

“When you’ve done that you can have a bit of supper.”

I was just drawing kisses at the bottom of Dad’s note when there was a knock at the door.

“Mrs Stier, have you seen what your Mary has done to our Milly’s hair?”
Mrs Parker, with Milly sobbing behind her, stood on the doorstep.

“It’s chewing gum - it won’t come out. I’ll have to cut her hair off!”

Milly howled, and I started to smile, thinking of nosey Parker with a bald head.

Then I saw Mam’s face.

“Aw no! - It’s not fair!

“There’s a duck nesting in our garden Mum!”  Paddy came in filled with excitement.
“We’ll have to be careful when we let Fritz out.”
I laughed at the thought of Fritz, our dear old dog, seeing the duck never mind hurting it. 
He was 15 years old, slightly deaf and almost blind but my son was very concerned so we decided to let the dog out while we were watching, then we could prevent any harm coming to the duck.

Our garden backs onto the beck running through Tang Hall Park and Fritz loved to stand right on top of the rockery looking over the wall into the water.  When he was much younger he was always jumping into it, causing no end of trouble when we had to climb over onto the bank and risk our necks dragging him out.  Now his jumping days were well and truly over.

The little brown duck had laid her eggs right at the side of the spot where Fritz liked to stand, so we watched the old dog go down to his rock and survey the park and the water. 
He suddenly raised his head, sniffed the air and bent to sniff the duck, who promptly pecked his nose.  We held our breath as with a look of comical surprise, he turned round, cocked his leg and peed all over her.  She, having nerves of steel, didn’t desert her post and fly away she just ruffled her feathers and shook the liquid off her back.  From then on Fritz would go down the garden, pee on the duck, survey the park and come back in.     

The life of a duck in springtime is quite dreadful with hordes of marauding bachelor drakes looking for females to mate with.  When they find one, a free for all commences, with the poor female being gang raped and sometimes killed.  One day a gang of drakes spied our duck peacefully sitting on her nest, so they flew down and chased her round and round the garden, feathers flying and squawking loudly, she ran towards the patio window.  Fritz hearing all the commotion began to bark furiously to be let out.  He went charging down the garden scattering the drakes and chasing them off, then he escorted the little duck back up the rockery to her nest, peed on her again and came in exhausted.  He wouldn’t allow any other duck or drake into the garden, even her mate was chased away and waited patiently, watching his wife from the beck.

Eventually the eggs hatched and eleven ducklings came out of the nest, down the rockery and onto the lawn where Fritz was sleeping in the sunshine.  They stayed close to their mother pecking the grass all around him. He just opened one eye, looked up, sniffed the air and went back to sleep.  They stayed in the garden for over an hour while we threw scraps of bread for them. Fritz ate any bread that went near him but he never touched the baby ducklings.  After a while he got up, yawned and walked down to his look out point. Mother duck and babies followed him up the rockery onto the wall, where they jumped off, bouncing on the concrete bank and into the water more than eight feet below. There the ducks had a joyful reunion as the babies, completely unhurt, met their dad for the first time.

I remember sitting in Metcalfe’s passage one cold frosty afternoon when David said, “There’s going to be a full moon tonight and werewolves will be about, shall we all come out later and see?” Staring at us all he smirked “Unless you’re too scared.”

Of course no one would admit to fear, so, long after Mam had gone to bed and hopefully asleep, my brother Brian woke me up. Putting our shoes and coats on we climbed out of the bathroom window and down the drainpipe to join the gang already out there.

The moon cast faint shadows down the deserted street, silent and silver. Crystal stars shone from an inky black sky. We stood shivering in the road, trying not to make too much noise, looking at the curtained windows behind which all our neighbours were sleeping.

“I know what Mrs. Smith would do if she saw the werewolf, or us,” I whispered. “Throw a bucket of water over us.”

An eerie silence surrounded us. Then the moon disappeared behind a cloud. We knew it was Kenny howling like a wolf in the ominous darkness but he scared the life out of us.

“Oh heck! I’m off back to bed!” whimpered Georgie, making us scatter in all directions! I was frantically pushed up the drainpipe by Brian and back through the bathroom window. Thankful to gain the safety of the bedroom, I held my breath to avoid waking Amy as I curled up close beside her for warmth.

I remember making winter warmers. Any old tin would do, as long as there were plenty of holes knocked through with a nail, and a wire handle fastened over the top. Filled with as much paper and wood as you could find, the warmer was easily lit then swung in ‘whooshing’ circles through the air to make the wood burn. Sometimes we managed to sneak a piece of cinder or coal into the tin which made the fire stay in much longer. If you were sensible you stayed away from some of the kids, especially those using string handles. Flying winter warmers could be dangerous!

I remember the first winter snow. No one had boots or Wellingtons so to keep us warm Mam put Dad’s long socks over our shoes and legs, secured by garters. With pixie hoods or balaclavas, scarves and gloves on, out we would go. Shovelling snow from the path was great fun, as was snowballing and making snowmen, but all the time we were watching the big lads clearing the road ready for sliding.

Often the skin on our legs from top of socks to bottom of skirt would be mottled blue with cold but once the slides were ready we soon warmed up.

“Take off those socks or you’ll damage the ice!” Jim Hardy ordered.

So off came the socks ready to start on the first slide right at the top of Woolnough Avenue. I remember running as fast as I could to jump on the slide, letting my body weight carry me down, then suddenly being grabbed and pushed along so fast that the wind whistled in my ears as one of the big lads zoomed up behind me. Coming to the end of the first slide, which was about twenty yards long, we would race to the next one where the procedure was repeated and repeated until we had finally completed the fourth slide ending at the very bottom of Wycliffe Avenue.
Breathless and warm by this time we climbed back up the avenue to do it all again. Wonderful!!

When Mam called us in for dinner there was such a tussle to find Dad’s socks in the snow. Wolfing down the home made bread and soup, we were out again, eager to join in the excitement with our gang. Who needs Disneyland? Our enjoyment cost nothing.

I remember going with the gang, over the field to the snow covered ‘tip’ glimmering like some winter fairyland. Bobby Cooper’s Mam had got him a large expensive toboggan but our Dad had made us a sledge which was the fastest in the street. No one could catch Brian as he shot head first down the hill, lying on his stomach. Then Betty would have a turn, carefully holding Amy, who screamed the whole way down but laughed with delight, helping to drag the sledge back up, wanting another go.

