Danny was buried in France with full military honours, and we arranged a Requiem Mass for him at St Michael’s. Eddie got compassionate leave from the POW camp to be with us. He was grief-stricken at the death of his big hero brother and whilst we waited for Hilda to arrive, I told him about the letter that Hilda had received.
‘His platoon commander,’ I said, ‘wrote Hilda a beautiful letter of condolence saying how brave Danny was, how he had given his life for his country; and how he had died instantly and suffered no pain.’
To my surprise, Eddie’s grief turned to anger when he heard this.
‘Kate,’ he said, tears of rage springing to his eyes, ‘don’t give me that stuff about “dying for his country”. I can tell you that in the trenches men are slaughtered like cattle and there’s nothing heroic about it. It’s a terrible waste of thousands and thousands of good ordinary men: plumbers, tram drivers, clerks, milkmen. They died like flies and for what? A few yards of filthy mud. Oh, yes, I saw our officer writing the letters to the loved ones, trotting out the same old words. “Died like a true soldier”; “His supreme sacrifice will not be in vain”; “He died instantaneously and felt no pain”. I’ve heard them all. They’re lies, Kate.’
‘Surely they can’t all be lies, Eddie!’
‘They are for me, Kate. Most men die in agony and screaming for their mothers. Did you know it took hours to carry a wounded man by stretcher from the line to the first aid post? Many men didn’t even die a soldier’s death; they drowned in the mud and the slime. It seemed to me they died in vain.’
‘Things can’t be as bad as that, Eddie. You’re depressed at Danny’s death.’
‘Sorry, Kate. I shouldn’t have said all that, it’s against the rules. Soldiers are supposed to gloss over it in case they demoralise the people at home.’
‘Whatever you do, Eddie,’ I said, ‘don’t talk like that to Hilda. Don’t take away the only things that console her.’
When Hilda joined us, Eddie didn’t let me down. Hilda repeated the platoon commander’s assurance about the way Danny had died.
‘It’s a great blessing, Hilda,’ Eddie said, ‘that Danny died without suffering. We can be truly proud of him for he died to make a better world for those who remain. This is to be the war to end all wars and it’s said that the greatest sacrifice a man can make is to lay down his life for his country. Danny died a hero’s death and mark my words, one day his name will be inscribed on a memorial raised to honour the glorious dead.’
‘Thanks, Eddie. It’s good to know his death has some meaning.’
‘And a special thank you from me, Eddie,’ I whispered to him.
Canon McCabe preached a lovely sermon about how Danny had given his life so that future generations might be free. He ended up by saying, ‘Death is nothing to be afraid of. It is only the beginning of eternal life. And remember: those who died in battle are helping us from up there in heaven. They are helping us to win the war.’
I couldn’t help saying to myself, what about the German dead? Who are they helping?
So, that was how I began 1916. With a knife through my heart. I could remember Shirty Gerty at St Michael’s telling us all those years ago about Queen Mary Tudor who was supposed to have said, ‘When I am dead and opened, you shall find “Calais” lying in my heart.’ For me, change ‘Calais’ to ‘1916’.
Shortly after the Requiem, there was a lot of talk about a massive new breakthrough to be launched in France. It was to be one big battle that would end the war once and for all. The newspapers were full of it and even published the name of the place where it would take place - the River Somme in Picardy. If us ordinary people knew about it, I thought, so did the Germans. All young able-bodied soldiers were transferred from non-essential duties to prepare for the big fight. This included Eddie who was taken off the job of guarding prisoners and sent back to Flanders. I prayed to God that He would keep him safe.
‘Surely, Lord, one of my brothers is enough for you. Please send Eddie back to us in one piece.’
