It’s strange to return to our ‘roots’. This weekend we took a train to Newcastle, which is where my mum, a Geordie, had one of the few pleasurable experiences in her young life. Her dad took her to see Peter Pan in between the wars, and a short while later, he died.
Mum was born in 1914 in the pit village of Washington, which was then in County Durham. Her Da wasn’t a pitman but he and his brother ran a couple of shops. Mum’s was in Brady Square, which still exists in Washington Station, though as a house. Her mum died when mum was two. My grandma, Annie, was off her head with sepsis and took poison. Mum’s dad was at war, Mum’s brother, my uncle Stan, was seven.
We think times are hard now, but you ain’t seen nothing, if you weren’t living then. The depression was in high gear, war trauma was rife, jobs were scarce. My grandfather killed himself when mum was eleven, soon after he had taken his children to Peter Pan. Post Traumatic Stress, which is one of the reasons I started the charity Words for the Wounded.
I’m not really sure of sections of my mother’s life, but I do know she ran amuck as an orphan until a cousin came to Washington from Gosforth, looking for her. This cousin took mum, now 14, to live with her, sending her to school. Into a class of 7 year olds little Annie Newsome (as she was called) went, to learn to read and write. In time Mum, also an Annie, trained as a nurse.
She worked at the Royal Victoria Hospital as the 2nd World War broke out, and is mentioned in Brenda McBryde’s book, A Nurse’s War. Mum became a military nurse, travelled to India to look after the troops in the Burma campaign, meeting my dad, an RAF pilot, on the convoy going over.
As children my sisters and I used to go to Uncle Stan’s shop for our school holidays. It was the shop where my grandfather died. It is now a house and we were shown round by the current owner last year. My mother would have been sitting up on a cloud roaring with laughter, because he told us the shop was bought on my uncle’s death by a Madam, who ran a knocking shop, until closed down by the police. She spent a bit of time in clink and featured in a national newspaper. Tall story or the truth? Who knows.
Anyway, now I go up north as often as I can. It has changed beyond measure. The pits are gone, the slag heaps too. It is steadily regenerating. Though it has changed it is still ‘home’ and to arrive is a relief, to leave is not. It is an area that informed my writing. Indeed, my first novel After the Storm was based on events in mum’s life. My writing gave my mum immense pleasure. She liked to paint, my father wrote poetry. Perhaps between them they gave me a talent, but it was the north east which gave me inspiration, and continues to do so.