A lot of the kids had only cardboard boxes or strips of ‘lino’ to slide on. Very exhilarating as your bottom hit every bump and rock. Best of all though, someone brought an old circular tin tray which spun round and round uncontrollably before upending you in the hedge bottom and all the time our dog would get dizzy trying to follow each of us up and down in the snow.

I remember the air raid siren and the mad scramble to get home, helping Betty and Brian pull the sledge, with Amy sitting on top holding on for dear life. I remember the faces of the mothers in the street calling for their children, ushering them to safety. We went into our reinforced shed which contained two bunks with blankets and pillows atop. Amy sat cuddled on Mam’s knee, Brian and I either side holding on to her and Betty on the opposite bunk holding her hand, the dog sitting quietly at her feet. Dad was away in the army. It was very cold in there and Mam always kept a teapot, cups and a kettle full of water. Our next door neighbour’s shed adjoined ours and Mr. Spink owned a primus stove and he kindly boiled our kettle for us. Mam then mashed a pot of tea which soon warmed us up.

We children quite liked the thrill of picnicking in the gloom of the shed, especially as Mam also brought bread and jam for sandwiches. We had a bag of wool, together with cardboard tops from the milk bottles, so spent our time making pompoms, or knitting, whilst Mam read poetry or stories to us by candle light. To shut out the sounds of bombs dropping in the distance we started to sing, then Mr and Mrs Spink joined in. Soon the Yardleys were singing in their shed on the other side of the garden until very nearly the whole street was ‘on song’. It was reassuring to know we weren’t alone, that there were other families nearby ready to help if needed.

The local Air Raid Warden came round checking everyone was okay and to make certain there were no lights showing as it was almost dusk. It seemed to me that the adults held their breath until the ‘all clear’ sounded because there was such a sigh of relief when we all congregated in the street to ensure that no one was hurt or feeling ill. The celebrations were premature though because there was the unmistakable sound of a very large aircraft, low in the sky, coming nearer and nearer.

“Is that one of ours?” Mr. Spink asked in a panic.

“No! It’s a bloody Heinkel! Where did that bugger come from?” Mrs. Harlow shouted as the German bomber swooped over her house and along the length of the street. It was so low we could see the pilot’s face and all the children ran around waving excitedly to him.

“He’ll be hedge hopping trying to get home,” the Warden informed us. Full of self-importance, he ran up the road to the Police box where we could hear him shouting the details into the phone.   Suddenly there was a tremendous bang which reverberated round the houses shocking us into silence, until Dickie Hargreaves pointed out that it was only the anti-aircraft gun firing from the roof of the local school. I felt so sorry for the pilot and hoped he got home safely.

I remember while Dad was in the army he had committed some minor misdemeanour and was put on ’jankers’ peeling spuds in the cookhouse. The cupboards were full of food so he ‘borrowed’ some dried fruit and tins of spam to send home in a wooden crate with his carpentry tools. He shouldn’t have done, but a man of thirty-nine, with four small children, shouldn’t have been called up for army service. Right or wrong we were delighted once we managed to get the crate open. Mam was really worried that Dad would be in trouble but that year I had a fabulous birthday party, two days after Christmas, with my own small birthday cake. The parcel was a godsend. Dried fruit was so scarce, we had saved the ration coupons so that we could have a cake and a pudding and Dad knew this by the letters we wrote to him. Children were entitled to an orange each if there were any in the shops and we kept the peel to dry and chop for including in the cake mix. Stirring the Christmas pudding and making a wish was one of the highlights, then licking the bowl out afterwards.

Amy said she had wished Daddy could come home. Feeling guilty I said wishes were secret not daring to admit my wish was to get one of the silver three-penny bits that Mam had put in there but silently praying for Dad to come home too.

I remember crowds of children looking for holly and mistletoe in the hedgerow to make mistletoe boughs. Dragging our booty back home on the sledge to where Mam had jacket potatoes and mushy peas waiting, followed by hot steaming rice pudding. I remember sitting round the kitchen table with crepe paper, scissors and paste made of flour and water. Cutting strips of coloured paper to make Chinese lanterns and chains for decorating the rooms. Later on we would write notes to Dad to be enclosed in Mam’s letter. Most days as dusk fell and play stopped we would write to Dad before getting ready for bed. Amy was very small so filled her paper with kisses, then we snuggled up as close as we could get to Mam in the big armchair, drinking cocoa while she read poetry to us. We were enraptured as she recited our favourites.
            The Forsaken Merman. - He fell among Thieves. - The Highway Man.

It was amazing that we all loved sad poems with un-happy endings often making us cry, but Mam changed the mood by reading.
            How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. by Robert Browning.

I remember the laughter as we circled the houses Carol singing before darkness set in.
The invitations to, come in and sing one more, then receiving pennies or sweets. Finishing at
Mrs. Trapps’s where we got the most wonderful mince pies, before going home to the thrill of hanging four of Dad’s socks up on the mantelpiece ready for Father Christmas to fill.

We were too excited to sleep, so when Mam went downstairs we crept into the bathroom to look through the window, watching for reindeers and sleigh. The bathroom window had frosted glass at the bottom but through the top panes we could see right up Wycliffe, into Woolnough and the junction to Hadrian Avenue. Amy and I climbed over the washbasin to stand on the window ledge, this enabled us to see through the clear glass at the top, then with Brian and Betty balanced on the bath and toilet we listened, waiting silently in anticipation.

I definitely heard sleigh bells ringing and hooves galloping but Mr. Spink walked down his garden path and spotting us there shouted, “Get into bed quick! I’ve seen him delivering parcels on Hull Road. Don’t let him catch you looking.”

We scampered back to bed as fast as we could. I never saw Santa but sure enough next morning the socks were on the bed stuffed full of goodies. We each got an orange, an apple, walnuts, a small paper cornet of sweets and shiny new coins. Racing downstairs we discovered more delightful things. We got a book each from Uncle Ernie and Auntie Joan, gloves and scarf from Granny, socks and hat from Auntie Grace and writing paper and envelopes to share from Auntie Blanche and Uncle Bert. Mam had somehow managed to get a new pack of cards and a draught set for us.

I remember the smell of Christmas dinner wafting through the house. We were lucky enough to get a chicken and Grandma, Auntie Grace, Bill and Pat, our cousins, came for Christmas dinner. None of us had tasted chicken since the year before. Mam shared the food out onto nine plates, plus a dish for the dog who always got the same food as us. After dinner we went into the front room where the fire had been lit. We usually only kept the kitchen fire on because coal was rationed. Later on most of our friends would be knocking on the door to see what we had received. Apart from the odd comic, doll or toy car, we got more or less the same throughout the street. Granny insisted that we all gather in the kitchen to listen to the King’s speech on the wireless before we could play with our new game or read our books. We loved to get books to keep, even though we were all members of the library. Mam took us there every week on the bus, then we would walk home.