I think God must have been only half listening for Eddie was hit by flying shrapnel atThiepval and he was returned to us minus fingers on both hands. Everyone said how lucky he’d been getting ‘a Blighty one’. That may have been so but it meant his cornet-playing days were definitely over. At least he’d survived the Somme where thousands of men had been cut down in the first five minutes of the battle. The so-called Pals Regiments were amongst the worst to suffer. At the beginning of the war, the Earl of Derby had this bright idea of recruiting soldiers from the same town, the same workplace, the same street, even the same family. The appeal was for men to ‘serve with their
friends and not be put in a battalion with unknown men as their companions’.
‘That’s all very well,’ Tommy remarked, ‘not only can the men serve together, they can die together as well.’
And amidst all this tragedy, I found I was having another baby. Perhaps it was a glimmer of hope in that fateful year. Things were collapsing around us but at least our little family was safe and secure. It was the only thing that seemed to make any sense in this mad, crazy world. Maybe this time it would be a boy. I dearly wished it to be so for I still felt that a son and heir was needed to complete Tommy’s life though he himself had never said as much. He was supremely happy with his three daughters whom he worshipped, especially his first-born, Mary, who had a special place in his heart. Tommy had never had a brother or sister and all his love was in that child. The princess, he called her, and if he could have put her on a pedestal, he would have done so, he loved her that much. She had a lovely nature and was a beautiful little creature with lovely curls. She always reminded me of the paintings of the cherubs I’d seen on the altar of St Chad’s Church. Every day she ran to meet Tommy when he came back from work and, holding his hand, she would lead him into the kitchen and tell him what I’d made him for his breakfast. One day, Tommy had brought home a pound of delicious sausages which he’d bought at the local butcher’s on his way home. Soon there was the sound of sizzling sausages and a wonderful smell coming from my kitchen. Tommy offered one to Mary. ' *
‘I don’t like those sausages,’ she said.
‘Why not? They’re delicious homemade sausages,’ Tommy said. ‘Made by Burgess, the butcher.’
‘I don’t like them ’cos they’re red,’ she answered simply.
‘But you’ve never tasted them!’
‘Doesn’t matter. They’re red.’
As Tommy worked on the night shift, he usually went for a sleep after his meal. At around five o’clock in the evening, I sent Mary into the bedroom to wake him up.
‘Come on, Dad,’ she would call, lifting one of his eyelids, ‘it’s time to get up for your dinner.’
He would pretend to be dead and as she was about to run to me, he would suddenly come alive, grab her and start tickling her. She would giggle in delight and hug him tightly.
‘You’ll spoil that girl,’ I used to say.
‘So what if I do?’ he would answer. ‘Where’s the harm in that?’
Sometimes I thought Mary did become too wrapped up in her dad. One night Tommy was out at some meeting or other of market porters and was late getting back. Mary refused to go to bed until he returned to tuck her in and tell her a story.
‘Look, Mary,’ I said. ‘It may be after eleven o’clock before he’s home. You’ll have to go to bed without him for one night.’
‘Shan’t,’ she said, defiantly tightening her lips. ‘He said he was going to bring a bar of chocolate. I’m going to wait up for him.’
It was one of the rare occasions when I had to tell her off. It ended up with me giving her a little smack and she went to bed weeping.
‘I’m going to tell dad when he comes home,’ she said.
Just before Easter, Mary had her fifth birthday. To my amazement, the School Board was round at the house the next day.
‘Now she’s turned five, she must start school,’ he said.
‘Give us a chance,’ I answered. ‘Surely it can wait until after the Easter holiday.’
‘No, the law is the law. Children must attend school as soon as they reach the age of admission.’
Reluctantly, we got her ready the next day. A little girl called Alice who lived round the corner agreed to take her.
Mary was as bright as a button and took to school rightaway. Every day she came home with stories of what she’d done, the things she’d made in Plasticine, how she was learning to read, and what Miss Simpson, her teacher, had said.
It was after Easter, a Monday at the beginning of May, that she came home looking flushed and I could tell she wasn’t well. I felt her forehead and there was no doubt about it. She was running a temperature.
