Broth Again For Dinner

By Florence Coombe

Set in the aftermath of the First World War, Broth Again For Dinner introduces us to a young girl, Florence, from Whitland, Carmarthenshire, whose resilience and humour carried her through a life of hardship and one where comfort was scarce. 
Florence's words, which vividly describe her life up to the age of 16, have now tumbled into life, leaving the reader moved and warmed by the picture which she has so vividly painted.
A significant contribution to the social narrative of rural South Wales in the 1920s and 1930s, Broth Again For Dinner offers us a poignant insight into the life of a girl on the brink of womanhood and the changes that lie ahead.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scimitar Edge
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915692344

Book preview

Chapter One

I can remember my Father spreading some newspapers on the floor of his workshop and telling me to lie down. I was only nine years old and obeyed him unquestionably. That’s how it was in our house. You didn’t question anything; you just did as you were told.

Looking down at me and thrusting both hands into the large front pocket of his apron, he fumbled around and produced a large folding ruler with which he proceeded to take my measurements. Firstly my total length, then my width across my chest, hips and then feet.

With a wave of his hand, he motioned me to get up. Naturally I was puzzled, and asked him what he was doing, but he did not seem to hear me. His mind seemed deeply occupied as his tongue rolled the dirty stub of a cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. Feeling behind his ear, he produced a pencil and, looking over his bench; he picked up a small piece of wood and proceeded to write down my measurements on it. Still wondering, I again asked him why he was measuring me. There was no reply. His mind still seemed far away as though I was not there, so I just skipped off to look for someone to play with.

Two days later, at school, I learned that a girl in the village, of about my age and size, had unfortunately died during the night, and Dad, anticipating the usual favoured instructions, had started making her coffin.

Dad called himself a Builder and Decorator and worked quite a lot for himself. Apart from the usual papering and painting jobs for local people, he sometimes won a contract to paint the local school during school holidays. Occasionally he gained a contract to renovate chapels.

When work was scarce, as it often was, he was able to work for his brother, Austin, who was the main Undertaker in our Welsh village.

In the early twenties, poverty and large families seemed to be the order of the day, and we were no exception. We were a family of four girls and three boys. Dad was more than grateful to be able to work for Uncle Austin at all and any hour of the day or night in his Undertaking business, because death takes no account of time, just as our entry into this world is often at an unearthly hour.

Dad was bred and born in Whitland, a small village in South Wales. He himself was one of sixteen children, twelve of whom survived and lived in and around Whitland. We had an aunt and uncle or cousins in almost every street. Most of the Thomases, Dad’s family, were in business, one way or another, but Uncle Austin, being the eldest, inherited the family Undertaking Business and Furniture Shop from Grandpa Thomas, after his death at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Although, as I have said, large families were common, we seemed to be the only large family amongst the Thomases, and this, no doubt, accounted for our almost permanent lack of funds. We were, in every sense, the poor relations.

Mother was a native of Dowlais, a coal mining town near Merthyr Tydfil. Her mother and father died within four months of each other, and so Mum was orphaned at twelve years of age. At eighteen, with her brothers and sisters, Mum left Wales and emigrated to Canada, as did many people at that time, due to the closure of the coal mines, with its consequent mass unemployment and Depression.

Mum went into domestic service in Winnipeg, Manitoba. And her sister, our Aunty Sadie, became Companion/Help to a rather rich widowed lady. The Welsh people in Winnipeg naturally clung together and formed The St. David’s Club. It was during a visit to this club that Mum was introduced to Dad, who had emigrated to Canada some months before. Two years later they married in Winnipeg and my eldest sister Ada was born the following year.

Dad, I think, was missing his family and was a little homesick for Wales. He persuaded Mum to make the trip home to Wales with him for a long holiday, promising her they would then return to Canada. Reluctantly, Mum agreed and they made the long journey by sea to Liverpool and by train to Whitland.

Mum must have felt overwhelmed by the large family of Thomases who greeted her on Whitland Station. It was late at night and very dark. Had she seen just where she had come to, she could well have been forgiven for feeling like going back all the way to Canada, because in Canada I imagine Whitland would have been referred to as a one horse town. Nevertheless, it was Dad’s home and he must have been delighted to be reunited with his family again.

Chapter Two

The next few weeks found Mum getting to know her in-laws, who were all thrilled with the baby and Grandpa Thomas was especially proud of his first grandchild. Dad, of course, was very happy to be back in Wales amongst his family again. Even so, Mum began to feel depressed and unhappy, and was anxious to know when they would be returning to Canada. I believe Dad secretly wanted to settle in Wales again, and the outbreak of the First World War more or less decided the issue.

Like most other young men, Dad realised he had a decision to make. He did not enlist for the Forces, but left Whitland to do work of National Importance. He was not employed in the making of munitions, but was engaged in the supervision of the building of urgently needed new factories.

Mum found herself living in a small house owned by Grandpa. It had no gas, no electricity and no running water. However, she was nevertheless expected by the Thomases to be profoundly grateful. Her second child was almost due now, her sister and brothers were all married and settled in Canada so understandably, Mum was lonely and finding the going very hard. Fortunately she had wonderful friendly neighbours. Those were the days of the small terraced houses with daily chats over the garden fence, alas, fast disappearing. These were neighbours who were extremely kind to Mum. When she felt lonely and unhappy, as I believe she often did, these neighbours were right there to help and support her. Had it not been for Mrs Jones, Mum would have been completely alone, whilst giving birth to Norman. They were indeed a godsend to Mum in those long and lonely years of the First World War.