One of my most vivid memories is contracting Scarlet Fever and being taken to the Isolation Hospital on the outskirts of York. Visitors were not allowed and the feeling of despair at being abandoned by Mam stayed with me for a long time. The letters she wrote were not sufficient for a young child used to a house filled with close knit family. I remember the day when a nurse said I had a visitor who could speak to me through an open window, the absolute joy of seeing Dad looking at me from outside. He couldn’t reach me for a cuddle, which was quite heart-breaking, but we could hear each other. He did his best to console me, explaining why Mam couldn’t see me and why he had to stay out of reach but I cried for ages after he’d gone. By the time I left hospital his leave was ended.             I learned later that he was on embarkation leave before taking part in the D Day landings in France.

I remember going with the gang to watch the convoys passing Tang Hall Lane taking troops to the docks at Hull, then on to France.  We waved madly at the soldiers hoping to catch sight of Dad or one of the other Dads from the street. Occasionally we would recognise American Lorries by the stars painted on the side, then we would all shout loudly, “Any gum chum?” Invariably they threw something for us, laughing as we yelled,             “Thanks Yanks.” We were very proud of our poetry in those days. We used to think the American soldiers were very generous (which they were) and the British were stingy (which they weren’t). I’ve since realised how easy it is to be generous when you’ve got much more than you would ever need.

I remember the war ending at last and still having to wait for Dad to be demobbed and come home, what a celebration that was. The street was covered in bunting for months as all the Dads came home in dribs and drabs, all of them welcomed by the whole caboodle. Rationing still went on for a good many years, but with Dad home and the world at peace, we felt secure. Who can harm you when your Dad’s there to protect you? 

We children didn’t feel deprived of anything, we never went hungry, we always had shoes and clothing. Not a lot but enough. There should be a medal in recognition of the mothers who strived to feed their families and keep them safe in terrible, frightening times, while their men folk were away, some never to return.

My sister Betty and I go to France every year with a group of veterans from the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. We visit the World War One Somme Battlefields and the many cemeteries in that area.

Although we are very moved at times, it’s not as gruesome as it sounds because the same people go year after year and it has become more like a gathering of friends and family.  We stay in the city of Lille at a small hotel which supplies just the basic needs of bed and breakfast, but they do have a lounge bar which we frequent each evening for drinks and entertainment. 

One day we had returned early from our touring and George, a wonderful old man who travels with us, decided to go for a walk outside in the small garden.  When he came back into the lounge, where we were all sitting talking and drinking, he said, “They’ve got a Parrot in a cage out there.”

Now his colleague, Tommy, was slightly deaf and he responded with, “What the hell have they got a carrot in a cage for?”

“It’s a pet.” George shouted.

“Fancy having a carrot as a pet, do they take it for walks?”

“A bloody Parrot!  I said a bloody Parrot. Whoever heard of a carrot, or a Parrot for that matter, going for a bloody walk?”  George and the rest of us were in hysterics by this time, but eventually, through the laughter, Tommy’s wife finally made him understand what it was.

Later in the evening we decided to go out to the local KFC restaurant for supper and on the way back our Betty tripped over a coil of thick wire, of all things.  Picking it up she got the idea of making it into a rigid lead and collar for an invisible carrot, as a joke.  She looked so funny walking along holding the wire ‘lead’ in front of her, just as if there was an invisible animal on the end of it.  When we had stopped giggling she said.

“It’s a pity we don’t have a real carrot - let’s see if Rosalind will ask Bernard for one.”   Bernard is the hotel patron and Rosalind is a middle aged lady who travels with us as our French interpreter.  She was absolutely horrified at our request.  Very strait laced and indignant she said, “How can I, a single lady, go and ask a French man for a carrot, what would he think?”

For a moment we were baffled, then we had to walk away quickly so that our laughter didn’t offend her.  At that our friend Dinah came up to ask what the joke was, when we told her she said, “Oh come on, I speak French, we’ll go and ask Madame, Bernard’s wife.”  Madame was quite intrigued as she gave us the carrot, but Betty quickly fastened it onto the collar end of the stretched out wire, having already made the other end into a handle.  Madame looked sadly at all three of us and tapped her head,  she thought we were mad.

By this time everybody had returned to the lounge so Betty proudly presented Tommy with his new pet, the carrot.  After a brief, stunned pause, Tommy grabbed the lead and took the carrot outside, holding it near a tree he said, “The poor thing wanted a wee, thank goodness it didn’t make a mess in the lounge.”

Madame and Bernard looked at each other in amazement as we all roared with laughter. From that time on, wherever Tommy went, the carrot went too. Each night at bedtime, the ex-Sergeant Major in our party would shout, “Attention, the carrot’s leaving the room.” and they would all stand up and salute the carrot as Tommy took it out. Poor Madame and Bernard never really quite understood, but they joined in the laughter, and the joke continued throughout our stay. 

When it was time to come home, George said, “I think you’re really cruel taking that carrot back to England, it won’t understand the language, and we drive on the wrong side of the road for it.”

We were all quite sorry to say goodbye to Tommy and the carrot, but he assured us that he would take good care of it.

The following year when we all met up again, Tommy told us that he had lavished love and attention on the carrot, but to no avail, it had fretted and pined for France all the time and, unfortunately, passed away peacefully at their home.  They had buried it in the garden, after giving it a military funeral, and had brought some lovely photographs of its grave, for us to see.

The many, many tears we all shed for the carrot, were caused by our hysterical laughter.

Saturday morning overtime paid time and a half – more than enough to buy the new furry bolero I had set my heart on. They were so stylish all the girls raged about them. I worked in the Co-operative Laundry Office with Lavendar Oxton and at noon we walked to Leak and Thorpe’s where she bought a yellow bolero and I bought a shocking pink one. We stood on the corner of Nessgate arranging to meet in the Half Moon Hotel then on to the Albany dance hall later. As we were chatting two soldiers came up to us and asked the way to the Minster. I looked up into twinkling soft grey eyes and my stomach did somersaults. He was gorgeous exactly like Clark Gable; the other chap wasn’t too bad either. We realised that they already knew where the Minster was but spent some time laughing and giving them directions, then we went on our way to catch our buses home.