‘I’ve got a headache, Mam, and my throat’s sore,’ she said. I think it was the first time I ever heard her complain about anything. Probably croup again, I thought, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
‘Come on, Mary,’ I said. ‘You’d better go to bed and lie down. I’ll bring you a drink of homemade lemonade.’ Homemade lemonade was her favourite.
‘I’ve got a sore throat as well,’ little Flo whimpered.
Oh, aye, I thought. She wants a bit of sympathy as well.
‘And so have I,’ said two-year-old Polly.
Kids, I said to myself, they’re so jealous of each other when it comes to seeking attention.
‘Well, you’d all better get in bed,’ I said, humouring the two young ’uns.
Tommy went up to see Mary when he came home. He came down looking concerned.
‘Mary’s throat looks very swollen. I think I’d better go and fetch Dr Cooklin.’
Tommy does get het up so easily, I thought, and as for calling the doctor, I hated bothering him ’cos not only was
it expensive but I was always worried in case I called him out on a fool’s errand.
Tommy came back a couple of hours later to report that our own doctor was away for a few days but that a locum, a Dr Hyams, would call in the morning.
During the night, Mary’s condition grew worse and we could hear her gasping for breath. We didn’t know what to do for the best. How we prayed for the morning to come so she could get some medical attention.
At eleven o’clock, the young Dr Hyams arrived and from the hurried way he came into the house, we could see that he had many cases to get round that morning. He gave Mary a rapid examination, took her temperature, listened to her heart, felt the glands behind her ears and pronounced his diagnosis.
‘German measles!’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of it about at the moment. No need to worry but she must stay off school and not mix with other children outside the family. Keep her comfortable and give her plenty of liquids.’
He noticed I was pregnant.
‘When is your baby due?’ he asked.
‘In about two months,’ I told him.
He heaved a sigh of relief. ‘At least your new baby’s out of danger. Thank your lucky stars that you’re not in your first three months or you could have had serious problems.’
With that, he wished us good morning and was gone.
Mary died that night fighting for breath.
Dr Hyams wrote ‘German Measles’ on the death certificate but I didn’t believe it. Not for a moment. Tommy reacted to it with disbelief. No tears. No weeping and wailing. Only an expression of utter bewilderment on his face. He kept shaking his head as if to show he’d lost all hope and faith in life itself and of ever finding happiness.
Mary was laid out under the window in the front room.
A beautiful little girl looking more like an angel than ever.
Outside in the street, life went on as usual and I found that hard to understand. The news vendors were shouting something about an Irish uprising in Dublin but what did that matter in comparison to the death of our little daughter, the light of our lives? How dare the world go on with its ordinary business when for us it had stopped.
From the moment of Mary’s death I was in total shock. Angela and Hilda came over to help and without them I don’t think I could have attended to all the things that needed doing but I was so run off my feet, registering the death, arranging the details of the funeral that I had no proper chance to grieve. I went about my business in a trance. I felt as if I had died inside.
‘And to think,’ I wept, ‘a week before she died I gave her a smack for not going to bed when I told her. If only I could have the time over again.’
The Catholic undertaker, Mr Stiles, did his best to provide a decent funeral on the pittance the Royal London paid out on Mary’s life insurance. He made her a lovely white coffin but there wasn’t enough money for a grave of her own and we had to bury her in a public subscription grave with her name on it. I held onto Tommy’s hand for dear life and I sobbed and sobbed until I thought my heart would break. All our dreams and all our hopes had been taken away in the space of twenty-four hours. It was goodbye to our smiling, happy little girl who was afraid of the dark, who hated spiders and red sausages, who loved going to school and looking at the moon and the stars, who, when scolded, could turn your frowns into laughter. There were many wreaths placed in the hearse; the neighbours collected for a special big one. The rest of the flowers were simple: pink and white carnations from friends, Jimmy, Angela and Hilda; a second of white carna-
tions and blue cornflowers from our own family.
When the inspector from the town hall had visited us the day after Mary’s death, I asked him for an inquest.
