By Judy Opitz
My particular memory goes back some 90 years to when I was living with my rather troubled family in Tunbridge Wells, Kent. I was born six years after the end of the First World War. One chilly morning in December, when I was four years old, my mother decided to take me shopping to get some more goodies for Christmas and we headed for the large grocery store in the middle of town. We were just about to go into the shop when I noticed a raggedly dressed man, looking very unwashed, sitting propped up against the wall. Passers by were throwing coins into a cap beside him. His trouser legs looked empty, but I didn’t know why. I tugged on my mother’s arm and said, “Look, Mummy, what’s that funny man doing without any legs, and why doesn’t he go home and have a bath?” I felt her grip tighten on my arm and she sort of groaned and I looked up to see she was crying. I felt something was terribly wrong but had no idea what had upset her. How could I possibly have known the horror of the trenches or the aftermath when soldiers returned from that war to end all wars? Many of these veterans were still suffering from physical or mental scars, yet were being inadequately catered for by the Government. “Come on,” said my mother brushing her tears, “Let’s do the shopping and get on home.”
My Mother, Irene Molesworth (1897-1949) In 1916 |
I at age 6 |