Whatever Remains

by Penny F. Graham

  Common sense slowly conquered fear. With a lot of reassuring hugs from Lindsay and some deep breathing, I managed to let him turn the car around and crawl into the driveway. We got out of the car and rang the front door bell. A few seconds later, the door opened. Smells of something delicious wafted over me and a cheerful voice belonging to a petite, bright-faced smiling woman greeted me. It was all going to be fine — I could tell immediately that I was going to like her very much. The equally cheerful and smiling face of Albert, Pat’s husband, hovered over her shoulder. I knew I was going to like him too.

  We were gently propelled into a bright, attractive sitting room, sat down in a couple of comfortable chintz-covered chairs, and glasses of something refreshing slipped in our hands. The tight feeling in my chest subsided, my hands stopped trembling and I felt totally comfortable, totally at ease and so happy to be there.

  As we sipped our drinks and then moved into an equally pretty dining room to hoe into one of Pat’s scrumptious lunches, we talked. And talked and talked. That first night, after we had said our goodnights and retired to their music room that had been converted into a bedroom for us, I snuggled into bed in the happy knowledge that I had at last found my soul mate; my very own sister.

  Over the next few days, we walked the country lanes, through the open fields and down to the windswept beach catching up on the many decades we had not known each other. Talking and walking, we four got to hear each other’s stories and to see the geography that bounded the world in which Pat and Albert lived. Even after a year of corresponding, there seemed so much of our lives we needed to catch up on.

  With every passing day we slowly got to know each other better. On Sunday afternoon, three of Pat’s four children, with their husbands and many of their children, came to visit and check out these new-found family members. They were all friendly, interesting and attractive people. Without exception, they seemed like a family group you would be very happy to call your own. We sat over cups of tea and cakes talking nineteen to the dozen. There was such a sense of excitement in the air. They wanted to know all about my life and our family back in Australia and I, of course, wanted to know everything I could about them.

  Now, years down the track, I have formed close ties with many of those we met that sunny afternoon, but then they all seemed to meld into this happy, bright-eyed and talkative group. So this is what it is like to have a family, I thought. And yes, I loved every minute of it.

  Pat was, of course, most interested to hear all about her father and two half-brothers. We had come armed with recent photos of our immediate family but because we had not seen Father or my two brothers for some years, I only had two-year-old photos of the extended family to show them. Pat found it almost impossible to understand how there could have been such a breakdown in communications between us. All I could say in explanation was, ‘You have to have lived as part of my family to understand that by questioning the truth of Denis’s stories, I had become a traitor to the family.’ In my family, loyalty meant unquestioning acceptance of all past ‘facts’ and obedience to Denis’s unwritten rules. Knowing something was not true was one thing; saying it openly to him was another.

  I explained it as best I could, but I understood it would be hard to accept how we, Denis and his three children, could be so enmeshed in our own make-believe history that it was almost impossible to escape to reality. Pat’s prognosis was that if I had the courage to tell Denis of my discoveries when I returned to Australia, he would accept the inevitable and admit to his suppression of the truth.

  I kept my counsel, but was pretty sure that it would not be quite that easy. And history was to prove me correct. Right up to his death, Denis never recanted any of his original stories but incorporated any new facts, such as having a first wife and child, into his original history. The new members of the family, be they the Russian cousins from WA or the Emersons in Britain, were ignored or passed off as unknown or too insignificant to mention.

  The few days we were to stay with Pat and Albert flew by, and all too soon it was time to say our goodbyes. It was a bright, sharp spring morning as Pat and I strolled arm in arm through the garden in our pyjamas and dressing gowns saying our private goodbyes. Their garden was testament to Pat’s green fingers. There were many shades of spring green overlapping and blending into each other as we wandered across the lawns and through the shrubbery. Here was one other thing we had in common: our love of plants, trees and flowers and the delight we took in our gardens.

  Later that morning, as we pulled out of the driveway, I couldn’t stop the tears from sliding down my face; it seemed so hard to have to part so soon after we had finally met.

