The Brass Doorknocker.
By Tony Stringfellow.

Winston Churchill, having guided his country to victory, resigned as Prime Minister. Albert Einstein, Alexander Fleming and James Dean died, each leaving their varied legacy to mankind. Bill Gates, who had a legacy to build, was born. ITV, Britain’s first commercial Television station was launched. The first MacDonald’s and Disneyland opened. This was a year of change, in many ways, but for some, life’s changes came painfully, at the blink of an eye.

It was 1955, a warm October day, the sun shining on Fisher Street. Mary had just finished polishing the brass knocker of her new door. She had spent what seemed like years helping her mother polish brasses and it had always been a chore but now that it was her own doorknocker, gleaming in the sunlight, she understood the pleasure. She was happy, Mary and George had only lived here a few months, it was their home, their love nest, at last!

They were both twenty-six and had known each other since school, George writing to Mary daily during his National Service; that had been a long time, two years he had been away in Egypt, a Military Policeman greatly involved in the mopping up after the war. Mary had been so scared, Egypt was such a distance and she knew nothing of it. Letters were the only means of communication and it took a long time to get replies to her questions, although George wrote everyday, it took two weeks to reach her by which time she had almost forgotten what she had written in the letter he was replying to.

George was demobbed in the summer of 1949 and they married in December, on Boxing Day. The war was over, the country was being rebuilt and they had experienced such hardships for their young years, the future could only hold promise.

During the first years of their marriage, they lived with Mary’s parents. Although a good-sized house, Mary had two brothers, one already married and moved out but the other was still at home. Though it could be described as cramped and with little privacy they had a happy start, which was crowned in the April of 1950 by the birth of a son, Johnny. He was the sunshine in their life and everyone else’s, the first son, grandchild and nephew.

Sunlight glistened on the doorknocker and Mary took pleasure in her thoughts.
“Mummy, sand!” Came the cry from her knees.
“Yes Johnny.” she said, “Don’t get dirty.”
A door opened a few houses up and Margaret appeared, a couple of years older than Mary and already into the second phase of motherhood with two children.
“He’s a grand lad,” said Margaret, “Look at those curls, he’ll break some hearts.”
“Yes he will,” replied Mary “Probably mine!”
She looked at his thick curls and couldn’t help wondering what his future might hold; she was sure times ahead would be different, all she remembered was war and its consequences, her early childhood a long lost fairy tale.
“Morning Bill.” shouted Margaret as the milk float trundled past.
Mary just smiled; Bill always flirted with her, which she found embarrassing, after all she didn’t want anything to jeopardise her happiness.
“How’s George?” asked Margaret “I haven’t seen him for days.”
Mary smiled again; Margaret was just as big a flirt with George as Bill was with her.
“He’s well. He’s been on a course. Came back last night and up for work bright and early this morning.” She knew that would grate on Margaret, her husband was a reluctant worker, always needing a little persuasion to meet the bread line.
“ He works on those Telephone things, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t think they’ll last, can’t stand them, talking into a wire’s not natural.”
Mary laughed “George is out putting up new wires now. I hope they last.”
“Where’s Johnny gone? I’d like a kiss off that little man, I won’t get one when he grows up!”
There was a small cry and dull thump, Mary turned to see Bill’s milk float pulling off a small pile of sand and Johnny lying face down, his fingers twitching. Her world fell silent, Margaret was screaming but she heard nothing. There was immense pain in her heart and her throat felt blocked. She ran to her child and looked down on him searching for marks, there were none. She knelt and rolled him over, cradling him in her arms, their eyes met, “Mummy.” he said in a weak voice, a small smile on his lips before his eyes closed.

Bill jumped from his float and stood trembling,
“I didn’t know he was there, I didn’t know!” he ranted, “Oh God is he all right?”
Mary burst, her eyes flooded, her throat gasped for air, she forced out the words “ Get an ambulance, quick! The Tailor’s got a phone, at the top of the road. Quick!” her voice was out of control, screaming. Bill ran.

Holding him close she knew the truth but would not accept it. She could not allow this truth! Margaret was now kneeling beside her with a hand on her shoulder but was unnoticed. Mary brushed sand from Johnny’s face, with the touch only a mother has.
“ He’s all right, he’s just sleeping. He’ll be all right, won’t you baby?” But no reply.

More neighbours emerged, not knowing what to do or say. Mary’s eyes fixed on her child as suddenly everything began to happen, the ambulance arrived, the police, questions, answers, mother and son hustled into the ambulance, someone was sent to her mothers but she saw and heard nothing, her eyes never leaving Johnny.

He was examined upon reaching hospital but pronounced dead on arrival. It was believed he had been caught under the milk float and his neck broken.