That evening a crowd of us travelled into town. Mum insisted that Brian and Betty, my older brother and sister, take me and bring me back as if I were a baby. We all met up in the Half Moon Hotel. My parents had no idea about this. I was not eighteen yet, not old enough to go into bars but I loved it in there, it was so sophisticated. The Barman had little dishes of coloured sugar and would dip the rim of the glass in lemon juice, then the sugars, making a kaleidoscope round the edge, before pouring the Pino in with a flourish. He treated us like the ladies we thought we were. The lads nearly always had pints of Bitter or bottles of Stout.

This particular night Brian and Betty wanted to go the De Grey Rooms with their friends but agreed to let me go to the Albany, as long as we met just after midnight when the dances ended, to walk home together. Lavendar and I were dressed in boleros, black split skirts, high heeled shoes and black stockings with butterflies down the seams. We walked round to the Albany looking brilliant. As we entered the dance hall a voice at my elbow said, “Hello, fancy seeing you here - we were destined to meet again.” Clark Gable was smiling down at me and my knees went weak. Holding out his hand politely he continued, “We didn’t introduce ourselves earlier, I am Bill and this is George. We are trainee officers stationed at Strensall and feeling very homesick, will you take pity on us and dance with us?” My heart sang as he whirled me onto the dance floor. The band was playing ‘In the Mood’ and I certainly was. We laughed and danced the night away but they had to leave at 11 o’clock to be back in camp before midnight rather like Cinderella. We arranged to meet the following afternoon in Piccadilly outside the ABC cinema.

When I told Mum about them being so homesick she said, “Bring them home for tea there’ll be ample room for two more.”  Mum and Dad kept open house on Sunday, we were used to soldiers dropping in for tea, my cousin Billy had been a regular soldier who had served all over the world.  While out in Hong Kong he contracted a very nasty skin disease and had to be brought back to York Military Hospital. He made many friends there and when he was well enough he was allowed out at the weekends, naturally he made straight for our house with all his friends in tow. They were in wheelchairs, in plaster casts, on crutches and some were completely bald through illness, all wearing the regulation hospital uniform with red ties.  They loved to come for tea and Mum was like a surrogate Mother to them all. Many of them corresponded with Mum for years after they left York.

After Sunday lunch, feeling very happy, I went for Lavendar only to be told she wasn’t coming because she didn’t fancy George and it was obvious that Bill liked me. That was music to my ears but what would I do with both of them? I met them in town and invited them for tea, hoping that George would take the hint and go, but no, he came along too. We caught the bus home and the house was heaving. Mum and Auntie Grace (still wearing her hat) were working in the kitchen. Dad was reading the morning papers and all the young ones were in the front room listening to records, chatting, singing and laughing. Brian and his mate Bert, Betty and her friend Audrey, my other sister Amy and her friend John and our cousins Billy and Pat. I introduced Bill and George to my parents and Dad said, “More lame ducks with no homes to go to.” Then hearing the boy’s speech said “Oh I know! These two are Trainee Officers, they must be, they’ve got plums in their mouths.”  I listened horrified but they took it all in their stride, smiling good humouredly. They fitted in with the crowd as if they’d known them years, sitting on the floor telling jokes and singing to the records. One of our favourites at that time was Frankie Laine singing ‘Cool Water’. Our next door neighbour Mr. Bradley loved that record and every time it was played he came rushing round to hear it, asking for it to be played over and over again, until Mum said, “Alright Arthur, that’ll do, off you go home.”

We decided to put that record on and sure enough Mr. Bradley came stumbling in, swaying on his feet singing All day I’ve faced the barren waste without the taste of water, cool water. “Arthur, it’s a pity you don’t take more water with your drink, they’re not playing it again. It’s teatime, now go home and get yours.”  You always knew where you stood with Mum, she never minced her words.

“Come on you lot, get some seats sorted out if you want to eat.”

We had a big kitchen table with six chairs round it, so Brian, Bert, Billy and John went out into the shed to get some wooden planks to balance between the chairs. Mum laid blankets over them for comfort and we managed to squeeze four at each side, one at each end and Brian perched on a stool at the corner. Annoyingly, George managed to sit between Bill and me. Dad went to bed grumbling, “Never any peace in this house.”

Mum and Auntie Grace went into the front room to rest. They had made a lovely tea, ham salad, bread and butter, sandwiches, cakes and jelly.  It looked great. “Now, we’ve mashed the tea, you can pour it out yourselves.”  With cups of tea in hand out they went. Mum paused and said “And you Brian, don’t you mess about and show your sister up.”

“Who, Me?”  He looked the picture of innocence until she closed the door.

“Is this all we’ve got?” He looked at the table which was overflowing with food went into the pantry and came out with a large loaf of bread, a big slab of cheese, a family size bottle of sauce and proceeded to make himself the biggest doorstep sandwich you have ever seen. I could have killed him.

“What’s up with you our lass? Stop kicking me you’re upsetting Marmaduke and Albert.”  Everybody, apart from me, grinned at this.

“Their names are Bill and George, stop trying to be clever or I will kick you.” I was so frustrated but eventually we all began to eat. Betty poured the tea out which started Brian off again, burning my arm with the hot teaspoon and before I knew it there were eleven spoons in my cup. I turned my back on him and talked to Bill, who had the most beautiful cultured voice.

“Hey, Marmaduke do you play darts?”  Brian went on relentlessly.

“Yes but not very well.”  Poor Bill really had no idea how to take my brother.

“Right, then we’ll have a game after tea.”

My heart hit my boots; Brian was a brilliant darts player. 

“You’re not playing for money our Brian, these lads don’t get paid much.”

“It’s OK Mary, we’ll join in with whatever it is you all do.”  Bill stood up and started to help take the wooden planks back outside. We all cleared the table and washed up the pots, then Brian hung the dartboard up on the back of the kitchen door just as Mum walked in.

“Oh no you don’t, these lads are guests, you’re not taking their money off them, play for fun or not at all.”

 I thanked heaven for Mum because Brian won every game they played. At 8.30.p.m they had to leave and Mum said, “Now you know where we live, you are very welcome to come any time you like.” They were absolutely delighted and thanked my parents profusely. Shaking hands politely with everyone they bade us all goodnight. I took them to the bus stop, walking on air as they asked to meet me at the Albany next Saturday. They were confined to barracks throughout the week. I hoped that Bill would find a way to ask me out with him alone but it didn’t happen.

