O! Call Back Yesterday Joy Trott

Wilfrid Laurier University Scholars Commons @ Laurier Books Scholars Commons @ Laurier 12-2012 O! Call Back Yesterday Joy Trott Follow this and additional works at: http://scholars.wlu.ca/books Part of the Women's History Commons Recommended Citation Trott, Joy, "O! Call Back Yesterday" (2012). Books. Book 1. http://scholars.wlu.ca/books/1 This Book is brought to you for free and open access by the Scholars Commons @ Laurier at Scholars Commons @ Laurier. It has been accepted for inclusion in Books by an authorized administrator of Scholars Commons @ Laurier. For more information, please contact [email protected]. In memory of Susan 1945 -1997 With thanks to Ruth without whose gentle prodding this would never have been written Some excerpts from Part II were published previously in The Memory of All That: Canadian Women Remember World War II, Compiled and edited by Ruth Latta. General Store Publishing House, 1992 O! Call back yesterday, bid time return. Shakespeare. Richard III, ii, 69 1 Contents PART I .............................................................................................................. 3 Chapter 1 ........................................................................................................................... 3 Chapter 2 ......................................................................................................................... 22 Chapter 3 ......................................................................................................................... 48 Chapter 4 ......................................................................................................................... 60 Pictures—Part I .............................................................................................................. 72 PART II .......................................................................................................... 75 Chapter 5 ......................................................................................................................... 75 Chapter 6 ......................................................................................................................... 93 Chapter 7 ........................................................................................................................ 104 Chapter 8 ........................................................................................................................ 131 Pictures—Part II ........................................................................................................... 144 PART III ...................................................................................................... 147 Chapter 9 ........................................................................................................................ 147 Chapter 10 ...................................................................................................................... 158 Chapter 11 ...................................................................................................................... 168 Chapter 12 ...................................................................................................................... 179 Chapter 13 ...................................................................................................................... 193 Pictures—Part III .......................................................................................................... 214 2 PART I Chapter 1 The myth is that as we grow older memories of our early years are more acute than those of the recent past. Perhaps. Certainly I find myself forgetful of some of the more important things in my present life. I make grocery lists then leave them on the kitchen table and come home with fiddle- heads (an impulse treat) rather than the cooking onions I need for dinner. I sometimes forget things my friends have told me, often at great length, about the complicated lives of their adult offspring; I sometimes overlook details in the lives of my own adult offspring. It can be disconcerting. On the other hand, supporting the myth, I do remember with clarity the exact layout of my grandmother’s kitchen; my smiling mother allowing me to see the new year in, I must have been about four, and giving me a little sip of sherry to mark the occasion; my father teaching me to ride my first bicycle. Advancing age might certainly be one factor, but I believe not the only explanation. As time goes on lives become so tremendously cluttered—there is just too much going on to keep our memories tidily organized. Perhaps one can also refer to the “life’s a stage” concept. When we are young we are centre stage at all times. We are given star billing and never upstaged by other actors; and often the applause is loud and sustained. As time goes on the cast increases in size and the story becomes more and more complex. The plot thickens, as they say, but there are also sub-plots, actors come on stage and take over for a time, sometimes they disappear and are never heard of again, sometimes they turn up again with new lines. Sometimes our play is a comedy and sometimes a tragedy. Some- times we are upstaged by other colourful players who divert audience attention with annoying bits of business. No wonder that sometimes we don’t recognise some important aspect of this drama. No wonder that sometimes we forget our lines, fail to recognise our cues. 3 The theatre of life analogy is an ancient and overworked literary convention but it is handy because it strikes such a recognisable chord and, although tattered, it works for a while. Here then are the opening acts of a very long life—not complete for one’s memories come in note form and much is missing. I have endeavoured, however, to capture these memories while I may for they cover a period that was interesting and indeed dramatic for many people—for my children, who only know bits of the story, my grandchildren who know even less and for myself because... I was born in Colwyn Bay, then a fashionable seaside resort in North Wales. It was my mother’s old home and she had gone there to be with supportive family for the birth of her first child. My grandfather, John Thomas, had been a photographer and probably a good one for the family if not wealthy was what was then called comfortable. He had had a studio in the town and had taught his two sons and two daughters to be proficient photographers although none of them followed him into the profession as a career. He had been married twice and my mother was the youngest of the meld- ed family. Ada and Percy were the two older children by his first wife and Sidney and Gwen, my mother, of his second. I never knew my grandfather, he died long before I was born, my grandmother, however, was one of the great joys of my childhood. The grandchildren always called her by the Welsh diminutive Gangan; like Queen Mary she had never taken to the modern short skirts, her hats were pure 19th century. She wasn’t a cosy grannie, rather a trim handsome woman but like my mother she had a charming smile. She taught me to sew a neat seam, seriously consideri.ng my laboured stitches, she took me on her lap and told me the stories children love to hear all about long ago, she was a confi- dante and a friend. We visited Colwyn Bay often, my mother and I, spending long summer holidays there with my father making occasional visits. We were always met at the train station by my Aunt Ada who lived with Gangan and I would insist that we took an open horse drawn carriage rather than one of the taxis drawn up in front. Aunt Ada had never married. The family story was that her sweetheart had been 4 killed in the war; a plump, comely woman, at that time I suppose in her mid-forties and some ten years older than my mother. Uncle Sid with his wife Ethel and children, Joan and Leslie, lived in Ban- gor, within easy visiting distance. He operated the three cinemas there, that is he was projectionist for the Plaza, the largest and newest, and general maintenance manager for the other two. Uncle Percy, shortly after WWI, married my grandmother’s housemaid and emigrated to Canada. No one seemed to think there was anything peculiar in this, in fact the family was inclined to go on about how beauti- ful Nan was, especially her long thick hair. Thin hair is the bane of the Thomas women and anyone with a good coiffure is much envied by us all. These times in Colwyn Bay are as clear to me now as they ever were. The old house was a delight, an enormous kitchen, dining room and drawing room downstairs, three big bedrooms and one small one up. I had the little room at the front, just large enough for a bed and a dressing table— tucked in at night I could hear the occasional hooting of the owls in the woods at the top of the hill. In the morning I would help Aunt Ada prepare breakfast—we took two trays upstairs, for Gangan and my mother, both of whom always breakfasted in bed, and then settled for a leisurely meal of our own in the big kitchen. In those pre-cholesterol days breakfast was crisp fried bacon, sometimes a soft boiled egg, finger toast with lots of butter. The real day started with Mr. Green, the milkman, coming to the front door with his huge can to fill our jugs—Ada had two big ones and I had a gill size, enough for the tea table. I was always allowed to greet his patient horse and sometimes treat it to an apple. I think I was very indulged but I was certainly a happy child. Evenings were spent in the front drawing room,

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