no way of verifying the accuracy of the things that I was told by my
aunt as she spent her last days whilst she was in an agony of pain
and despair, often telling me that she wished that she could ‘wake
up dead,’ but it is a story that is honest and a story that should
be believed, if only for the fact that the woman was dying and wanted
her story to be told.
did indeed become a difficult woman towards the end of her life, but
she wasn’t always so. I remember her as being a ray of light in my
miserable childhood, but as the years progressed my life became
better, as her life became more and more unbearable. This is her true
story as I remember it.
born into a family that was disjointed; at least it was in my
opinion. Mother had married my father in a hurry. I don’t know
whether or not she was pregnant, or whether marrying him was an act
of desperation to get away from her childhood home, but I don’t
believe that she ever truly loved my father and in fact I don’t
really know what love is if I’m being honest. To me it is something
portrayed in a film, or written down in a book, it’s not a thing I
have had any dealings with myself.
suppose that I aught to begin with my mothers childhood and her
was born just down the street where I’m living now. It seems
strange that for well over a hundred years my family history has been
played out in just these few narrow streets of Lincoln.Of course the
roads around here were cobbled, in those far off days, in nineteen
hundred, when Queen Victoria was still in the throne, and the horses
and carts would have crunched their way along the road to the brush
factory opposite the small terraced house where she was born and
brought up. She used to tell me how she could hear the carts rumble
along the road in the early morning with the horses slowly clip
clopping in front of them and then they would stand silently waiting
under her bedroom window while the wares were being loaded, ready for
their journey to the cities various shops and other places.