On My Own

The rest of my story is not very exciting, but hard to tell in spots.  Len had left home, joined the British army and married a Swiss wife.  Their four children came and stayed with me for a few years while their father was overseas, and they attended the same village school Eileen and Len had.

Eileen and Allan were true to their word, and sent me the fare to visit them.  It was in a village called Nitro, near Montreal, where Allan was completing his university degree.  I am ashamed to admit I swiped a beautiful serving spoon from the ship’s buffet, since I had no extra money to buy Eileen a gift of any sort.  I stayed and visited all summer, such a happy time.  Their other grandmother had died, so I was left to be their only Granny.  Jean and I spent a lot of time together, and I taught her to knit.  That Christmas she sent me a scarf she had made, full of holes, but I wore it to remember her by.  On my last day in Canada Eileen lined the three children up and had them sing the sad “Now is the hour/when we must say goodbye/soon you’ll be sailing/ far, far away . . .”  I remember we all cried.  I still have the photo on my dresser that Eileen took, of me surrounded by the children, including little baby Alex, whose second name was Bruce, after my maiden name.  I never went back to Canada, although Eileen visited me a few times, especially when she and Allan spent three years in Germany.

The years went by so quickly!  Len grew up into a responsible man finally, and came to see me once in a while, although his father never visited once I was on my own.  Eventually he died, and I applied for his widow’s pension.  Imagine my horror when I got an official letter saying that Mrs. James had already received it!  I had suspected he kept a woman in London, but married her?  It was one of the worst moments of my life, believe me, but what could I do?

Luckily my pension and my garden saw me through until I was no longer able to get around.  I am quite comfortable here in this nursing home, and they take good care of us.  I get letters and cards from my children and grandchildren, and imagine them all out and about in the world, although none of them are in England.  I’m getting tired of talking about it all now, and I feel tired.  Would you see if someone could bring me a cuppa?  Thanks, love.