1947

My mum used to tell the story of her brother, Billy, who insisted that he was a year younger than everybody said he was. His reasoning was that during the first year of his life he was only 0. I can understand his thinking, perhaps it is a family trait. When I thought about writing about the first year of my life I was going to call it 1946 but I was born in the middle of November 1946 and most of the first year of my life was in 1947 so I’ll stick to that.  Uncle Billy would understand.

The winter of 1947 is famous for being extremely harsh. I was blissfully unaware of this, of course, as I was of any hardship that the people of Bradford were suffering a year or so after the end of World War II. I was unaware also that I had a mum, a dad and an older sister. The fact that my father had served throughout the war on an aircraft carrier and had experienced many life threatening dangers as the ship sailed thousands of miles around the world, was completely unknown to me in  1947.

Let’s name my family. Parents, Richard and Alice Clarkson, older sister, Moira. When I was born I believe it was my sister, six years old, who named me. She probably didn’t know but the name Susan was the most popular that year. Hence there are many women of my age who are called Susan or Sue or even Susie. I always felt somewhat disappointed that my name was so common and, ironically, my sister really disliked her own name because nobody else was called Moira. It was only in a conversation last year that we discovered that she always thought our mum had given her that name but in fact my mum told me that it was my dad. He had been doing some painting and decorating in a house and the family had a little girl called Moira who apparently was very sweet. He suggested the name to my mother. This issue of our names is quite interesting because I think Moira always wanted to fit in with everybody else whereas I always wanted to be different. 

My parents were married in 1936.  My mum was from an Irish family of mill workers. She grew up  ‘back o’t’ mill’ in the shadow of Lister’s Mill.

As far as I can make out my dad is from a Yorkshire family of mill workers. He was born in the magnificently named Tumbling Hill Street, very near the centre of Bradford. The university is now built on Tumbling Hill Street and I find that quite poignant. My dad, like many people in the early 20th century, was very clever but was unable to go on to further education because of the finances of the family.

My dad was born in 1908 and my mum in 1912. I know  World War I had an effect on both families but I have not yet found out what that might be. I know that my father’s parents, Emily and Bennett, married before either of them was 20 so my dad had really young parents. On the other hand my mum’s parents were older when she was born .She was the youngest of five. Her mother, Annie Cannon, died of Spanish flu in 1916. Her father Edward Cannon – I think they called him Teddy – died before my mum married.

I am at present finding out more about my family history through the Ancestry website.  Sifting through the regular emails from Ancestry containing hints about my relatives, I am becoming familiar with the names of my ancestors.  As well as my parents and grandparents, I am getting to know my great grandparents; Jane and James Clark, Richard and Elizabeth Clarkson, Solomon and Mary Longbottom and Michael Cannon and  his wife, my, as yet, unknown great grandmother from Barnsley. 

I don’t have family of my own although I have nephews, and niece, great nephews, great nieces and even three great great nephews and a great great niece. This is why I like to name and muse about my ancestors as they appear in the story of our family.   I have even discovered two great great great grandfathers who were born in the 18th century, Simon Clarkson and Stephen Longbottom. The search continues…

Back to the winter of 1947. Again I was completely unaware that I was born with a disability. At first they thought I was blind as my eyes had not formed properly but in fact I did have some vision in my right eye which has served me well over the years. It was an extremely difficult time for my mother. Not only was I born with poor eyesight and other health issues, but my dad was in hospital suffering, I think, from his first heart attack at the age of 38.  Sadly, our dad died in 1952.

Despite the harsh winter, the summer of 1947 was warm and sunny, at least if a little group of photographs taken in our front garden are anything to go by. My dad must have taken the photos because he isn’t in any of them. There is one with my mum sitting on the grass and holding a ball in front of me, I think to see if I was able to see and reach for it, and there are two with me and my sister. My favourite is one where I am in a small chair and Moira is standing behind me.  She is beaming, standing very straight with lovely blonde curls and in what I assume to be a very pretty frock. I am only a few months old and I seem to be intent on gazing at my foot. I think by that time they  knew I wasn’t blind. Apparently, my dad used to sit in front of me and roll a ball to see if I would see it coming. It seems that I was able to reach for the ball if it was on my right side but not on my left. I’ve also been told that my dad noticed that when I started to crawl I would knock into things on my left side, the side with the sightless eye.

In the garden on that sunny day with my sister, I could certainly see my foot and found it most interesting.

Here is a poem I wrote about this photo

Summer 1947

Baby

In the garden

Big sister, pretty dress,

Curly blonde hair, smiling sweetly,

Happy.

She looks

At her father

As he takes the photo

Of his two little girls, so soon 

Bereft.

He leaves

Few memories,

But precious nonetheless,

Of joyful days and bitter loss  

Hearts rent.