Dad came home occasionally, when he could and he cheered Mum up no end, so much so that he managed to invariably leave her pregnant almost every time. Nevertheless he would encourage her and help her to keep going, promising her that the dreadful war would soon be over and that soon they would be together for always.

At last the Armistice was signed and Dad arrived home again, just in time for my birth in December 1918. I was their fifth child. They were now the proud parents of four daughters and one son, so poor Mum must have had a very hard time indeed during those war years, but at least she would not be struggling without Dad any more.

Mum’s sister our Aunty Sadie and her husband came over from Canada to visit Mum for three weeks just after the war ended. Mum must have been overjoyed to see them, but dreadfully saddened when they left again for Canada. In fact Mum never really settled in Whitland, at least not mentally. She was always talking about Canada, how different everything was over there and how lucky Aunty Sadie was, living in a beautiful large house in Winnipeg. She was still Companion/Help to the rich widowed lady. She had as comfortable a life as Mum’s was the opposite, but she wrote frequently to Mum, probably trying her best to understand Mum’s situation, helping her to carry on and I think promising Mum better things one day, after Mrs McIntyre’s (the rich widow) days.

It was all like carrot to Mum; Aunty Sadie’s words were in her mind most days. Mum had a lot of children, Aunty Sadie had none, and she would dearly have loved to have had at least one child. She was extremely good to us children. Never a birthday did she miss. Mum would furnish us with a piece of paper and a pencil, and long before our birthday was due, we would write Dear Aunty Sadie, for my birthday I would like ...............". She was about the only person my sister Doris and I had to boast about in school amongst our friends.

Our Aunty Sadie in Canada, who lived in a big house, at least ten stories high, it had steeples, huge private grounds, and she had a car and a chauffeur. Whatever our friends could boast about, our Aunty’s in Canada was bigger. She was our main benefactor at Christmas. I don’t know what Mum would have done without her. She was truly very kind to us all. When Mum sat down to write to her, that is, when she found the time to spare, it was more than any of us dared do to disturb her in any way. She had an air-mail pad and pen and ink, and once she started, she wrote non-stop for ages.

This exercise followed a distinct pattern for about two hours or more, it went thus:-

Dip pen into ink

Skit surplus ink of pen onto floor

Scratch, scratch, scratch across the paper

There was no deviation from this routine, in as much that the pattern on the coconut mat on the kitchen floor had distinct overtones of dark blue spots.

Poor Aunty Sadie, I wonder if Mum used to pour all her worries and troubles onto her. I have an idea that that is just what she did every time she wrote. She never once paused, wondering what to say, or write about, her pen just flew over page after page. I imagine she would have felt much relieved after this exercise and felt able to carry on living again. She probably felt hard put upon because Aunty Sadie had a good life compared with hers, which seemed an endless round of cooking, washing, baking, scrubbing and providing endless meals on a shoestring budget. I think that Dad had a permanent job trying to convince Mum that the grass was not always greener the other side of the fence.

I do not think that it was just the constant grind that made Mum unhappy, I think she was perhaps inwardly lonely, because the Thomases were not too kindly disposed towards her. They were all better off than we were, but I believe that even so, they were secretly envious of Mum and her large family. Doris and I may have only been about four and five years old, but I can recall our Auntys slyly lifting up our dresses to have a look at what we had on underneath, and perhaps to see how clean we were kept. Our clothes were shabby and threadbare no doubt, but they were always clean. Poor Mum, her hands were permanently wrinkled through constantly cleaning and scrubbing, and her nails were reduced to just tiny slits at the tops of her fingers. I think she must have reduced them to that state through constant rubbing on the metal washboard. She truly rubbed her fingers to the bone.

Chapter Three

Our terraced house was in the centre of Whitland. We were next door to the Post Office and opposite us was the local Town Hall. Our street also contained two grocer shops, our Uncle Sam’s drapery emporium, an ironmongery shop, a saddler and a cobbler who worked in his front room. The village was well served by more than enough shops. One of the prominent ones was Uncle Austin’s furniture shop in the main street, behind whose facade was the workshop where apart from the manufacture of good solid bedroom suites and other furniture, coffins were made.

When I was very young, Dad often took me to work with him whenever possible. I expect it was Mum’s idea; it gave her one less to look after, no doubt. I used to love to accompany him to Uncle Austin’s workshop. To reach this we had to walk through the shop, out to the back yard and from there, wooden stairs led up to the workshop where the coffins were made. I liked being there; it was sort of homely and warm. The floor was invariably well carpeted with wood shavings; the large open fireplace always had a huge glue pot hanging from a hook, over a lovely crackling wood fire. Frequently, there would be a coffin resting on a pair of trestles and Dad would be polishing it with long tedious strokes in between each coat of varnish. The smell of varnish pervaded everywhere, overpowering any other smells that were around. Unlike today’s mass production jobs, Dad’s end product was a shining masterpiece of real mahogany, complete with solid brass handles. Recalling the Depression of those days, one wonders how anyone afforded such luxury and only the best for their beloved departed ones.

Dad was paid the lowest possible wages working for Uncle Austin, but having all of us to feed and clothe, and work being hard to find, he had little choice. He was always on the lookout for a break by putting in the lowest Tender for some large contract or other and sometimes he was fortunate. Uncle Austin would allow him to leave the workshop for the duration of the job. So although he was paid only two pounds a week by Uncle, at least it was sort of regular money in between working for himself. I say sort of regular because I remember on more than one occasion Mum sending me over to Uncle on a Friday with, Please have you anything for Mum? and being told, No, I’m sorry, it’s been slack, not much business this week. I would innocently give Mum the exact reply and I remember her turning her face away, in case I saw the tears welling up in her eyes.