Spitalfields Life

Following Part 1. A Discovery At Christmas, this is the second in a series of three short memoirs, revealing the contents of a locked box that my father carried his whole life and telling the story it contained, which I discovered after his death.

Gwladys Brown, 3rd September 1917, aged 22

After Peter, my father, died in October 2001, I collected all the old photographs in the house and attempted to identify them, but there were many people from the time before I was born whom I did not recognise. I arranged those who were familiar to me in a series of photo albums, while those who were unknown were reluctantly consigned to a box.

At Christmas that year, when I opened my father’s padlocked document chest and discovered a series of letters from Gwladys Brown, revealing that she had been compelled to give him up as a baby – a secret so painful that he carried it his whole life – I returned to the box of photographs seeking pictures of her. Labelled in Gwladys’ own handwriting that I recognised from her letters, I found this photograph of her looking so bright and full of life, and it was a curious sensation to recognise my own features in her face. This image of Gwladys had always been in our house but I never looked at it before because I did not know who she was.

Now that Gwladys is present in my life as my grandmother, the intimate quality of this photograph fascinates me and I find myself scrutinising it to ascertain the precise emotional timbre of the picture. Even though it was taken six years before she gave birth to my father, I cannot separate the portrait from this event and I equivocate between seeing composure and uncertainty in her beautiful features. Most of all I am consoled to recognise the sense of dignity and self-possession apparent, reflecting the courage and strength of mind revealed in her writing.

Among the dozen of Gwladys’ letters to my father’s adoptive mother that I discovered in his box were a series written from Hawkmoor Sanatorium, Bovey Tracey. I found that once Gwladys had returned to her work as a housemaid in the employ of Mrs Dimond, after she had given birth to my father in 1923 and a friend had agreed to adopt him, a further crisis overcame her. At first, when Gwladys wrote repeatedly  of “feeling bad” I understood this as a reference to her grief but, once I learnt that Hawkmoor was a hospital built at the edge of Dartmoor for patients suffering from pulmonary tuberculosis, her language took on its true meaning.

Gwladys’ account of her bizarre treatment at Hawkmoor, which included sleeping in unheated chalets in winter with the doors open to admit rain and snow, makes you wonder how she survived such harsh therapy in her vulnerable condition.

Dear Mrs -, At last I am writing to you as I promised to. Well dear, it is lovely place up here & such nice views you can see right down on the moors. You will be pleased to hear that I am much better & my cough has gone thank goodness. I don’t take medicine, they just keep you out in the air all day. We all have to go for a long walk every day. You need some strong shoes up here as the walks we go on are so muddy and stones, it cuts your shoes awful. I am getting quite sunburnt. Must tell you I had nice company when I got out at Bovey Station, she was going to Hawkmoor as well so it was nice to have company. There was a car at the station waiting for us, so we had a lovely ride. It is a good three miles from the station. I have breakfast in bed for a bit, must tell you we have to rest before dinner at 11:50 to 12:50 & again before tea at 4:50 t0 5:50. We have breakfast at 8 o’clock, dinner at 1 o’clock & tea at 6, bed at half past 8. We see the Dr every morning & get examined every month. There are such a lot of women & they are so jolly, & such a lot of men. It is pitiful to see some of the men up here, poor things, & a lot of them are married. We had 3 more came in today, so they are getting full up again now. I expect I shall only be here for 3 months. How I would love to see you all, but I must wait until I come back & then I will come up & see you. How are you getting dear? How I do think of you, as you have been a good friend to me, like a mother. It do seem hard to get down bad like this through hard work. Well dear there is only one post out a day here & that is 4 o’clock. So we have to write pretty early to catch post as the time goes so quickl. By the time we have been for our walks & then rest hours, it don’t give you much time. I do hope you will write to me as I don’t get many letters. I do wonder how little Mary is getting on. Well dear, I must stop now as I shall miss the post. Hoping you are keeping well & dear little Peter. My love to you all, Evelyn, John, Mr – , also dear little Peter from Gwladys xxxxx Hoping to hear from you soon dear. I will write again when I hear from you xxx future

My Dearest Mrs -, You will think I am unkind not to answer your last letter but really dear I have not been very well. I caught a nasty chill & had to stay in bed a fortnight, but glad to say I am much better & about again. What would I give to see you again. Am longing to come home & see you. I don’t think I shall be home for Xmas. Must tell you it is a bitter cold place here in winter. We sleep out in the open & when it rains it comes right in & you are not allowed to shut any doors & the wind nearly blows you out of bed. We have had dreadful weather, rain every day. We had a lot of snow yesterday. It is so pretty to see the children playing with the snow, it makes me think of dear little Peter. I do think of him such a lot in this cold weather wondering how he is keeping, bless him. It is awful here, no fires at all, have not seen a fire since I left home. I guess you have got a lovely fire now. I can just picture John sitting around it. I don’t know what sort of Xmas they spend here. Have you made your Xmas pudding yet? I hope you will send me a little bit to taste. It will seem more like a Xmas to me if I taste a bit of pudding. Glad to say I am putting on weight so I must be getting better…

My photograph of the view from Haytor towards Bovey Tracey at Christmas 2002

You may also like to read the beginning of this story

Part 1. A Discovery at Christmas

In the first of a series of three short memoirs, I reveal the contents of a locked box that my father carried his whole life and tell the story it contained, which I discovered after his death.

You deceive yourself into thinking that you know yourself and that you have made your own choices in life, until another hidden reality is revealed to you which explains how you came to be who you are. Such was the nature of my discovery, uncovering events that happened decades before my birth, and the existence of someone whose fate defined the direction of my father’s life and coloured my own.