  Chapter 20

  Pat’s story, 1926–1993

  Since first communicating with Pat, and particularly after meeting her, I had been slowly piecing together parts of the story of her life she wished me to know. So this is Pat’s story, well, my version of it, as only Pat can tell the full story. For me, this encapsulates the essence of the stories she told me of her younger life and if not accurate in detail, it is, I believe, close enough.

  Pat was born into a loving family consisting of her mother, grandmother, two aunts and a couple of uncles, but no father. Her father, she was told, was overseas in the tropical rubber forests of Malaya carving out a career for himself, and maybe, one day, for them as well. She tells me her early childhood was happy and uncomplicated. If she missed the influence or company of a father she did not say. Certainly she was loved and well cared for by all her extended family. Pat knew that her father had left before she had been born and that maybe one day she and her mother would make the long journey to join him.

  When she was judged old enough to understand, she was told by her mother Doris, or Wackie as Doris was known affectionately by all her family, that Pat’s father had asked for a divorce. Wackie had agreed, not because she did not love him, but because that is what Len, her beloved husband, wanted. Pat would have turned eight that year.

  The first time she saw her father was early in 1939. She remembered arriving home from school, her aunt met her at the door and hustled her upstairs to change into her prettiest frock and comb her hair. Her father, apparently, was downstairs and wanted to see her. When Pat came down to the parlour, all she remembers seeing was a pair of elegant brown and cream brogues and the knife-edged pleats of her father’s trousers. She was shy, and as shy children are wont to do, she does not remember actually looking him in the face but she well remembers his voice as strong, ‘cultured’ and pleasant. She was asked to play her piano piece for him, The Maiden’s Prayer, and then she sat quietly, eyes cast down, hands in her lap, while the grown-ups talked.

  She was not to meet her father again until her 68th birthday, in a country on the other side of the world.

  The war years were difficult years for Pat and Wackie. Wackie was now doing extra work in the evenings to help with the war effort and Pat’s teenage years, which should have been a carefree time, were tainted with food shortages, curfews, blackouts, constant queuing for rations and the ever-present fear of bombing raids. Despite all this, she seems to have managed to enjoy herself and, having the positive outlook on life that she has, made the best of growing up in a world at war.

  Pat left school at 15 to learn the trade of hairdresser and beautician. She was petite, slim and pretty and knew how to look her best within the confines of war-time clothes rationing. She is still clever at knowing what suits her. She knits, uses a sewing machine like a professional, and wields a needle and thread with amazing agility and artistry.

  Growing up in London during the war years must have affected Pat in many ways. London during the war would have been a difficult and sometimes dangerous place to live. In 1944, the first pilot-less planes or doodlebugs were seen, flame flaring from their tail ends, flying low over London. They could be heard approaching, then they would go quiet followed by a screaming sound as one would plummet to the ground. There were many ways for Londoners to die dur
ing the war, and being blown to smithereens by a doodlebug was just one.

  Being bombed would always have been a possibility for the Rathbone family. When the air raid sirens blared through the city, the sound would have sent chills through Pat’s spine. Oddly enough, I never heard her talk with fear of those times, when all the family would have been at risk and would need to get to their closest shelter or maybe crouch in the cellar until the all clear sounded.

  Going to the pictures (or the ‘flicks’) was always a pleasure and she enjoyed the theatre, music halls and concerts, if and when she could afford it. At the ‘flicks’, programs were usually changed twice weekly. The usherettes would show to your seats with a torch and there were different prices for the different seat locations — cheapest at the front, dearer towards the back. During the interval, the usherettes would appear with trays strapped around their shoulders, selling ice-creams, cigarettes and other goodies.

  All the women in her family sewed and knitted as clothing coupons were scarce. Stockings were a real rarity and greatly prized when available. Sweets were on coupons too, so the choice of them required some deliberation to get the best value. Staple dairy products such as milk and eggs disappeared as the war ground on and powdered milk and reconstituted eggs took their place. I am not sure if Pat’s ability to cook creatively and well, turning ordinary dishes into something special, stemmed from those war years. I think with doting aunts and a mother to look after her until her marriage, it was more likely she learned to cook creatively during her early years as a young wife and mother.