I lived for the weekends, we met every Saturday night at the Albany and they came for tea every Sunday afternoon. They gave Mum flowers or chocolates each time they came and one un-forgettable Sunday, they brought two bottles of red wine which we shared. My brother got the glasses out and poured the wine as we were sitting round the kitchen table.  I didn’t drink mine straight away and Brian said, “What’s the matter our kid, don’t you like it? Here let’s have a taste.” Before I could stop him, he took my glass, had a sip and passed it on to Bert who had a sip and passed it on right round the table. They all had a sip and when it got back to me the glass was empty. He got a clip round the ear hole from Mum for that.

George had begun to get on my nerves. He kept trying to get me alone. I danced with him out of politeness but then he surprised me by asking for a date. He must have been blind or stupid, it was obvious I wanted Bill. I said no of course, but when I told Bill he said, “Oh, old George has had a crush on you since the first day we met.” That simply wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I was so confused I even asked my brother for advice.

 “Has he ever asked you for a date?” he said.  

“No.”

”Has he ever said he really likes you?”

“Not in so many words no but I know he does.”

“Huh! Has he ever kissed you?”

“No.”

Brian laughed uproariously and said, “You know what’s happened our kid?  You’ve fallen for a posh nancy boy.”

I was completely shocked but I knew that Bill wasn’t like that, he did like me, he showed it in so many ways. He treated me like a lady, gave me flowers and chocolates, every time we met he hugged me. We laughed all the time. He’d say Mary you’re a breath of fresh air. Oh how I wished George would disappear, things might improve then but instead he got more serious, it drove me mad.

After three months training they were allowed two weeks leave and went to their separate homes, promising to come for tea on the first Sunday back in York. I missed Bill like crazy and wouldn’t go out dancing with my friends until Mum got cross and said I shouldn’t stay in all the time moping. When at last they walked into our house again, I was so glad to see them, I even made George welcome. There was the usual crowd round the table all asking questions about where they’d been and what they’d been doing.  George seemed excited about something and said, “Bill went skiing in France while he was on leave.”

We all gaped at him, nobody we knew had ever been skiing.

“Show them your photographs Bill.”  George looked so smug.

“No, I’d rather not.”  Bill was noticeably uncomfortable.

“Aw come on let’s see your snaps Marmaduke, I’ve never seen anybody skiing.”  Our Brian and his big mouth.

“Really, you wouldn’t be at all interested in them.”  Bill seemed so reluctant I began to have a funny feeling about it. George, looking like the cat that got the cream, kept insisting, backed up by Brian, until Bill had no option but to take the photos out of his wallet and hand them over to George. He had great pleasure in passing them round the table. “This is Bill’s Mother, this is his house, these are his dogs. What is this young lady’s name, Susan isn’t it? She’s your fiancée now isn’t she?”

The silence was terrible as the photos were passed round the table. I could feel Bill’s eyes on me as at last I saw them. It wasn’t a house, it was a mansion, with columns at the front porch where Bill and his Mother were standing with two gorgeous Afghan Hounds. She had on high heeled shoes, a lovely elegant flowing day dress. she looked like a model, with beautiful hair and pearls. Another picture with Mother sitting in a drawing room on a white sofa, with white carpets, in front of a massive white fireplace. The dogs lay warming themselves in front of a roaring fire. The last photo showed Bill with his arm round a beautiful laughing young woman. They were both dressed for skiing and carrying ski poles. 

So this was Susan!

“She’s lovely.” I said and laughed. “I wonder if we will ever go skiing?”

“Bugger that for a tale, knowing you our lass you’d break your bloody neck, then what would we do without you?”

My darling brother, I could have kissed him.  He knew how I felt and was telling me You’re worth more than this love, don’t let him see how distressed you are.  Laugh in his face.

I didn’t show it but my heart was breaking. I couldn’t wait for them to go but we finished our tea, Brian beat them at darts and I set them to the bus as usual. There I told them it would be best it they didn’t come again and walked away, back to the comfort of my loving family, without a backward glance.

The following Saturday night, George walked in to the Albany as cocky as could be, saying, “Now that Bill’s off limits maybe you’ll come out on a date with me.” How could he be so stupid?

“Look George I refused you before and I’m refusing you now. I’d be happier not to even see your face again.”

“Oh, I say there’s no need for that, nothing’s changed. Bill was devastated when he realised how hurt you and your family were.”

I angrily shook his hand off my arm as he continued, “You don’t know it but he is the honourable William Grant and he has to obey his father. They arranged this engagement years ago. He really had no option. Surely we don’t need to break up our friendship do we?”

He was right of course but I never saw either of them again.

When I was little I remember Dad crying every time we heard:
Give me your smile The Sunshine in Your Eyes.
Mam said it was the last song that his Dad sang to his Mam
before going off to war and being killed in 1918
Then he made us laugh by singing:
When I grow too old to scream, I will have to surrender.
The First song I ever learned to sing was
Sally, Sally, don’t ever wander away from the alley and me
But my favourite song was
I’m gonna buy a Paper Doll that I can call my own.

In my late teenage years, I had my share of boyfriends but was such a daydreamer, really feeling - There’s a somebody I’m longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be, Someone who’ll watch over me.
And listening to Al Martino singing
Here in my heart I’m alone and so lonely
Made me realise I was
Crazy, crazy for feeling so lonely.
But I soon knew that
Once I had a Secret Love
Because one day I came face to face with Bob and thought
It’s that Old Devil Moon in your eyes.
He had the most beautiful
Star eyes, that to me is what your eyes are
And I  was convinced
You smile, a song begins, you speak and I hear violins, It’s Magic
Oh Lord!
I wanna be Bobby’s Girl

But I frightened him off
To whisper I love you was my Indiscretion
And he, being scared, said
Oh give me land lots of land neath the starry skies above Don’t Fence Me In
I went home and thought.
No tears, no fears, remember there’s always tomorrow, so what if we have to part, We’ll be together again
To cheer me up Mam took me on holiday to
April in Paris chestnuts in blossom.
I was in the depths of depression thinking:
The Sun forgot to shine this morning, cos everything went wrong last night.
But then thought to myself - One of these days, you’re gonna miss me honey
After a few heartbreaking days Bob rang and said
I Thought of You Last Night, I thought of you, and thought of you, and longed to hold you tight.
You’ll never know just how much I miss you.
I was ecstatic but Mum was worried for me and declared it’s
Such a bad thing to run away from your mother right into the arms of a lover, you should walk away from him in your brand new shoes, because You’re just too young, Too young for the blues
I didn’t listen to her and tried to explain how I felt
Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky Stormy Weather since my man
& I aint together

