Indeed it was good to be back to my normal self. The previous week I had written a letter to a young man, ending a four month long courtship—or rather, entanglement. As a young seventeen-year-old, I had been flattered by the attentions of Raymond, a serious and sober-minded church warden ten years my senior. During my infatuation and under his influence, I began to think cheerfulness and humour were signs of a shallow mind and sinful heart, and that a melancholy approach to life befitted true Christians. I held myself aloft from Pa’s humorous comments, which I had previously enjoyed, and tried to cultivate an air of thoughtful silence. Raymond thought I had too much “book learning,” so I stopped voicing my opinions. Raymond thought women should look to their husbands for answers and not trouble their pretty little heads reasoning things out for themselves, so I tried to look decorative, pretty, and receptive to his wisdom.
The spell was finally broken when I was invited to his parents’ house for Sunday tea and saw the appalling way his careworn and nervous mother was treated by her husband and sons. I suddenly had visions of myself becoming such a down-trodden, unpaid servant with a wedding band. Of course, Raymond managed to get the last word, for I received a reply to my letter stating that I was “an unsuitable partner for a man of his standing.” Indeed, I was most unsuitable, for once again I could run and skip, laugh and chat, and enjoy my father’s humour in a way that I had denied myself for far too long.
“Oh, Pa, it is good to be back to normal, and thank you for not being sullen like your esteemed church warden.”
“My pleasure, my dear,” said Pa, “but why should Christians be sullen? We have so much lavished upon us here by our heavenly Father and a wonderful future in glory to enjoy.”
“You are quite right, Pa,” I replied, “and I hope I never forget that!”
“Then just be careful who you make sheep’s eyes at next!”
The following evening, Pa came home looking pale and exhausted.
“More children are feverish,” he announced as he sank into his chair.
“Then do let me come to the camp and help you,” pleaded Ma.
Pa shook his head: “No, my dear, I don’t want you running into danger. Not after all you have suffered recently with your rheumatics.”
“Then I shall come, Pa,” I said.
“No. You two stay away and respond to requests from here. But I would appreciate your prayers. Finally, now there is danger, the hoppers are wanting my prayers and are asking the right sort of questions, so I need much wisdom. And stamina.”
It was not until Pa came home with the sad news of two deaths in the camp that we realised the seriousness of the situation and of Pa’s selfless care for the Londoners.
The following day, through grief, fear, and some superstition, many of the hop pickers hastily returned to London, leaving the frantic farmer to rally a local workforce. Even the gypsy families, who came to the village as soon as there was any seasonal work to be done, shut their bewildered children into their wagons, put their squawking poultry into baskets, and left the neighbourhood as quickly as their straining ponies could pull them.
Pa’s workload returned to normal, but he was left exhausted and drained. Within days he himself was confined to bed with a raging fever. Dr. Skinner was suspicious of typhus and with a heavy heart warned us that it could be mild or fatal. He recommended to us a trusted nurse from the neighbouring village, but Ma declined, insisting on attending to Pa’s every need herself. She would not leave the bedside, day or night, and with great intuition seemed to know if Pa’s restlessness indicated a need for a cold compress or hot-water bottle, fresh air or a window closed. Her expressions of love to Pa and her dry, gnarled fingers caressing his pale face brought tears to my eyes.
Some days Pa was more responsive and communicative than others, and during those times he often wanted us to sing his favourite hymns. Ma and I tried our best to oblige, but when Pa’s once-strident voice joined in as a weak croak, it brought such a huge lump to our throats that we could hardly conceal our emotions. He also wanted us to read from the Scriptures, especially from St. John’s Gospel, so we took turns sitting next to him, holding his hand and reading, particularly concentrating on Christ’s High Priestly prayer. Pa knew it by heart, and his lips moved with ours as we went through the chapter.
The days when Pa was well gave us hope that he would recover, but this was not to be. In early October, Pa died in his sleep, as easily and comfortably as a worn-out child falls asleep on his parent’s lap, and was taken to his eternal reward. We knew with all certainty that he was now with Christ, which is far better—the Lord he had served faithfully and recommended so warmly, but we sorely missed him. The grief affected us in different ways: I busied myself from dawn to dusk with replying to condolence messages and running the much neglected house, whilst Ma was paralysed with grief and seemed to have given up the will to continue. I nursed Ma day and night, desperately pleading with the Lord to spare her to me. I clung to her frail body as if my hold on her would prevent her departing.