  Daily newspapers gave the latest updates, usually propaganda on how well ‘Our Boys’ were doing on the front line, and listening to the wireless was a good way to spend an evening at home. Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister at the time, was a great inspiration to the family with his encouraging radio broadcasts. And to while away the evening, there were wireless plays and music and, of course, the Rathbones’ all-time favourite pastime, cards — in particular, bridge.

  During her teenage years, the papers and magazines were full not only of war news, but also of humorous cartoons, poems, jokes, and of ‘make do and mend’ suggestions for doing the best with clothing coupons by renovation of old garments. Suggestions on how to make children’s clothes out of adults’ clothes, how to extend the life of shoes by having extra rubber soles fitted, adding metal toe and heel tags and, for cold weather, inserting thick brown paper inner soles. Certainly Pat’s natural ability to make and mend, embroider, knit, darn and sew would have been encouraged by necessity during those years. If you wanted something special to wear, you made it yourself out of whatever was at hand.

  From the beginning of the war until VE (Victory in Europe) Day, gas masks were supposed to be carried in a box whenever you left the house. I can just imagine Pat would have carried hers with panache, slipped over the shoulder like an expensive evening bag. Every evening at dusk, the blackout blinds and curtains were drawn across every window in every home in Britain. This was so that enemy aircraft pilots were not aided in navigation by the lights from below. There were no lamplights, no neon lights on buildings, no lights at railway stations or on the trains or buses — no lights anywhere. But this does not appear to have stopped young people getting out and about and enjoying themselves.

  Not long after leaving school, Pat met a young boy two years her senior. His name was Albert Henry Rich. They became fast friends, going out together with their crowd of friends to the pictures and dances. In my mind’s eye, I can see them now, scurrying home together through the wet dark streets of a London evening, a small torch to guide their way across the cobbled streets, while an air raid warden who, on seeing a light, shouts loudly at their retreating figures ‘put out that light’.

  As they grew older, Albert became Pat’s ‘young man’, her escort, her friend and her confidant. I have a photo of her and Albert taken at a friend’s wedding. Pat is 16, Albert 18, and they both look smart as paint in their ‘best’. It was obviously a winter wedding as Pat is wearing a smart long coat with deep lapels and wide shoulders and a stylish fur-trimmed hat. Albert sports a three-piece pin striped suit, polka dot tie with white handkerchief just peeking out of his breast pocket. They have matching posies pinned to their lapels. There is a story behind this photo. Pat is not pleased. She has discovered that Albert has brought a book to read during the wedding service. She is discreetly ticking him off as the photo is taken. Albert is looking down in embarrassment at being caught out. Pat is giving Albert a stern look. It is a delightful and evocative photo and the earliest I have of Pat and Albert together.

  But although some of their friends were getting married, and Albert had proposed, Pat was having none of it. She was having too good a time being a young, attractive girl about town. She was not ready to settle down even though she was very fond of Albert and many of her friends were marrying young in those uncertain times.

  Albert went on to marry another before joining up and leaving for the Middle East. It was there that he was to sweat out the remainder of the war, training hard and seeing a lot of sand and flies but no action. On being demobbed back in London in 1945, he found his young bride had disappeared with another young serviceman, never to be seen again. That was marriage number one. He married again some years later, and Pat lost contact with him for the next couple of decades.

  On 8 May 1945, the World War II Allies formally accepted the unconditional surrender of the armed forces of Nazi Germany and ended the reign of terror that was Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich. This day was to become known as VE Day and on that day, London had a party. More than a million people celebrated in the streets. Crowds massed in Trafalgar Square and up The Mall to Buckingham Palace, where King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, accompanied by Prime Minister Winston Churchill, appeared on the balcony of the Palace before cheering crowds. Little Princess Elizabeth and her sister Princess Margaret were allowed to wander anonymously among the crowds and take part in the celebrations. Many London streets had their own parties. Sugar rations were splurged and powdered egg squandered in the making of cakes and sweet buns and all was brought out to load onto tables that had been set up down the middle of the streets. For one day at least, the citizens of London were going to have a feast.