Then there was such a rush to get back, I yelled
I’ll be Home my darling
Country Roads take me home to the place I belong
Running to meet him
I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill
We realised that
This is the end of a beautiful friendship and just the beginning of love
He laughed when I said
You made me love you, I didn’t want to do it
I told my friends
Nothing you can do can make me untrue to My Guy
Soon
There was I Waiting at the Church
Where Blue skies of Hawaii smiled on this our wedding day

I was still very innocent and whispered
Did you say I’ve got a lot to learn, Teach me tonight.
Hold me, hold me never let me go.
Bob did a great Elvis impersonation of
Love me tender love me true
But my feelings were
Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly. I’ve gotta love one man till I die. Can’t help loving that man of mine
We asked each other
Give me your word your love will never die

Well, We’ve been together now for Fifty years and still sing
I love you and don’t you forget it
Time marches on so quickly and  
Darling I am growing old, Silver Threads among the Gold shine upon my brow today, life’s full fading fast away
But I’m So thrilled to still be able to say
How wonderful life is when you’re in the world.

Not many people liked Jack Sumner; he lived and worked alone in his large terrace house making rocking horses for the local toy shop. Good quality wood was still in short supply twelve years after the war ended, and the proprietor often had difficulty obtaining it. This particular day he had managed to get some and both men unloaded it from the lorry into the yard at the back.

“I need four large horses for Christmas, have you time to do them?”

“If you’ve brought enough timber I’ll get ‘em ready.”

The Boss looked at this unsmiling man, realised that there would be no more conversation, mopped his brow and went on his way.

“Right then I’ll be off! If there’s owt you need give us a ring.”

The large yard gate banged shut behind him and Jack sorted the wood before storing it in his workshop. Carpentry tools lined two walls and rocking horse parts hung on the others waiting to be assembled.

Taking advantage of the warm weather he started work outside in the yard. Clamping a large piece of timber in the vice he drew a basic body shape then roughly sawed and chiselled down to the lines. Hearing all this activity Horace, the little boy who had recently moved in next door, carried a stool over to the wall, climbed up and peeped over.

“What are you doing Mr Sumner?” He shouted watching Jack work.
No Answer.

“Are you making a horse?”

Still no answer.

“Can I come and help?”

“No! You can’t! - Get down from there, don’t you come pestering me.”  Jack snapped, and Horace almost fell off the wall in his haste to get down, scratching his arm and crying when it started to bleed. The expression on Jack’s face changed when he saw how upset the little boy was, but on seeing the blood he turned his back and said, “You’d better go inside to your Mam.”

Horace didn’t peep over the wall again until the following day when he heard the spoke shave being used. This time he watched in silence. Jack spotted him immediately but quietly continued shaping the horse’s body. Horace was fascinated as Jack took a large square of sugar paper and smoothed down the wood, running his strong hands over it to feel for any roughness, then finally wiping it down with a damp cloth. Taking a chisel and mallet he traced out the shape of leg and shoulder muscles deep into the wood. Trying to see more clearly Horace climbed up higher and accidentally dropped the mug of milk he’d been drinking. It landed with such a clatter that Jack, startled, missed the chisel and the mallet hit his thumb, bursting the nail which began to pour with blood. Chisel, mallet and horse body fell to the floor, and so did Jack, in a dead faint. Terrified, Horace ran inside for his mother Anne, dragging her out shouting, “Mam! Mam! I think Mr Sumner’s dead!”

The yard gate was locked so Anne scrambled over the wall, quickly followed by Horace. Relieved to find that Jack was breathing and had a good strong pulse, she rushed into his house to get some water, deciding it would be quicker than climbing back into her own yard. The kitchen was rather bare of furniture, just a small pine table, two chairs and a welsh dresser, on which she was surprised to see a photograph of Jack, as a younger man, getting married to a bonny young woman at St. Benedict’s church on the other side of town.

I wonder what happened there? Probably frightened the poor lass off he‘s such a misery. He can’t be much older than me, she thought.

As Jack regained his senses, Horace tried to help him up by pulling his arm. Almost falling back down again, he brushed the child’s hands away, mumbling.

“I don’t need any help.”
Through tight lips, Anne said, “You were unconscious for quite some time, maybe you should see a doctor.”

“No!” was the quick retort. “I banged my thumbnail and the pain made me faint, it’s nothing!  I’ll put a plaster on, it’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Anne felt embarrassed for making such a fuss. She’d never said more than good morning to him before.

“What do you say to Mr Sumner for causing all this?” She glared down at Horace, who looked up with tears in his eyes.

“Sorry Mr Sumner, I was only trying to see how you bring the horse alive and now it’s all bruised. Can you make him better?” Looking at the boy’s woebegone face, Jack relaxed his hunched shoulders, he understood perfectly the feelings for the horse.

“Let’s have a look.” Lifting up the fallen vice Jack said, “It’s just a small scrape, I’ll have him as good as new soon.” Then opening the yard gate he ushered them both out, sliding the bolt into place as they left.

Next day Horace climbed up to look and Jack said, “Make sure you don’t drop anything this time, we don’t want the horse bruised again.”

Silently watching Jack work, he noticed the sawdust pile getting larger and scattering across the yard, blown by the wind. “Shall I sweep the sawdust up for you? I sometimes sweep our yard for Mam.”

Jack ignored him.

“I could shovel it into a bin bag for you.”

Still no reaction.

“I promise I won’t get in the way.” Horace went on.

“For goodness sake go and ask your Mam if it’s ok for you to come in here, I won’t get any peace otherwise.” Jack grumbled, “And make sure you keep out of my way, and keep quiet, I need to concentrate.”  Horace raced inside, returning within minutes shouting, “Mam says it’s okay but if I’m a nuisance, you’ve to send me back home.”

“Right! Well remember that and don’t climb over the wall, I’ve unlocked the gate.”

Jack handed him a brush and shovel and Horace got started straight away, sweeping the rubbish up into a bin. As Jack produced more, Horace darted about trying to pick up every particle.

“Look! Sit down a minute, let the sawdust build up a bit then it’s worth while clearing.”

Horace sat on an upturned bucket enraptured by the magic of a horse being produced before his eyes. Jack took a large rasp back into the workshop, turning round just as Horace reached out to stroke the horse’s body.

“What did I tell you? Don’t touch anything.” Jack shouted.