‘It couldn’t have been German measles,’ I said. ‘She was playing in the street on Saturday and on Wednesday she was dead. Such a lovely girl who should have walked in the procession at church on the first Sunday of May.’
‘What’s the use of an inquest?’ the inspector said. ‘It won’t bring your little girl back.’
‘I blame myself,’ I told him. ‘I knew all along it wasn’t German measles. I should have asked for a second opinion.’
‘How could you be expected to know what it was your little girl had?’ he replied. ‘You’re not a doctor.’
But I couldn’t shake off that feeling that I could have done something and not simply accepted the opinion of a stand-in doctor.
After the funeral, our own Dr Cooklin came with a nurse to check on our other two little girls who were still in bed with sore, swollen throats. After a thorough examination, he and the nurse stepped to one side and had a whispered conversation. Finally, he turned to me.
‘Mrs Hopkins,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry to see you like this. Your two little girls have the same illness that Mary had. Diphtheria. They must both go into Monsall Fever Hospital immediately. I shall arrange for an ambulance within the hour. You must prepare yourself.’
The big ambulance that came from the police station was brown, the kind that struck fear into the hearts of Ancoats people. The normal black ambulance always attracted a tongue-clucking, sympathetic gauntlet of neighbours. Not so the brown ones, for everyone knew they meant infectious and contagious diseases.
‘Keep away,’ mothers told their kids. ‘We don’t want you with diphtheria or scarlet fever. And don’t play near
grids in the street ’cos that’s where you get these diseases.’
The ambulance men wrapped our two daughters in red blankets and carried them off in silence.
Tommy seemed hardly aware of what was happening. He sat looking blankly in front of him, his mouth shut tight. Desperately I tried to get him involved in the things going on around him.
‘We can go over to see them later tonight,’ I said to him when the ambulance had gene. ‘Thank God we caught the disease in time for the other two little girls.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said dully. He went back to looking mutely into space.
I tried to snap him out of this sombre mood by talking about the baby that was due in a couple of months’ time.
‘Maybe this time it’ll be a boy. Tommy. If it is, we’ll call him Thomas. What do you think?’
‘Just as you like,’ he answered.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring him round to respond and take an interest in life or in the future. He stayed isolated and withdrawn in his own world as if he didn’t want to know or be involved in anything to do with the family.
‘Why don’t you speak to me, Tommy?’ I cried. ‘Don’t turn away and cut me off like this.’
‘I’m so sorry, Kate,’ he said. ‘Nearly everyone I have come to love has been taken away from me. First, my own mother and father, and now Mary. It’s almost as if I put the kiss of death on anyone I get too close to.’
I sympathised with him’ but how I wished he would snap out of it. There was nothing I could do except pray that one day soon he would. Meanwhile I had to get on with things without him.
At Monsall, Flo and Polly were put in steam tents and I was allowed to sit with them but they insisted that I put on
a mask and a big white gown. I went back the next day and on this second visit, I had to look at them through a big glass window ’cos they’d both had tracheotomies to help them breathe. But at least they were still alive. At home, the town hall sent men to fumigate the house. We had to seal up doors and windows and the gas they used left a smell that stayed with us for ever afterwards. A few other kids in Ancoats got diphtheria and a couple of them died. The neighbours seemed to think that anyone who had had this sickness in the house was bound to pass it onto others. But not everyone thought like that, thank God. Kind- hearted Mrs Kenyon next door was always there ready to help whenever she was needed.
‘I believe in fate,’ she told me. ‘If you or your kids are on God’s list to get an illness, you’ll get it no matter what you do.’
Whilst Flo and Polly were in Monsall, I had my baby, a month early. It was a boy and we called him Thomas. He had Tommy’s eyes and nose. I thought how this tiny child might go some way to make up for our terrible loss. He was a good baby and gave no reason for concern as he slept peacefully through the night as if he somehow sensed the sad atmosphere in our home and had decided to lie low. I nursed him with all the love I could summon up. After feeding him, I didn’t want to put him down in his cot in case something happened to him. I held him in my arms for an hour after he’d gone to sleep.