In October 2001, I got an unexpected phone call on a Sunday evening in London to say that Peter, my father, had collapsed and been taken into hospital. “Is he conscious?” I asked, fearing the worst. “No,” came the reply. “Is he breathing?” I asked in surprise, growing suspicious. “No,” came the reply. “Is he dead?” I asked, seeking confirmation even though I already knew the answer. Each autumn, my father cut the privet hedge which surrounded the small house and orchard in Exeter where I grew up, and – after completing the task that year – he took a nap on the sofa and never woke up again. Aside from recurring feelings of weakness on his part, there had been little warning and, in retrospect, I think he was blessed to take his leave in the way that he did.

I am an only child, so it was just Valerie, my mother, and me for Christmas that year. We went for carols on Christmas Eve in the cathedral and I cooked a meal on Christmas Day. My fear that it would all become a painful empty ritual was unfounded, as we discovered consolation in repeating the usual activities in the familiar surroundings. Already, I had cleared out most of my father’s things and undertaken a few minor home improvements to inspire hope in my mother that life could go on there. After dark, while she dozed in front of the television downstairs, I sat upstairs in my childhood bedroom, following the pattern of my adolescent years when I spent my evenings in study.

As long as I could remember, my father had a padlocked document box, of homemade wooden construction and painted black. It was stored in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, among his folded shirts, socks and sweaters. He had a desk downstairs where he kept his bills and football pool coupons and my school reports – and this black box was used to store other papers, I understood. Yet it was both so peripheral and so familiar in my consciousness, I never gave it a second thought until after he died.

One night between Christmas and New Year, I decided to open it. Alone in my room, I took my father’s hammer and chisel and prised the box open. Inside, I discovered around a dozen letters on faded notepaper that my father had kept hidden through the years.

All but one were written by Gwladys Brown, a young housemaid working for a Mrs Dimond, who became pregnant and was compelled to give up my father as a baby in 1924. Immediately, I realised that the old couple who brought him up had died before he met my mother and I was born. He adopted their surname which in turn became mine. Thus, circumstances permitted him to bury the truth of his origin, which was such a source of shame that he had carried it as a lonely secret his whole life long.

The letters spoke eloquently across time. Touched by Gwladys’ pain and emotional distress, I was thrown into an intimate relationship with a relative whom I could never meet. I was filled with a strange sense of helplessness. Ironically, it was in 2001 that more babies were born to unmarried parents than to wedded couples in Britain and I was shocked to confront the meaning of this social change personally, recognising that for my father’s generation the stigma was sufficient to blight an entire life.

Yet even as I began to decipher the letters, tracing the unfurling of events and constructing the fragmentary story they revealed, questions proliferated. Who was my grandfather? What became of my grandmother? How much of my father’s life, behaviour and desires could be explained by the drama of his origin? And, as I became aware of my mother sitting downstairs, I asked myself if I should tell her or if – perhaps – she already knew?

Dear Mrs – , Just a line to say that  have written to [the] deaconess telling her about you, [that] you have been to see me about Peter & that you are going to have him altogether, which is more than kind of you. Mrs Dimond thinks there will be a written paper for me to sign for Peter, so now we shall hear something or perhaps they will send up to you. She will get her letter tomorrow morning. Mrs Dimond will sign it for me, dear Mrs – , a thousand thanks I give to you and Mr – for having my dear Peter which I cannot thank you enough for I am broken hearted over it & I will do my best for you when I am out & well again. Mrs Dimond is putting in a note as well, she is a dear woman & one in a thousand to me which I shall never forget her & you & Mr -. Shall be so thankful when it is over and I am back with my dear Mistress again. Will not forget to write while I am there. Love to you all, from G xxx    xxxxxx for sweet Peter

This is to certify [I] do hereby give full charge to Mrs – of 55 Victoria Street, St James, Exeter, Devon of my child named Peter Stanley Brown

Dear Mr & Mrs -,

Just a few lines to enclose with Gladys’ letter to you, I do think it is so kind of you both to take dear little Peter. It will be good to know the little soul will be in good keeping & looked after & I sincerely hope he will turn out to be a blessing to you. Gladys will be coming to me after the affair is over & she promises she will be a very different girl in future if I will have her here again. So I feel I must give her a chance. She has been a very faithful girl to me in every way, so I must hope for the best.

I am sorry I could not see you this afternoon. I had such a worrying week last week with the affair, my nerves would not permit me to see anyone. I am so grieved over her, I cannot express how I feel it is so terrible.

I will try to go out tomorrow morning to get the little shoes for Peter & some socks, so your daughter can take them back with her tomorrow evening.

My best wishes to you

Yours sincerely

A M Dimond

My Dearest Ma, I am sending dear Peter’s vest. So sorry I could not send it before, but have been so bad, but glad to say I am feeling so much better. Well dear I must tell you, I am broken hearted, I only wish I was up with you. My Mrs is like a devil to me. It is hard as I have no-one to go to & no home. It makes me cry bitter. You are the only best friend I have & I can tell you all my troubles. I do wish I was with you. She is a devil & the work I do for her, I am heart broken dear. She makes me cry bitter. Will make Peter some socks now. Do burn this dear when you have read it dear. Don’t write dear in case she gets hold of it. I will come up to see you, don’t send any letters. Have finish with him. Well dear I must hurry up as it is nearly dinner time only I thought I must tell you what she is like to me ( it is hard for me, eh dear ) My love to all & dear Peter. My best love & xxx to you dear ma who has been the best friend in the world to me & will always be a good friend. God bless you dear from broken hearted Gwladys. I am so miserable dear.

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