Dorice Greenfield - War Time, Peace Time, My Time

by

Dorice Greenfield

For Reg, Susan and Graham

Our Mums life has been simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary: but if the following pages are anything to go by, she doesnt seem to be aware of any such distinction.

Mum was born in 1927 into a typical working class English family, the youngest of three children and the only girl. As was normal in those days, she left school aged fourteen, got a job, married in her early twenties and had two kids. Now a widow coming up to eighty-eight, shes in amazing physical and mental health and lives comfortably in sheltered accommodation. So why would you want to read her story?

Look more closely and youll see that her seemingly humdrum existence has brushed against the tectonic plates of culture, class and religion that clashed across the mid-20th century. Mum chose active engagement rather than a ringside seat. As a scholarship kid from a poor home, with cardboard soles on her shoes, she fetched up at one of the best independent girls schools in the country. Shes always stood up for herself: against snobs, against prejudice about being on the stage, against intolerance towards those who married a Jew in an age of rampant anti-Semitism. Because she chose to make the difficult but correct decisions rather than the easy, wrong ones, I hope her story will be inspirational to anyone struggling with comparable socio-economic challenges some sixty to seventy years later.

But its at the personal level that this brief book is compelling. Coping with the indignity of the loos in air-raid shelters, improvising hair-dye and make-up and dancing in shows despite the bombs falling outside these are all remembered positively. Her schemes included saving up money so she could run away from school without telling anyone and, later in wartime, so she could snatch a few hours at The Palais before her dancing partners left for the war some of them inevitably to be killed.

Courage and love run as consistent themes throughout her story. The bond she had with Dad provided the strongest of backgrounds for my brother and me to grow up confident and secure. We never had spare money unflagging encouragement was so much more valuable.

When we were children, I took our family values for granted: I thought everyone saw the funny and bright side of life and was honest. Mum used to say, Id rather have a thief than a liar: she operated a penal discount scheme whereby if my brother or I fessed up to some misdemeanour, punishment would be reduced or waived, because youve owned up. She also taught us to be ourselves: once when I was going to a teenage party where, for the first time, boys were going to be present, I was worried what theyd think of me. Mums solution: You should worry instead what you think of them. Or a little earlier when all my primary school friends were being bribed with offers of, say, a bicycle for passing the eleven plus, I had the simple deal of nothing whatsoever because If you pass, it must be because you want to and can, and if you dont, well still love you. And right back at the beginning when I was born, I think her dream was that Id take over where shed had to leave off when she got married, by being a professional dancer I was dispatched to ballet classes pretty much as soon as I could walk. But as soon as she realised I was a bookworm, my dreams became her dreams. Its so typical of Mum that none of this brilliant parenting is recorded in her book, probably because it all came too naturally to seem of note to her.

When I was a toddler, if people we met in the street asked how old I was, Mum would reply. Ask her let her speak for herself. So heres my very ordinary but extraordinary Mum speaking for herself.

Susan Greenfield
Oxford, July 2015

You could be wondering why an old lady suddenly writes a book. As it is a funny sort of reason, I thought you might like to know.

I was coming out of Age Concern when I noticed a magazine called Bookbite on the table. The lady in charge gave me permission to take it home, and as I glanced through it I saw it was full of short stories. After my lunch I sat down to read one of these stories when a leaflet fell out. On picking it up I saw it was a competition called Write a letter to yourself in 500 words. This sounded fun, I thought; why not have a go?

It took me a couple of days to write my story, which I called Miracles do Happen. My brother read it and turned up his nose, but my daughter seemed amused and asked about the closing date. Like an idiot I had not thought of that. Oh dear! The deadline was 2010, two years previously, so that was the end of that. Or so I thought.

Shortly afterwards, The Times newspaper wanted me for a photoshoot in Oxford with my daughter for Mothers Day, and I was being taken there by the journalist Sue Fox. On the way I told her about the competition and she asked me to show her my effort. Much to my surprise she liked it and told me to send it off anyway. After talking to my family and taking a lot of teasing, I sent off my little letter, never expecting a reply. Then a couple of weeks later I actually did hear from Anna Logan at Bookbite. She praised my story and said it was book worthy, as well as sending me four lovely books to read.

Susan, my daughter, was very interested and said, Mum you must try to write a book, you have nothing to lose. So I thought, why not?

Off to Smiths for writing paper, pens and everything I might need. I did not realise the task I had set myself. Oh yes I had my computer, but was still learning how to use it. Writing by hand at first then typing it into the computer with one finger was time consuming, but to send it to my friend was the problem. Emails what are they? And attachments? Gosh, I will never cope. Time and trouble but at last I got the hang of it. My son and my sheltered scheme manager helped me with the computer and I started to enjoy writing. Remembering the past was fun; I had a little cry and a little laugh at some of my memories, still so clear in my head.

So I know now if I am asked to do something I have never done before I will have a shot at it, and say to myself, oh well, it will be a giggle if I can`t but how super if I can and I will be so happy with myself for trying.

It was 1932. I was five years old and so excited I could feel butterflies in my stomach. My mum was going to take me to a dancing class as I was so shy. She said, It will bring you out of yourself. Im fed up with you hiding behind my skirts when I meet my friends in the street, or you running out into the garden if any visitors call.

So we were standing in front of the dance teachers house and I felt so nervous. Mum pulled me round the back of her and I peered out from behind, and when she rang the bell a beautiful lady answered the door. Mum asked about the dancing and the lady said, Would you like to come in and watch? We have a lesson in progress.

The studio was very large with a big mirror on one wall and a long wooden bar opposite for practice. All along the bar were girls swinging their legs and some even had a leg right up on the bar, bending their head down to their knee. All the girls wore little black pleated skirts with white blouses which had a red M on the pocket. This looked like fun to me!

We sat down on a long bench and the music started. The girls ran into a line and to me it was simply a wonderland. They jumped and kicked and danced and the beautiful lady, who I now knew was Miss Merlwyn, called out, Point your toes, girls!, Jean! Do not look at your feet and Audrey, watch those arms and for goodness sake