MY SOUL TO KEEP - CHAPTER 4 - DORIS SAUNDERS 15.6.1920-30.6.2000

Doris Marsh was an interesting child. She was quick and eager to learn, and did well at elementary school. She soon learned to read, and would spend hours poring over books her teacher, Miss Gertrude Brown, was only too pleased to lend her.

Most of the children were just biding their time at school, waiting eagerly to be old enough to go to work. Indeed, many of them
seldom bothered to turn up, often 'hopping the wag', hanging round the London streets or trying to earn a few pence cleaning shoes or running errands. Not that there was much to be earned in this poor part of South-East London. Many men had gone off to the Great War and had never come back, or returned as empty shadows of themselves, so that many of the women just had to work, to feed their families.

Doris considered herself one of the lucky ones; her father had heeded the call to arms in 1914, but lost a leg in the trenches and was sent back home in 1916. The war did not seem to have affected him too badly; he did sometimes become lost in deep thought, and was never free from the terrible cough caused by the mustard gas; but apart from that he managed well enough, and was soon working where he could, being a resourceful man. He set himself up as a 'snob' - he mended shoes - the carefully printed sign in their window read :-

SHOES MENDED NEATLY.

Her mother took in washing, although heaven knows she had enough of her own to do, with seven children to care for, and herself already feeling older than her years, with the onset of severe arthritis.

Her two older brothers helped out too, and by the time she was 12, her father already dead, she had taken over the running of the house, as her mother was now disabled with arthritis. Still, she read everything she could get her hands on. She was determined to make something of herself, and learned anything and everything. Her teacher encouraged her as much as she could, but there was no other school, and Doris would have to leave at 14, probably getting married and having her family, like everyone else. Such a waste.

Resolving to work her way out of this terrible poverty - the girls had even had to share clothes and school shoes - she made the best of it, and worked hard in the canning factory, looking after her mother as best she could after her elder sisters had married and left home. She worked hard and managed to earn enough to keep herself in nice clothes, and indulge her great passion - hats.

Her poor father had tried his best to look after his large family, but was worn out and desperately tried everything he could to earn some money. The Depression hit London hard, and few men, especially those who were disabled or infirm, could find proper work. He died in 1930, a proud man brought low by poverty, eventually killed by a stomach ulcer. His family knew he had died of despair.

When war broke out in 1939, Doris' elder sister Violet was evacuated with her young son to a village in Surrey, but she did not like her host family much - she said later it was the husband - he was always 'giving her funny looks'. Instead of returning to the bombing in London - South London was getting it really badly - she went off to stay with a distant relation of her father in Amerington, in Hampshire.

Doris, who was much more adventurous than her sisters, decided to go down on the train with Vi and baby Freddie, as her sister was quite nervous of travelling all that way on her own.

It was a long and uncomfortable journey; still, Doris enjoyed it, keeping little Freddie amused and pointing out the various animals in the fields - he had never before seen a cow! They were not the only ones alighting at Amerington station; there was a young airman, wearing wings on his uniform, lugging his kit off the train as he looked round for his lift.

The two girls were not met, as their cousin was not sure when they would be coming, and the airman, seeing their uncertainty, offered his assistance. Doris blushed a little, but she met his eyes boldly and showed him the address they were looking for. Just then his mother arrived in a rather ramshackle van, and offered them all a lift.

They were dropped off at cousin Amelia's house, which was right in the middle of the village, and waved to the young man - who by now Doris had ascertained was called Henry - and his Mother as they trundled to the other side of town.

Next day, he was back on Amelia's doorstep, and Doris never looked back.

They were married on 7.3.41 in Doris' local church in London, when he was home on a short leave. Everyone pooled their coupons, and her Mum's friend Cissy's daughter May was able to lend her a lovely white silk wedding dress and veil, complete with two beautiful blue bridesmaids dresses, ideal for her sister Elsie and Henry's sister Anne.

There was not much alteration to be done, and in spite of the fact that the church had no roof and was covered in dust due to recent bombing, it was a lovely wedding. Not many brides wore white in those days - rationing ensured that wedding dresses and the trimmings were hard to come by - so all the locals turned out to watch Doris on her big day. She felt like a queen.

As they cut the chocolate wedding cake made by Mum - white icing was not available - the only thing spoiling her happiness was the thought that Harry was off again the next day on another posting.

Hurricane pilots had a very short life expectancy. Henry was no different. He was shot down over France in 1942, but incredibly was rescued from the wreckage of his plane by some sympathetic and very brave French locals, who managed to patch him up and get him back home via the resistance network.

Doris' mother had died just before the news that Henry was safe reached London, and Doris left her job - she had been called up to work in a munitions factory as part of the war effort - and went back to Hampshire to await her husbands' return. Nothing could prepare her for what she saw when he arrived at her mother-in-law's house several months later.

She kissed his poor burned face, her tears falling as she resolved to look after him for the rest of her life. They lived as normal a life as they could, but Henry never fully recovered, and his heart gave out in April 1945.

His grave is the stark white cross over there, in a special place with memorials of a similar kind, marking the resting places of others who had died in the service of their country. Every year Doris placed a fresh wreath there on Armistice Day. She never forgot her handsome airman, and she never married again.

Who will bring poppies this year?

Perhaps their son Peter, born a year before his father's death, will make the journey back to tend the graves; but he is far away; the other side of the world, in Australia with his family.

Many times he asked his mother to come and live with them; but she was unwilling to leave the village, except on several wonderful visits to meet her grandchildren. Now Peter has made perhaps his last sad journey to this English village, and laid his dear mother to rest. He went back only yesterday to his new life with his Australian wife and children. That is the way of things.

But Doris will not be forgotten in these parts; when her son was growing up, she continued her love of reading, and when he had gone away to learn to be an accountant in London, she turned her hand to writing. She started off with short stories for Women's magazines, and by the time she was 60 she had written a couple of romantic novels. Turned 70, she even mastered the computer, and her last few novels were composed entirely without the aid of pen and paper or typewriter! Her grandchildren were most impressed, and her son very proud of her. She became quite a celebrity in the village; the latter part of her life was happy and comfortable, surrounded by friends and good companionship.

How annoyed she was when what she thought was a touch of Summer flu turned into pneumonia, and carried her off, protesting, just a couple of weeks after her 80th Birthday. Quite convenient though, she had thought to herself as she lay in bed, Peter had come over for the birthday celebrations, and now he stayed on, to wave her off on her last journey, where a handsome airman would be waiting for her at the station. This time he would greet her by name.

Come, my friend, I see your eye is caught by that large tomb in the highly honoured spot by the church door. The name on the inscription is

LOUIS OF AMERING.