“Ma,” I said as I stroked her tangled hair, “do you remember the time you got rid of Uncle Hector by serving him over-cooked beef and boiled cabbage for days on end? He was always recommending Ramsgate as a place to convalesce. Maybe I could take you there when you are strong enough. Can you remember the time Bessie and I fell into the stream and you found tadpoles in my bloomers?”
Sometimes I was rewarded with a weak smile, but mostly she seemed unreachable.
“Ma, the hedgerows are still full of blackberries, and the trees laden with elderberries, so as soon as you are well, we can start making jam and jellies again. Won’t it be lovely to fill our picking baskets with the juicy gleanings and smell the sweet mixture as it bubbles in the pan? You always say it is your favourite smell. Oh, Mama, please stay with me; please don’t leave.”
The thought of being left alone without either of my parents gave my prayers the raw urgency of the psalmist. But Ma had neither the strength to fight the illness nor the will to live on earth any longer. Ten days after my father’s death, she joined him, slipping quietly away from me and from this life to her heavenly home and to joy unceasing, leaving me alone and comfortless.
My grief and desolation were indescribable. The only life I had ever known had been swept away, and I was left to pick up the pieces, but there did not seem to be any pieces left to be picked up. I struggled to comprehend the finality of my parents’ departure and could hardly grasp the fact that I would never see their faces, hear their voices, or embrace them again. I longed to hear Pa’s whistling and see Ma hobbling about the kitchen humming to herself, but they were gone forever, leaving only silence and emptiness. Time and time again the reality of it all hit me afresh, the punch never decreasing in strength or painfulness.
Throughout my parents’ illnesses Mrs. Brown, our washerwoman, had been a valuable support, visiting every day and preparing meals. Now she became my mainstay, helping with all practical arrangements, shielding me from visitors and even moving in so that I was not alone. Mercifully, I became ill myself and was forced to spend a few days in bed, mainly sleeping, and thus I was rather detached from the organisation of funeral affairs. Sleep was a welcome escape for me and I prayed that I, like my parents, would wake on a brighter shore, but I always awoke in my own room at the vicarage and the awful reality of my bereavement would hit me again with fresh pain and clarity.
Uncle Hector, my father’s one and only sibling, but with whom he had nothing in common, took over funeral arrangements and stayed in the village for a week to help sort out my parents’ affairs. He informed Mrs. Brown that he wanted to take me back to London with him, but I was well enough to realise that this would be an awful prospect.
“Please, Mrs. Brown, don’t make me! I don’t want to live in a stuffy town house in the middle of London where I know no one except awful Uncle Hector.”
“But what is so awful about ’im, my dear?” asked Mrs. Brown. “He seems a very obliging man to me.”
“He never spoke one good word about Pa, always belittling him and his work in the parish and always boasting about his own achievements in local government.”
“’E must be a clever man.”
“Humph, only in his own opinion! And then I would have to accompany him to Bath, Ramsgate, or Tunbridge Wells for him to drink the waters or inhale the sea air for his much talked about and fussed-over chest complaint.”
“So you would meet lots of wealthy people.”
“But they are not my type!”
“And ’e be rich, and you will lack for nothing,” continued Mrs. Brown.
“I will lack! I will lack Pemfield, I will lack my old friends, and I will lack you,” I cried. “Oh please, don’t make me go! I won’t be a nuisance here, I promise.”
“Then you will stay, my child, and I am right glad you want to,” said Mrs. Brown as she hugged me tight.
So Mrs. Brown somehow persuaded Uncle Hector that I would be better off among old friends and in familiar surroundings and he returned alone—probably much relieved—to London.
I regained my physical well-being, but my emotions were in turmoil. I felt guilty for letting Pa work himself to death, for not nursing Ma more expertly, and for not dying myself. I felt let down by the Lord, Who allowed all this to happen to me and then I felt guilty for feeling such rebellion. I could not understand what God was doing to me, yet I clung to Him as my only hope of recovery. I knew that He never gave Job an explanation for what happened in his life and He was under no obligation to give me one either.
