31 August – My mother’s eyes

Today we are off to visit my mother’s close cousin Joan Williams (nee Walder) in Bournemouth. The two young girls lived near one another in Chelwood Gate and later, when my mother moved to Brighton, they visited each other. In 1940, my grandmother sent my mother away from Brighton to stay with her sister Gertie in Chelwood Gate (they ran a bakery). One reason was the raids on Brighton by German bombers. The second was a matter of the heart. My mother’s first true love, Flying Officer Thomas McGuillian Parker, died in combat leaving my mother in a state of depression. My grandmother believed time with her cousin Joan would help her mend. Two days ago, I telephoned Joan and she is eager to see us.

We leave Forest Row a little later than we plan but hope to make up time on the road. Google directions indicate it is a 2hrs 22 minutes journey. No problem getting to the M25 and we are sailing along for 30 minutes when flashing signs warn us of congestion ahead. Sure enough, we end up doing 20 mph on the expressway for a bit and then we speed up again. There’s no sign of accident, breakdown or any other event that might cause traffic to slow. We reach the turnoff for the M3, which also includes signs for Kew Gardens in the opposite direction. Had we known, we could have avoided the aggravation of our cross-country expedition to the National Archives in Kew. I expect traffic to be light in that we are heading away from London. Johanne notices many cars packed with suitcases, pillows, and other going-away gear. “Of course,” she says. “This is the last weekend before people on vacation go back to school and work. They’re all headed for the coast.” Our voyage southwards or as the highway signs indicate to “The West” is a combination of high-speed dashes and turtle-like crawls. Finally, we see signs for Bournemouth, but there are also signs for the weekend Bournemouth Air Show that we later learn will include the Red Arrows and the last airworthy Vulcan Bomber. There is also some sort of boat show. We’ve hit the jackpot! A bloody holiday weekend and two damn shows in the same area.

Eventually we get to Bournemouth and, with the help of a pedestrian, we find our way to Joan’s place. It’s on a quiet street with plenty of places to park. Johanne is fretting. We’re 1 hour later than expected. We ring the bell and Joan appears at the end of the hallway to greet us. As I approach her, I see my mother’s eyes. She hugs me and I hold her for a long time, caught up in the moment. She invites us in to her beautiful, bright, and very well appointed flat. She’s not all bothered that we’re late. The table is set in the dining room. As we talk, Joan serves a delicious lunch that includes various meat and vegetarian dishes. Afterwards she brings out a photo album and we spend the afternoon, looking at the remarkable photos from our past and talking about the family.

Joan’s mother and my great-aunt Gertie

My great-aunt Dollie

My great-aunt Nina

My great-grandfather Walter Pinker

My great-grandmother Mary Louisa Pinker

Joan is a wealth of information. She confirms the photo we assumed was Frank Harper isn’t Frank. She tells us my great grandfather Walter Pinker died in 1943 of a heart attack in Lewes while he contested a town order to convert his strawberry fields into potato patches for the war effort. He died on the steps of the town council. She also provided information on the Pinker family and her own family for Johanne to add to our family tree.

After too short a visit, we bid Joan a fond goodbye. Though the drive home is less aggravating (we do encounter congestion in a few areas), it’s been a long day and we’re pleased when we pull in to Forest Row just after 8:00pm. We close the day with two pizzas, wine, and a recollection of our delightful time with a wonderful person.