from the memoirs of Helen, widow of the poet Edward Thomas
They fled, by train, to a poacher Edward named ‘Dad’. His own father made the Civil Service, rather than risky Dad’s wood-cottage. Green lit thatch like oaks, the emerald sheen of pheasants’ necks Dad wrung, unseen. Helen woke to a stitched quilt, lace, wet primrose by her breakfast place, Dad’s wife with bonny, gap-toothed face. The old voice told her, ‘Life turns hard. You must stew turnips, eke out lard.’ Then Edward called her from the yard. They swam unclothed, no thought of wrong, sang in broad lamplight, song on song. They would live so their whole lives long. But when both longed, in flight, to stay, Granny, with Dad, had moved away near Swindon’s red-bricked railway.
Note: Edward and Helen Thomas were still unmarried when they stayed with ‘Dad’ and ‘Granny’ Uzzell.
Bishop Norton, 1932
He made my mother, short at four, her own three-legged stool. His childless wife stoked their small fire, all sat as though at school. He read the paper to them both corn prices, fires in town, said often, sucking his lost teeth, ‘Long word!’ then carried on. Who taught my dark-eyed mother words before teachers’ tirade? Her quick but waspish mother, hired at fourteen, bored housemaid? She read. The pair loved afternoons, dazed by such cleverness. She loved their chocolate, curved like moons, held to their fire’s hiss. I cannot guess what fears then preyed. War, London, work, desire? I know that, old, she lived afraid. She rarely left her fire. A teacher once, she would not learn, gave days to jams and curds. I read the news, but silently. I still mistrust long words.