Pregnant, jobless, homeless
A young girl ‘in service’, what happened? We will never know
Victorian England, a harsh, unforgiving place. Society still reels from their pompous values
Destitute, young and with child. Only one place was left, the workhouse
Twenty years of charity and two more sons
Hard, severe, shameful years.
Her boys were educated, clothed, fed
She knew they must leave, the daily hell of her unforgiving prison
Soon just young Frank was left, his brothers gone. Jobs, families of their own.
A quiet boy, he clung to his mother
Three fatherless brothers, hardships endured, memories of difficult times
A distance between them a stigma, shame. Their fault or mothers, or both?
After too many years in that hard place, mother and Frank moved and life began to mend
A small house of her own, the first since childhood
Work for mother and son, still a hard life but so much better than before.
Dignity once more for this small family
No one now need know what pain had gone before
Frank worked hard, hot, dirty labour in the foundry
Then that dreadful war began, it took so many, destroyed so much
Who chose, who went where. Soldier, sailor, behind the lines or over the top
Frank was drafted eighteen years old, still a boy
Where did he go? The newly formed machine gun corps
When he was growing up would he ever have thought? He would not have chosen that
His record stated, he was a likeable man, a good soldier, honest, reliable and always looked after his gun
Life hadn’t prepared him for this
Hardship, hard work, a good son, all he had hoped was to be like his brothers
A job, a wife, children, to look after his mother
No your to be a machine gunner. You will serve your country, it needs you
We want you to do things, that you will never tell to a living soul
And he did, for three years, every day. It wasn’t his fault, what must he have seen, what must he have done
They told him he was one of the lucky ones
The war ended and he went home, to his life. “Chin up lad carry on just like before”
Sixty years pass
“Whats up Dad”
“Uncle Franks died”
“Whose uncle Frank”
A quiet man, private, solitary. As if he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t fit in
His family lost touch. Frank died alone in his room, no relatives could be found
An ad appeared in the local paper, too late
He had already been buried, alone, an unmarked paupers grave
Are roots what make us, shape us, define us?
I don’t know but I would like to have met him, talked with him, walked with him, gone to the pub
Inspired by The Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge – Digging for Roots “In this week’s Weekly Writing Challenge, tell us about what makes you, you.”