  The war in Europe was over but for the civilian population of Britain many hardships remained. Rationing of food and clothing was to continue for some years. Britain was to undergo many years of rebuilding, on both the social and architectural levels. In 1941, the government had commissioned a report into the ways that Britain should be rebuilt after World War II. William Beveridge, a British economist and social reformer, was given the job. In 1942, he published a much-respected report on social insurance. He believed that ‘the purpose of victory is to live in a better world than the old world’. His was a vision of wide-ranging reform, including a more effective and comprehensive social insurance system, a free and universal health service, full employment and a reformed education system. It was this vision of a ‘New Jerusalem’ that the new Labour Government, elected in July 1945 under Clement Attlee, was to embrace.

  Over the next few years, while Britain was recovering from the ravages of war, life went on pretty much as usual for Pat and her family. By 1949 she had had her fill of being fancy free and had fallen in love with a good-looking young man called Kenneth England. It was time to settle down.

  Early in the New Year, Pat and Ken were married in the same place her mother and father had been married — the Registry Office at the Brixton Town Hall. This wedding was a much happier affair. And yes, there were photos taken and I have one. There is 23-year-old Pat, smiling at the camera, looking charming in an elegant fur jacket over a pleated skirt, a smart little hat perched on her curls and what looks like two strands of pearls at her throat. Her handsome husband Ken was looking both smart and happy in his double-breasted suit, his dark hair brushed back from his face. They are standing on the steps together; young, vibrant, looking to their future in a world n
o longer at war.

  Later that year, their first child was born, a boy they baptised Kenneth Henry but was always known as Harry. Over the next few years, three more children were born — Angela, Rosemary and Isobel. A family photo taken some 10 years after Pat and Ken married shows a smartly dressed family, children’s hair combed and neat. Pat and the children are sitting on the settee, the youngest two on Pat’s knee. Ken sits in an armchair next to the settee looking thin and old beyond his years. Pat on the other hand looks radiant, her pretty young face smiling cheekily at the camera, her arms around her children.

  In 1955, Pat and Ken had bought an attractive little house at 26 Elmworth Grove, a leafy little enclave close to West Dulwich railway station and Dulwich Common. This was to be the family home until 1973.

  While the children were still very young, tragedy had struck the family. Ken was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. With no known cure and a generally slow decline in bodily and mental functions, it is a particularly cruel disease. For some years after he was diagnosed he hid his condition from the family pretending all was well, but as the disease progressed Ken could no longer work and Pat had to keep the family afloat by working as a hairdresser from home. Luckily, Pat has a very positive attitude to life, and she would need that inner resilience over the next two decades. There were four children to raise and educate, food, clothing and household needs to purchase and it was mainly down to Pat to provide this. Sadly Ken died of pneumonia on Christmas Eve in 1969 during a brief respite visit to hospital. He was 45 years old.

  It was unimaginably difficult for Pat to bring up four children and care for an ailing husband virtually on her own, but I have never heard her complain of these years that must have been financially difficult and physically demanding. Wackie, ever faithful, ever reliable was, I am told, a mainstay of the family, giving Pat her constant support and the children a loving and dependable grandmother. My favourite photo, and the way I like to remember Pat’s early life, shows Wackie and Pat sitting back to back on a wide windswept sandy beach. Both women are smiling. Pat is pointing to something unseen in the distance and Wackie’s head is turned to see what Pat is pointing at. I know that Wackie was always an important part of Pat’s life and to me this photo encapsulates their love of each other. They sit, shoulders resting comfortably against each other, both sweet faced, young, slim and pretty — it is hard to tell who is the mother, who the daughter. This is the only likeness I have of Wackie as a relatively young woman, and I can see the similarity in their features and in the comfortableness in their pose. I feel the strong bond between them that was to last all their lives.