“I was only feeling the warmth, it’s warm just like a real horse, ”Horace said in awe.

Jack’s face softened. “Yes, it’s warm, wood is a living thing, just like you and me, but you mustn’t touch anything without asking and don’t go near my tools, ever, I sharpen them every day, they could cut you. Okay?”

“Okay.” said Horace, relieved not to be sent home

Jack worked solidly through the day and Horace watched and swept up, only going home when his mother called him in for dinner, returning immediately afterwards.

“Have you had your dinner yet?” he asked Jack.

“No! I’m not hungry.”

“Mam says all men and boys get hungry. When dad was alive he was always hungry.” Horace chattered as he shovelled the sawdust into the bin.

“Well, I’m not!” grunted Jack concentrating on the delicate chiselling round the horse’s shoulders.

“Have you any little boys like me to help you?” asked Horace.

Jack stopped work and stood gazing at the wood under his hands.

“I said, have you got any little boys?” Horace began again.

“I heard you!” Jack said through gritted teeth, his face had lost its colour, and sweat stood out on his forehead. “I did have a son once, but I lost him,” he said.

“Couldn’t you find him? I can help you look for him.”

“No lad. He was a tiny baby that never breathed. ”Jack looked at the young boy and sighed. “A bit like this wood, warm and perfect but unable to draw breath.”

Trying hard to understand, Horace stayed quiet realising that whatever it meant, Mr Sumner was very sad.

Later in the afternoon, Anne appeared. “Mr Sumner, I hope you’re not offended but I’ve brought you a steak pie. We’re having one for tea and it’s just as easy to make two. I’m so grateful to you for letting him stay and watch. He’s been bored through the school holidays. There’s no kids round here for him to play with.”

Anne realised she was gabbling like an idiot and didn’t know what to do with the pie.

Horace came to the rescue. “Just put it in the kitchen Mam, Mr Sumner will get it later, he’s not hungry yet.”

The hint of a smile touched Jack’s lips as he put down the chisel, opened the kitchen door and stood to one side for Anne to deposit the pie on the table.
“Thanks Mrs Wray but there’s no need to repay me like this, the lad’s been a good help sweeping up the sawdust.”

“Well,” said Anne “his tea’s ready now, then he’ll be off to bed. Say goodnight Horace.”

“Aw Mam, it’s still early.” Horace began.

“Do as your Mam says, then you can come and help me again.” Jack reached out and ruffled Horace’s hair as he went reluctantly through the yard gate.

Horace spent the next few days like Jack’s shadow, sweeping, watching and chattering non-stop. Only going home when his mother called, coming back as soon as he could.

The horse was almost ready to be attached to the rockers. The head was firmly secured and the mane, made of real horse hair, swirled down the neck. Dark brown glass eyes stared into Horace’s blue ones. He giggled at the red flaring nostrils imagining them breathing fire like a dragon. Jack bound long strands of horse hair into a magnificent tail, drilled a deep hole in the body ready to stick the tail in, then went into the kitchen to get the heated wood glue. Horace, ever keen to help, picked up the hand-drill and took it into the workshop, but wasn’t quite tall enough to put it back in place, so he stood on the upturned bucket and stretched out his arms. The bucket wobbled and tipped, sending Horace, still holding the drill, onto the hard concrete floor. As soon as Jack heard the screams he ran into the workshop, only to stop dead at the sight of the little boy lying on the floor with the broken drill  deeply embedded in his arm, blood pouring from the wound.

Turning away Jack shouted for Horace’s mother. “Mrs Wray, Mrs Wray, come quick!” Then he ran into the kitchen.

Anne was frantic when she saw the state Horace was in. She knelt at his side trying to stay calm.

“Here’s a clean towel, don’t try to move it, just press this onto the wound.  I’ve rung for an ambulance.” Jack’s voice was strained as he passed the towel down to Anne whilst averting his eyes from the scene.

“How on earth did he get hold of something as dangerous as this? You should have put all your tools out of his reach.”

Before Jack could answer, the ringing of bells heralded the arrival of the ambulance. The attendant quickly summed up the situation and took command. “Come on love! Buck up! You’re frightening the boy, stop crying.” Kneeling down beside them he said, “What’s your name son?”

“Horace Wray.”

“Well Horace it looks nasty and I bet it’s painful, but you’ll be okay.  We’re gonna take you for a ride in our ambulance. Your Mam can come too.” The driver and his colleague gently strapped Horace onto a stretcher.

“I’ll follow in the car,” Jack said. “Just in case they let you come home tonight.”

“What’s a small boy like you doing with a sharp drill like this?” The Doctor asked Horace.

“I’m helping Mr Sumner make a rocking horse. He’ll be angry with me for moving it, I’m not supposed to touch any tools.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that, we’re going to put you to sleep for a while so that we can mend your arm. Your mother will be waiting for you when you wake up.”

Anne looked tearfully at the doctor for reassurance. “Is he going to be okay? I don’t know how he came to be holding something as dangerous as that. He was only supposed to be sweeping up.”

“Now don’t get upset mother, he’s a big strong boy, the arm’s not broken but the wound’s bound to be jagged, it will need cleaning out and stitching.”

Anne bent to kiss Horace and he pleaded. “Mam, please tell Mr Sumner I’m sorry, I was only trying to help, please don’t let him stop me helping with the horse.”

“I don’t think Mr Sumner’s angry, he’s worried about you, like I am.  Be brave and let the doctor make you better.” Tenderly stroking his face Anne bade her son goodbye.

“How is he?“ Jack asked anxiously “Is he alright?”

“He’s being operated on at the moment.” Anne shivered with shock.

Holding her arm to give some support Jack said. “I’ve been told we can wait in the family room, the tea trolley’s in there.” Thankful to find the room empty he sat her down. “I should have kept an eye on him.”

“Yes! You should!  Or at least put the dangerous tools out of his reach.” Seeing the stricken look on Jack’s face Anne relented a little. “Horace is not thinking about his arm, he’s more worried at not seeing the rocking horse finished. He thinks you’ll be too angry with him.”

“I’m not angry with him,” Jack groaned. “Just with myself for being so careless and not being able to help. He might have died.”

“Oh don‘t say that! He’s not going to die!”

Jack paced up and down wringing his hands. “I’m not good at hospitals,” he muttered.

“Not many people are,” Anne said, too weary to listen. “You don’t have to stay, I’ll let you know directly Horace comes round.”

“No! I’ll stay if you don’t mind.” Jack sat down. “I need to know that the boy’s alright. I couldn’t bear to be the cause of another tragedy.”

