Snapshot: Mum with Aunt Geth and my grandparents
The little girl at the front in this picture is my mother, Blenda, who was born in 1920. Behind her are her big sister Geth, her mother, Blodwyn, and father, William John Hockey, my grandfather, who was known as John. I never knew my grandfather because he died in 1950, two years before I was born. He died in Herrison hospital, which was the Dorset County Asylum, where he spent the last 13 years of his life.
I have always wondered about my lost grandfather. I see the handsome man in the photo, standing so proudly with his family, and I wonder what led to his mental decline. He was rarely spoken of, no doubt because of the stigma attached to mental illness. I know that he worked as an insurance agent and I recall being told that “he just couldn’t cope”.
When my mother died in 2008, I inherited eight letters my grandfather wrote to his family from Herrison hospital between 1934 and 1944. In beautiful handwriting, he expresses himself eloquently. He was clearly an intelligent and educated man. His love for his family and sadness at his separation from them come through strongly. There is little evidence of a disordered mind, but his despair and sense of personal failure are clear. In one letter, he asks how Blenda did in her exams, adding, “sometimes I feel as though I have sat for an exam in the school of life and have come out a miserable failure. I wonder if I sat again, whether I could yet be successful”.
He reminisces about how Blenda loved to play with her dolls as a little girl, and was always singing. He writes “wouldn’t I love to push your bike for you, if ever we go cycling together again”. Sadly, they never did. In 1940, he makes informed comments about the war and wishes he could contribute to the war effort. (By this time, my mother was a nurse working at the military hospital in Gosport.) He describes her letters to him as “like oases in the desert” and writes of “intense feelings of loneliness”. He died from pneumonia and heart disease on 8 April 1950, aged 62.
Herrison hospital closed to patients in 1986 and patient records were stored at Dorset History Centre. I applied for my grandfather’s records and received four A3-sized pages of handwritten medical notes from his admission in April 1936 until his death 13 years later. He was diagnosed with “melancholia” and is described as profoundly depressed. The notes are very sparse, but there are periods of improvement, with descriptions of “a quiet, well-behaved man, much brighter and conversational, a good worker”.
My grandfather does not complain of harsh or cruel treatment. His letters mention outings to the beach, cricket matches, an annual sports day, and trips to the cinema. He enjoyed arranging flowers. However, there were no modern drugs available to treat his depression, and after so many years I imagine he became institutionalised. It is very sad to think that these days he would probably have been successfully treated in the community.
In 1945, five years before he died, his notes record that “he thinks he has been forgotten by everybody”. I would like to think that remembering him now and honouring his struggle goes some way to restoring him to his family.
Catherine Webley
Playlist: Big-band fun for blissful lunchtimes
As the first strains of In the Mood begin, I am immediately back in my grandparents’ dining room, aged anywhere from about five right up until my late teens. My brother and I would go to stay with them a few times a year, dropped off by our (as we saw it) rule-making, housework-focused parents, and left for a blissful few days of board games, days out and lavish attention.
We were always allowed to choose a cassette to listen to during lunch (breakfast being the strict reserve of Terry Wogan, and tea naughtily taken on trays in front of the TV – we didn’t care that it was Antiques Roadshow, we loved it) and we would always choose a Best of Glenn Miller tape just because it had In the Mood on it.
As small children, we loved the sudden “Bah Baaah!” of the big band, and as teenagers we simply loved it for the tradition and sentiment and slight irony that we had always done it this way, and we always would do it this way. In my grandparents’ dining room we would giggle with Grandma as we filled the holes in our potato waffles with peas, and squeal with delight as Grandad walked his fingers across the table, pretending to steal our prized chocolate treats.
Nowadays, several years after they have both died, In the Mood is a reminder of those wonderful, special times we spent together that can never be forgotten, and that can never be replaced.
Laura Ansbro
We love to eat: Grandma’s stolen brussels sprouts
Ingredients
75g brussels sprouts per person
Boiling water to cover
1 pinch of salt
1 small knob of butter
Ground black pepper
Remove the outer leaves. Cut a small cross in the bases to allow the sprouts to cook evenly. Place in a large saucepan and cover with boiling water. Boil for five minutes until just tender. Drain well. Serve with black pepper and melted butter.
My grandmother was hospitable, almost to a fault. Whenever we visited, we’d find ourselves inundated with snacks and treats – chocolates, crisps, and the ubiquitous bowl of mixed nuts on the coffee table. Holidays at her house were punctuated by toast browning on the tines of a long fork, held carefully above the coals of the fire she’d build every morning. But the food I most remember her for was brussels sprouts.
Sunday wasn’t Sunday without a roast of some kind. And Grandma never disappointed. Nestled alongside the meat, potatoes, peas and carrots, there would always be a pile of boiled sprouts. Dark green, iron-rich and slightly bitter, a small flock of miniature cabbages.
Knowing that children were rarely fond of vegetables in general and sprouts in particular, Grandma would wait until my parents’ backs were turned. Then, her hand would dart to my plate, catch as many of the offending brassicas as possible and transfer them stealthily to her own – quick enough to avoid gravy on the best tablecloth or capture by my mum. This way, I could avoid eating all my greens and still be allowed pudding. It was an act of care, sacrifice and generosity and I adored her for it, every single time.
There was only one small problem with her plan. I’ve always loved sprouts. I loved my grandmother more, though. So I never complained, unwilling to appear ungrateful or to get her in trouble for this minor rebellion against dinner-time etiquette. The mischeivous twinkle in her eye and the furtive cameraderie always seemed well worth the loss of my favourite vegetable.
These days, I prefer my sprouts roasted to boiled. But after trimming away the outer leaves, I still cut a small cross into the base, because it’s what Grandma used to do. And, despite the advice of celebrity chefs, they taste better for it.
Even if no one is trying to steal them.
Hannah Stephenson
