Comments on: Part 3. The Life Of Peter Stanley Brown

By: Joan Barleycorn

Joan Barleycorn — Sun, 06 Mar 2016 13:28:14 +0000

So very moving. It makes me think of the story of my great grandmother. Widowed young, her youngest child born out of wedlock. Just after the first world war, she took her two younger daughters to Australia, leaving the elder one, who was working and ‘courting’ behind.

The story does not end happily. Bullied by her sister-in-law: my grandmother recalled her mother being burned on the arm with an iron. Soon Rachel became ill. A couple of years later, she died from cancer. My grandmother and great aunt decided to return home with only a handful of photographs and a lock of Rachel’s hair to remind them of their other misadventure. Returning home was quite an adventure, however, with exciting rickshaw rides through Singapore and an board romance for Great Aunt Edna.

My grandmother had lifelong issues with her kidneys after becoming dehydrated in the Australian heat. Back in the damp, cold north-west of England, she married a miner, who contracted a nasty flu virus in the 1930s which left him disabled. My grandmother worked full time while her husband looked after my mother.

A non-smoker, my grandmother died aged 68 in 1968 from lung cancer triggered, perhaps, from working in the carding room in a cotton mill or from pouring liquid explosive material into bombs as a munitions worker in World War II.

The narratives of our forebears are important and should not be forgotten but will be if we fail to tell our children, if we have them, or fail write them down. And even then, the stories of their lives will vanish as if they had never been. Joy and sorrow blown away like dust from our hands.

By: jeannette

jeannette — Sun, 04 Jan 2015 22:48:03 +0000

how heroically your grandmother fought for herself and her child. how heroically he fought for you. and how heroically you have worked to make this city and its people and its ghosts stay alive for us. thank you, gwladys.

By: Victoria

Victoria — Sat, 03 Jan 2015 22:17:59 +0000

I read the third instalment just past midnight on New Year’s Day when the fireworks were still sounding out across London and there were peals of laughter on the street below. All the more profound to read about Gwladys’ fate then, as I was waiting on news as to whether a lifetime friend of mine would make it through the night after having been admitted to hospital with a stroke. The photo of poor Gwladys holding her son was so very poignant, and the transformation from the beautiful girl she was just a few years before was shocking. What a doubly cruel blow for her with choice being removed twice, firstly by the convention of the time and secondly by her illness. Even if she had been able to keep her son, it seems likely that she would not have known him beyond infancy given her health predicament. Perhaps, at least she would have ended her days at Ivy Banks in the quiet knowledge that your father was safe and being cared for well. Perhaps too there was someone looking after her, as she would surely have needed to have met the fees for her sanatorium stay, given it was before the days of free healthcare. Thank you for sharing your story, you have caused so many of us to think more deeply about circumstances.

By: Michelle

Michelle — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 16:17:51 +0000

Dear Gentle Author,

Such a lovingly told story and so moving. I lived right by the football grounds on Oxford Rd in Exeter at the end of the 80s, and can readily picture the city center terraces, the fish and chip shop, and your grandmother’s back yard full of bicycles during matches. (What an enterprising idea.) But as with all your stories your words are enough to bring them to life.

I’m so glad to have met you this past year. Thank you for all you do.

By: Phil Maxwell

Phil Maxwell — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 12:47:00 +0000

I’m sure the box was left for you. You look like your handsome father.

By: Annie

Annie — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 10:17:02 +0000

This was the perfect story for Christmas. And it was all about love. How hard they all strove to do the right thing so one little boy could grow up. How much his absent father lost. More fool him. Those photos – in long-lost back gardens – are so redolent of the times and so very touching. Your grandmother was a striking woman and brave. The way she covers her left hand with a ring-bearing right and stares right down the lens, head up, immaculately dressed…Some people would say this was about shame but it wasn’t – it was about responsibility right to the end.

By: Valerie

Valerie — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 03:08:12 +0000

Thank you for sharing this very moving story. Best Wishes.

By: Nilly Hall

Nilly Hall — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 00:36:33 +0000

I’ve so enjoyed reading this story

By: Matt

Matt — Thu, 01 Jan 2015 22:26:41 +0000

Thank you for a thoughtful and illuminating insight into your history.

By: Gary Arber

Gary Arber — Thu, 01 Jan 2015 19:10:36 +0000

The difference between life and fiction is that life does not often yield happy endings.
If the life of Gwladys had been written by Dickens she would have ended up in a cottage given by a benefactor. True life was that she finished her days in a nursing home and probably lies in a paupers grave.
She has however left her mark in history, your good self, so her living was not in vain.
Maybe with your great knowledge of researching the internet you might be able to find her grave and arrange for a little thank-you tribute to be left. If this is not possible why not plant a commemorative plant in your garden to keep her in your thoughts.
Thank-you for sharing this story.
Gary