He lived for six weeks. They put it down to enteritis. It was all the trouble I’d had; I couldn’t keep any food down. Crying, just crying the whole time over Mary’s death.
There was a sum of two pounds due on the baby’s insurance, so I went back to the undertaker to get a coffin for a little boy.
Old Mr Stiles said, ‘I’m afraid they took the horses for
the war and I have no coaches available ’cos there’s some big funerals on this week. All my hearses have been ordered. There’s a lot of soldiers died of wounds and Moston Cemetery and the Chapel of Rest will be crowded. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll make you a little coffin with his name on it and how old he was. The only thing is, you’ll have to carry it there yourself. You won’t be allowed to take it on the tram as it’s against regulations.’
It was no use asking Tommy to go with me. He’d made up his mind to run away from trouble and leave me to it. After we buried Mary, he used to go out and we’d never see him again until late at night. As soon as he came home from work, he was straight out again as if he couldn’t face being in the house. He was so used to Mary meeting him when he turned into Back Murray Street. He’d stopped going to church and simply switched himself off.
Madge Kenyon proved to be a great help and comfort. The baby’s clothes, his matinee coat, his knitted vests and dresses, his bootees and other things had been left lying on a chair at the time of his death and I didn’t want to remove them. She called at the house and made me collect them together and take them round to her house.
‘If you leave them there, Kate,’ she said, ‘you’ll never get over the baby’s death.’
Anyroad, we got this little coffin and Madge and I carried it to Moston. We had to walk. We lapped the coffin up like a parcel and took turns carrying it under our shawls. I cried quietly all the way there.
Why couldn’t it have been me? Why a little baby that did no one any harm? I asked myself over and over again.
We reached the Chapel of Rest and we took our place on the right-hand-side. On the other side was a big crowd of mourners for a soldier who had died of his wounds. At the front of the church was the soldier’s coffin and on the
other side was my tiny thing on a little stool. The priest said prayers and everything for the soldier, how brave he’d been and how he’d given his life for his country, and all that. Next he turned to me and Mrs Kenyon and said, ‘We’ll not pray for this little innocent child for he is safely in the hands of God but we’ll pray for the mother that’s lost him. We’ll pray for her that she’ll have the strength to carry on.’
When I heard those words, something snapped inside me and I burst out crying from the depths of my being, from my innermost soul. As long as I live I will never cry like that again. The people on the other side of the church looked over at me sorrowfully and at the end of the service, they agreed to let the baby be buried with their soldier.
When the baby was buried, Madge and I walked back sadly along Moston Lane. As we passed St Dunstan’s Church, we decided to call in for a short visit.
As I knelt there, a great sob swelled up in me and the tears flowed down my face almost without end. I was filled with despair. In six months I had lost so much, my brother, my first-born child and my first-born son. My husband had withdrawn into a world of his own. All my dreams of happiness had been shattered. I looked up at the big crucifix suspended over the altar and for the first time in my life I could understand the true meaning of those words of Christ on the cross: Why hast thou forsaken me?
‘Why, oh why, God,’ I asked, ‘did you have to take first my brother, then my children? What’s it all for? I feel there is nothing to live for. The world is a place of pain and suffering.’
Then a strange thing happened. I felt an inner calm and I remembered part of a prayer we said at Benediction, ‘To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale
of tears.’ Deep inside me a small voice was whispering that things were going to be all right. Perhaps from our own suffering, I thought, we learn an important lesson: how to offer comfort to others. Apart from that, I had two other children still in hospital and it was time I started thinking of them.
I visited Flo and Polly every day and told them about Mary’s funeral and the death of the baby, and how lucky they had been that Dr Cooklin had caught their illness in time. Six weeks later, they were released with a clean bill of health. What joy to have them back home! At least, I thought, God had left me two of my children.