It was an hour and a half before George arrived, he’d been working on the poles down country lanes, and they’d had to send a van for him. Mary sat by Johnny’s side all that time, crying an endless river of disbelief, the pain welling up inside, unbearable. Her mind re-running the tragedy to find a reason. Her eyes still not leaving her child, until she heard George’s voice.
“No!”
“I’m so sorry!” she said.
There could not be more pain felt by two people, holding on to each other, sobbing. George looked at his son in disbelief, this child had smiled and kissed him this morning but would never kiss him again, never ride a bike, kick a ball or laugh ever again. They had had such dreams, life just starting to come together for them, and now it was all destroyed.
“He looks peaceful,” said George “he doesn’t even look hurt.”
The local newspaper reported the “Mangled body of a child” but he was not marked. Mary’s mind would hold both images for the rest of her life, she knew the true image but the fictional picture would haunt her forever.

The following weeks were vacuous for Mary, everything happening around her, although she was aware, it all felt surreal. There was a post-mortem, an inquest, so many people offering sympathy, then the funeral, her worst fear. She did not know how to face that day. George was good, arranging everything. He was quiet though, experiencing the same heartbreak, the same questions churning in his mind. He never reproached her, it would have been easy for him to hold her responsible but he never did. Mary certainly blamed herself, tortured endlessly with why she had taken her eyes off Johnny for those few seconds.

The day of the funeral was heart-rending. A piece of Mary’s heart died with every tear that echoed around the church. George was numb, he was saturated with grief, hardly conscious, hardly standing, trying to give Mary support. When he bent to kiss Johnny for the last time he was sure his eyes opened, looking up at him with a smile, closing again in final rest. The vision comforted him, Johnny had said goodbye.

Christmas 1955 was not happy for Mary and George, they had become accustomed to the Christmas spells parents sell to their children, for the reward of their excitement; this year held no rewards. It was always a family time; everyone gathering at the home of Mary’s parents for a non-stop party. They all worked hard to make it as normal as possible, which was made easier by the birth of a son to Mary’s eldest brother and sister-in-law. A new child gave everyone a fresh purpose and hope, except for Mary. She pined for her own child but did not allow it to taint her love for her nephew; she realised, while holding the tiny baby, she needed another child, a meaning in her life, one she would hold on to forever.

After Christmas the two grief stricken parents talked intensely about how they where going to cope, agreeing that although Johnny had been precious to them, nothing they could do would change what had happened and they had two choices, give up or fight through. The milkman, Bill, had not been able to cope with his guilt and his wife had found him hanged. His family were distraught. Giving up would only perpetuate suffering; they had a loving family who they had a responsibility to. Their only choice was to fight through their grief together. Another child, whilst not replacing Johnny, would give a fresh purpose and a new focus. They would let their grief run its course, Mary would return to work, (as a hairdresser). Being on her own during the day was impossible, friends had been good and not allowed her to be alone for long but they had their own lives and could not be expected to baby sit her forever. Difficult as it was, life must move on, although Johnny’s memory would never fade.

Over the months the grief became easier, they had given away Johnny’s clothes and toys, it was too painful to see them, unworn and unplayed with. They had kept the photographs and Mary had a few of his favourite things packed away in a box.

Summer arrived and George was promoted. Now the gang foreman he was allowed to bring the van home at night, this made a great difference to their life. In late August they went on holiday, their first. They stayed with Mary’s aunt in Leigh-on-Sea; it was a long journey by train and Mary was apprehensive but George was always good at these things, she didn’t need to worry. It was a beautiful week, the sunshine and sea air was refreshing and they spent hours walking on the sea front watching waves roll onto the sand, emptying their hearts out to one another but most of the time words were not necessary. It was perfect, just for one thing.

Upon returning home, Mary noticed the dull doorknocker; she hadn’t touched it for eleven months. Walking into the house she felt a strange sensation, smiled to herself, but said nothing. The next morning, Mary spent an hour polishing the doorknocker, while she waited for the doctors to open. When George returned that evening he noticed the bright doorknocker and felt a warmth he could not explain. It was four days before Mary could return to the doctors for conformation. George cried when she told him that evening.

Christmas 1956 was a happier one. Johnny would always be in their thoughts, he had been a happy child and given them so much in his short life, Mary thanked God he hadn’t suffered in passing. The thought of a new life growing inside made her feel whole and gave her a feeling of purpose beyond description, she could not wait to hold her new child.

Mary was a strong woman and had a healthy pregnancy with George doting on her, taking no risks. Early in the evening of May 20th, she calmly asked George to fetch the doctor, which he did, not so calmly. On the morning of May 21st, in their home in Fisher Street, Mary bore a healthy baby boy. Both parents cried as Mary held him for the first time. Looking into his eyes and then the tearful eyes of George she said,
“God has given him back to me.”

I often wondered, as a child, why my mother and I walked through the graveyard everyday, on our way to school. I know now she was just saying good morning to Johnny.

(Copyright Tony Stringfellow 08:05:01)

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