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A War Widow鈥檚 Love Story
By
Linda Wilkins Parker

When I was born, in 1942, my father managed to get leave. He hitched a lorry ride to London from his Staffordshire Regiment post and sat on the doorstep all night, not wanting to disturb the household. Then, as the story goes, when he heard activity in the early hours of the morning, he came in to find my mother hanging newborn clothing around the fireplace to dry and a scrawny, naked infant tucked up in the bed.
Not stopping to rest, he wrapped me in a blanket, scooped me up and strode proudly out of the house to show me off to all the neighbours. He was 26, my mother just 19, and London was being bombed to smithereens every night. The had lost their first child on Battle of Britain Day, September 15, 1940. Dad wanted us to evacuate. Mum wouldn鈥檛 hear of it. So we stayed and spent our nights in an Anderson shelter in the yard. Mum would help the elderly couple on the main floor into the shelter, then drop me down to them. When I became a toddler, I was allowed to fall, bouncing on the mattress; it was great fun.
Childhood recollections come in miniscule images 鈥� like running under the kitchen table when I heard air-raid sirens, waiting for Mum to come and get me; like being filled with excitement every morning when Nan Emery came by for tea after her all-night cleaning job; and, like the first time I ever felt sorrow, really felt it like an arrow in the heart, even at the age if two.
Dad had apparently convinced Mum to evacuate to the country in the early autumn of 1944 but I recall nothing from that experience except the stories she told me later. My next and most profound image is of being back in our home watching my mother鈥檚 anguish, her face seeming to crumble before my eyes, then of being on the pathway leading to my paternal grandmother鈥檚 house where Nan Wilkins stood waiting at the door as if she had heard my mother鈥檚 wails two districts away.
What transpired between these two women was later the inspiration for one of many poems my mother wrote of those days. I offer it now as
a living memorial to them both.
TWO WOMEN
By Ivy Emery Wilkins Miller
She took down from the mantelpiece
And clasped against her breast,
The picture of a little boy,
Her only happiness.
The tears coursed slowly down her cheeks
As this, I heard her say,
鈥淢y baby, oh my son, my son,
This is a bitter day鈥�.
My heart hurt like as 鈥榯ho a knife
Had been embedded there
As I held my own and his dear babe,
This was too much to bear.
For, as a mother, I understood
So well her grief and pain.
She saw him not as I 鈥� a man;
He was her child again.
While I recalled with broken heart,
A wedding day, no more to part,
The happiness that true love brings
And dozens of little poignant things.
I gently took the picture
She would treasure through the years,
And placing her grandchild in her arms,
I wiped away her tears.

And so, we went on together, Mum and me. Nan Emery had died just months before. Her funeral was to be the last time we would ever see my father, Lance Corporal William Leonard Wilkins, who was transferred to the 1st Worcestershire Regiment in France.
A letter, dated September 22, 1944, tells of a relatively restful night in the gardens of Dutch homes beneath the bridge at Nijmegan. They had taken the bridge and were about to make their way up that infamous 鈥榗orridor鈥� to Arnhem. He wrote with confidence of his 鈥渢rusty Bren gun鈥�. He wrote of the exhuberant welcome of the Dutch people and he wrote of his unwavering love for us. He did not write of the incessant rains, nor of the failure of communications, nor of the German tanks hidden beyond the trees, nor of the upcoming arduous journey on those narrow, muddy dyke roads.
On September 25, 1944, a letter came from the war office. Dad had been killed in action and buried in an apple orchard near Elst. But Mum did not know the exact place then, nor did she even want to believe he wasn鈥檛 coming home. This poem, chosen for publishing in 鈥淒ays of Victory鈥� by Alex and Ted Barris, says it all.
VE-DAY, 1945 by Ivy Emery Wilkins Miller
I heard the sound of a barrel organ
Drifting through the bomb-smashed pane;
Then other unfamiliar noises
Wakened me to dawn again.
People shouting, church bells pealing,
Factory whistles long and loud 鈥�
Opening wide the window,
Brought to view a happy crowd.
I called out to the newsboy, 鈥淲hat has happened?
Why the din?鈥�
鈥淚t鈥檚 peace,鈥� he said. 鈥淭he war鈥檚 been won!
My Dad鈥檚 coming home! The fighting鈥檚 done!鈥�
I guess he didn鈥檛 understand why I could not smile and my eyes grew dim
As I murmured, 鈥淭hank God鈥�
And clasped hands with him, for he asked,
鈥淲hy the tears? It鈥檚 over now.
Soon they will all be back home.鈥�
鈥淣ot all,鈥� said I, as I drew the blind,
For I might always be alone.
My tears were bitter as I denounced
The God I had just thanked;
I covered my ears up with my hands,
Wanting no part of rejoicing and bands.
Then came a tug at the side of the bed,
And a little girl clambered up and said,
鈥淟ove you Mummy. Don鈥檛 cry, it鈥檚 me!鈥�
And I instantly thought how much worse it could be.
So clasping her thankfully to my breast,
I asked God鈥檚 forgiveness and promised my best,
My best, just as they gave for you and for me,
That we might have peace and liberty.

Yes, the gift of peace and liberty came with a hefty price tag but it was not lost on those gallant women who carried on without their men, women like my mother who in 1947 sold her most prized possession, her mother鈥檚 piano, and with 40 pounds in her pocket brought me to a new life in Canada, taking a job as a chambermaid in Toronto to make ends meet and eventually marrying a Canadian veteran.
But England, and Holland, were never far from her thoughts. She visited her beloved homeland and Holland just twice over the next 47 years. Both trips were intense pilgrimages rather than holidays. And, she continued to research, writing hundred of letters, stories and poetry until she died in April, 2001.
On May 14, 2002, my son and I took Ivy's ashes to the Oosterbeek War Cemetery in Holland. Dozens of the dear Dutch friends she had met though her research gathered as we placed Mum鈥檚 remains in the war grave of her first and last love, my father. Fittingly, it would have been their 63rd wedding anniversary.

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