Barbara Ann
I was born at Cardiff Road Cadoxton Barry in 1942. Soon after my father Edward George Mills was called up to the Royal Engineers and left for Normandy, working on the Mulberry Harbours. (Although he was 42 at the time). I lived with Nan (Johanna John) Mam (Olwen Gwyneth Mills/nee John) my Aunty (Blodwen West/nee John) her husband (Henry West) and my sister (Glenys Olwen Mills). I grew up thinking we were a perfectly ordinary family. Like many families however, there were secrets. We were told as children that "little pigs have big ears". Also we were discouraged from asking such problematic questions as "Why do we have two Uncle Dannys ?".
We lived in a four bedroom house. It was like many others. Gas lighting, an outside lavatory, tin baths on the wall in the back garden with its high line, always laden on Mondays with wet washing and no hanging out on a Sunday. It seemed an average life. I questioned very little as a child. Ask no questions and you will be told no lies. Questions not permitted means some answers have never been found. Such as who was my mother's real father? Bastardy was a sin passed on to the child and blamed on the mother. I knew nothing of that. Nan I believed was my grandmother. My grandfather - her husband - was her husband. I helped put daffodils on his grave in Barry Cemetary. I knew his face as I did many of my ancestors. Their photographs hung in golden frames, on the front bedroom walls. My Nan's dead relatives hung about her. Their funeral anoucements stood on her bedroom mantlepiece.
There was one small photgraph - of a little girl - on her bedside table; but I was forbidden to ask about her. There was also a framed photograph of a very pretty young woman. She was Blanche, who had been the fiancee of one of my Uncle Dannys, but that was broken off. He married instead the slovenly Ettie who always addressed my Nan as Mrs John and never took her dirty beret off in our house. Though she was rarely invited in and generally talked to us from the gate of our front garden. I was fascinated by her. Ettie's mackintosh was tied with a piece of string and she was not as pretty as the girl in the photograph.
Uncle Danny (this one) was a bad egg. When he came to the front door he was not allowed in until the three women had hidden their handbags. I loved him because he was so handsome and funny but I knew the rules. Many othe things I did not know and I was not allowed to ask, because I was a child. That was the way of the world in the 1940s. I presumed nothing would ever change.
We lived in a four bedroom house. It was like many others. Gas lighting, an outside lavatory, tin baths on the wall in the back garden with its high line, always laden on Mondays with wet washing and no hanging out on a Sunday. It seemed an average life. I questioned very little as a child. Ask no questions and you will be told no lies. Questions not permitted means some answers have never been found. Such as who was my mother's real father? Bastardy was a sin passed on to the child and blamed on the mother. I knew nothing of that. Nan I believed was my grandmother. My grandfather - her husband - was her husband. I helped put daffodils on his grave in Barry Cemetary. I knew his face as I did many of my ancestors. Their photographs hung in golden frames, on the front bedroom walls. My Nan's dead relatives hung about her. Their funeral anoucements stood on her bedroom mantlepiece.
There was one small photgraph - of a little girl - on her bedside table; but I was forbidden to ask about her. There was also a framed photograph of a very pretty young woman. She was Blanche, who had been the fiancee of one of my Uncle Dannys, but that was broken off. He married instead the slovenly Ettie who always addressed my Nan as Mrs John and never took her dirty beret off in our house. Though she was rarely invited in and generally talked to us from the gate of our front garden. I was fascinated by her. Ettie's mackintosh was tied with a piece of string and she was not as pretty as the girl in the photograph.
Uncle Danny (this one) was a bad egg. When he came to the front door he was not allowed in until the three women had hidden their handbags. I loved him because he was so handsome and funny but I knew the rules. Many othe things I did not know and I was not allowed to ask, because I was a child. That was the way of the world in the 1940s. I presumed nothing would ever change.