I missed my parents and our life together so much that it was a physical ache. I found some comfort in the text “Underneath are the everlasting arms,” as support was promised however low I sank. I desperately wished I had a sibling for comfort with whom I could reminisce about home life and share old stories and jokes. But I was an only child, due to the fact that my parents met comparatively late in life.
Ma had been the local school mistress and was secretly seen by the locals as too old-fashioned and religious to ever marry. She had come to the same conclusion herself and had tried to bury the sadness it gave her by being a diligent and kind teacher to all children that came to her small school. She had been well liked and respected by both pupils and parents alike. The elderly vicar of the village retired to live with his daughter in Sussex, and my father became the new incumbent. His evangelical zeal came as a surprise to the villagers who had been used to a vicar who worked only on the Lord’s Day. He began giving a Bible lesson once a week at the school and soon recognised Ma’s virtues. Before long the pair started walking out and then married.
The rather reserved school mistress blossomed into a smiley and friendly vicar’s wife, showing a side of her that had been kept under wraps for many years. My father’s monkish establishment was transformed to a regulated and loving household. At last he had found a companion to share his dreams and sorrows, and to laugh with him about the various foibles of his parishioners. To my parents, marriage was an unexpected blessing, and the subsequent arrival of a baby was their cup running over.
But now the cosy union of this trio was severed and I was left alone. Mrs. Brown kindly listened to my tearful, incoherent recollections of daily life and held me in her arms as I ended up sobbing. She decided it would be best if I went to stay with her in her little cottage and I reluctantly agreed. From there she could carry on her normal daily routine and mother me as best as she could. With tender intuition she gave me time to grieve but also involved me in her chores and socialising as she felt appropriate, so I was not left to sink into the whirling pool of my own thoughts and sorrows.
Miss Miller, the school mistress, frequently called around in the evenings to chat about her day, invite me for a walk or invent some other way of distracting me from my grief. Miss Miller and I had not always enjoyed a good relationship: when I first started school Miss Miller seemed to demand a higher standard of behaviour from a vicar’s daughter. I was supposed to be a beacon of virtue and an example to other girls, but instead I behaved just like the rest of them. Thanks to Ma’s teaching, I found the work rather easy, so had plenty of time to draw silly pictures (often of Miss Miller) on my slate and share them with my row of friends. More than once I was caught and had my knuckles severely whacked. But as the work became more demanding I began to appreciate Miss Miller’s knowledge.
My best friend Bessie left school at the age of fourteen to help on her family farm, but my parents thought that I should stay in schooling longer and learn as much as possible. By this time I was enjoying the challenge of studying and, due to a common interest in geography, had a better relationship with Miss Miller. Each morning I helped her teach the infants and then in the afternoon continued my studies independently. Seeing the little ones progress from total ignorance of their ABCs to reading and writing at a reasonable level was rewarding, but it required such repetition and patience that I vowed never to become a governess or school mistress.
This classroom arrangement lasted only a year, for Ma’s rheumatism had progressed at an alarmingly rapid pace, and it was decided that I should stay at home to care for her and the household. This I did willingly, and much to our relief, Ma’s condition stabilised. Miss Miller continued her contact with the family by having tea with us once a week and amusing us with surprisingly witty tales from the classroom. She kept herself aloof from the villagers and lived a very solitary life but enjoyed a warm friendship with my parents and appreciated Pa’s preaching. Whether out of compassion for me or a sense of indebtedness to my parents, Miss Miller made it her job to support me, and she proved a good friend and an excellent shoulder to cry on.
I gained great comfort from the many letters of condolence I received. Various villagers and even people I had never met wrote to me, expressing their gratitude for my parents’ kindness and generosity; they paid tribute to my parents’ thoughtfulness and the usefulness of my father’s ministry. Pa had been very quick to see where there was a need and quietly supplied what was lacking: a bag of coal, a bottle of tonic, or in one case, a pair of working boots. As I read of how my parents had touched so many lives with their kind words and gifts, I felt privileged and thankful to have been their daughter. I had been greatly blessed in having these two loving people nurture me to adulthood and instill in me some of their values and beliefs. The letters helped me begin to slowly acknowledge that “the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.”