Confessions of a war bride

It was July 1939 and I was on the cusp of being fifteen when we got word we were to return to England. Little did we know our Hong Kong would never be the same and little did we imagine what horrors the people would suffer when the Japanese invaded. For me it had been Shangri-la. I had been a piece of thistle-down lifted by a breeze of adoration and tossed about from one delicious event to another. The serious side of life lay ahead. “Marry me Doris,” he said. We’d known each other for one month. A month of short hurried visits. We lived for each meeting and when together, spent the time dreading when he had to leave. Always in our minds the fact that anything could happen and knowing we were not masters of our fate. I didn’t want to make decisions. “It’s too sudden,” I said, sounding like a lady in Victorian days. But it was sudden and one thing that rattled around my brain was that he had been getting letters from his mother after he told her he wanted to marry me. The letters were little short of telling him it would be a betrayal to her if he went ahead with the idea. Now what — I ask you — would my life be like having a mother-in-law set against me before she even knew me? “There isn’t much time,” he said, “I love you so much and I know you love me and we’re made for each other.” “What about your mother? What about our different religions? Can I leave my family and my country? What about you making England your country? Maybe you’re just lonely and you’ll think otherwise once you get back to Canada.” “Darling, you know you’re my ideal. I wasn’t going to marry until I was twenty-nine but I didn’t know you existed. Say you’ll marry me.” I was scared. If I didn’t make up my mind, things might change and I’d regret not being brave enough to chance being wrong. But now it was the morning of my wedding. I looked through the lace curtains to see it was a bright autumn day and birds were singing. My heart was fluttering. I saw my dress and veil hanging in the open closet together with borrowed satin shoes. My going-away suit was there too arousing a feeling of pride and rebellion. Mother knocked on the door, she had a tray with some tea for me. Her face was sad and she looked on the verge of tears. She had such a sweet face with large brown eyes and a poignant look about her always. “Good morning Doris, there’s two letters here from Canada,” she said. Mother sat on the side of the bed as I opened the first. Doris, I want you to know that we in Canada are disgusted with the way you tramps of English girls run after and snare our boys. Ted is a long way from home and lonely for us and he has fallen prey to you. I’m sure if he came to Canada before marrying you he would change his mind. I can’t stop your wedding but I will always know you trapped him. Loretta I handed the letter to Mother. I opened the second letter from Ted’s sister. It told me that I was responsible for making the whole family miserable and must have coerced him into marrying me; his religion was everything to him and it was despicable that he would even think of marrying a non-Catholic and they will absolutely not welcome me into the family. I called the nurse to tell her the baby was coming but she just smiled and walked away. Seven hours. I could hear Ted talking to the doctor, probably about sport, as they were sitting outside the room on a bench. My head banged from side to side to numb the world and with the slightest push the baby was born between the sheets. I turned to the kind woman in the room and told her in a voice that seemed far away, “My baby is born.” She leapt out of bed to get the nurses and they panicked and got the doctor but they didn’t need to, because having a baby that way instead of feet in stirrups and everyone examining you, was as if I’d gone to paradise with the peace of it. Another boy. I told the doctor we were naming the baby Paul, after him. Ted came in now it was safe, and I hoped this would be the last time I would give birth because I was afraid if there was another, it would probably be ME who didn’t survive. When it was time to go home, it was Barbara the nurse who carried little Paul in the elevator of the hospital. A visitor thought it was the nicest thing to see this tableau. Our eldest and our youngest. Ted was given another posting, this time to Ottawa. As I was unpacking the boxes, I heard a man on CBC radio ask us women listeners what we were doing right then: And had we stopped thinking about our dreams? And did we think we were only good at being housewives? I felt I should make some goals. I decided on the art world and realized I fit in best doing portraits. I went to a good portrait artist who worked in oils and talked him into doing my portrait for half price — he charged so much normally. I observed him carefully and the steps he took while working: that way I thought I could become more professional myself. The result of his portrayal of me wasn’t like me at all. I have a chubby neck and he gave me a long one. He eliminated anything that wasn’t perfect. I knew then that if I wanted to be a professional portrait painter, I’d have to flatter the sitter. I rebelled at that.