“Tragedy? It’s not a tragedy. And you’re not to blame.” She looked into his haggard face, and saw that his hazel eyes were damp with unshed tears. “He’s been so happy helping you, he misses having a man around to show him things.”

Jack took a large ragged handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. “Your boy’s non-stop chatter has made me smile for the first time in years. In these last few days I’ve realised what might have been.” Standing up he looked at Anne. “The first horse I ever made should have been for my own son.”

Anne nodded trying to focus on his words.

“I was married once, only for two years.  We were so happy when Pam became pregnant, but a month before our baby was due she went into premature labour. It was dreadful, she started to haemorrhage. I rang the ambulance and did my best to help.” Jack stood staring at the wall as if seeing the scene replayed. “We got to hospital and the doctors fought hard to save them both, but it was hopeless.”

Anne stood up to hide the horror that she was certain must be showing in her eyes, desperately worried about Horace but upset for Jack. Wiping away tears, she poured him a cup of tea, thankful that at least she had her own lovely son.

“They handed me a little tiny boy who was perfect in every way  apart from not breathing. I made a coffin to bury them both in.” Jack’s shoulders sagged, he sipped the tea then turned to look at her. “What really turned me daft was seeing my wife bleed to death in the hospital and coming back home to clean up her blood from the kitchen floor.” Finishing the drink he handed the cup back to Anne. “Now I faint at the sight.” He sighed. “I couldn’t bear to stay in the house after that, it held too many memories. I moved to this one nine years ago.”

Putting the cup down Anne took hold of his rough workman hands. “You didn’t faint this time and Horace is going to be fine.”

“Yes! You‘re right!” He said giving her a tremulous smile.

They were still holding hands when a beaming young nurse entered the room.

“Your son is awake at the moment and asking to see you both. Don’t stay too long, he’s suffering from shock and needs to rest.”

Embarrassed that the nurse assumed they were Horace’s parents they went into the recovery ward.

“Mr Sumner, why don’t you paint the rocking horse?” Horace asked sleepily, hardly able to keep his eyes open.

“I think natural oiled wood looks more life like.” Jack said turning to look at Anne who’s face had lit up with relief. “What shade would you choose for a horse?”

“Green!” Horace whispered closing his eyes and falling asleep.

 Anne laughed at the perplexed look on Jack’s face.       “That’s his favourite colour at the moment.”

My husband and I were used to our house being full of fun and laughter as our daughter and son and their families came for Sunday lunch most weekends, but this particular Sunday, with our extended family sitting round the dining room table, was tinged with sadness.  Our son Paddy with his wife Sharon, son Kieran and daughter Caitlin were emigrating to New Zealand at the end of the month so there wouldn’t be many Sundays left to enjoy like this.

“Seeing that you’re abandoning us and going off to Ashburton soon, how about spending next Sunday at our house in Pickering?”  Debbie was obviously trying to hide the fact that she was devastated, as we were, at the thought of her baby brother and his family going to live on the other side of the world.  Although there was six years between them they were very good friends and had been since Paddy’s 18th birthday when Deb suddenly realised that her brother was a great guy and not the teasing nasty little toad that she had always called him.

“Oh yes! That’ll be great, we’ll have some good cooking for a change” laughed Paddy and quickly ducked away from Shaz as she aimed a slap at his head.

Early the following Sunday we all travelled from York to Pickering in plenty of time for Paddy’s children to play with Deb’s children, Sam and Amy, before lunch.  Seven year old Kieran was the leader, loyally supported by five year old Sam, four year old Caitlin and little Amy who, at three, was quite capable of holding her own with them. Deb provided us with the most wonderful lunch then suggested that it was such a lovely day we should all go for a walk, so leaving Granddad Bob at home to watch television, off we went to trek through the woods which surround Pickering. 

The four excited children happily led the way. Running through the undergrowth the boys searched for animal tracks while the girls thought there might be signs of the fairies that lived there. Sam picked up a very unusual looking rock and Kieran said “Do you know what that is Sam? It’s the dew claw of a Raptor. They lived millions of years ago; it must have fallen off when the Raptor died.” Turning round he gave it to Paddy saying “Will you carry that Dad? We’re going to look for some more.” After that there was no stopping them, whatever they picked up Kieran told them what it was.

Soon Deb’s husband Robert was carrying a Brontosaurus’s toenail, a Raptor’s eyeball and a Diplodocus’s kneecap. Paddy had the Raptor’s dew claw plus the curved point off a Triceratops head. As we came towards Pickering Castle, Kieran spied a cave in the rock base. “I wonder if the cave man lived there. Let’s go and see.”

All four children went racing into the cave followed closely by Robert who let out an ear splitting roar which echoed and re-echoed through the rocks and trees. Caitlin and Amy ran for dear life convinced that the cave man had come back. Kieran and Sam were just behind them looking rather shocked, but when we laughed, Kieran pretended that he knew all along that it was Uncle Robert trying to scare them. This did not curtail the exploration, the two boys were off again, followed by Caitlin and Amy.  We walked behind listening to their voices.  Suddenly Kieran shouted “Come quickly Dad and you Uncle Robert, we’ve got to take this one home.” Pointing to a log about two feet in diameter and eight feet long he said “We’ve found the thighbone of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, do you think you can lift it for us?” Paddy and Robert looked at the eager children, four pairs of eyes lit up with expectation, then at each other, then at we three women, not wanting to spoil the magical fun but obviously quite unable to lift the log, never mind take it home. Deb saved the day, she said “Look! There are tiny creatures living in it, if we take it they will lose their homes, do you think it might be better to leave it where it is for them?” Kieran and Sam slowly walked round the ‘thighbone’ carefully examining it then, thankfully, decided it would be cruel to move it.

“I wouldn’t want somebody to take my home away” said Sam “Let’s go and tell Granddad what we’ve found.” Problem solved we returned home to show Bob all the wonderful ‘bones’ and to tell him about the ‘thigh bone’ left behind in the wood.

Paddy, Sharon, Kieran and Caitlin moved to New Zealand about a week after this brilliant day, but we still go to Pickering and walk through the woods with the children and we look at where the Tyrannosaurus lost his thighbone. The strange thing is that two years later in 2005 Pickering Council erected information stones throughout the woods explaining about the flora and fauna of the area, past and present. Right in front of the ‘thighbone’ a notice states that ‘Dinosaurs, including the terrible Tyrannosaurus Rex, walked these woods millions of years ago.