Grandma’s tale of a family tragedy in The old Black Country
Bugle reader EWAN MCCUAIG shares a story of his family’s heartache he first heard at his grandmother’s knee
LILLY Lunn was my grandma; she became Lilly Underhill when she married my grandfather but I like the sound of her maiden name so much I’ve kept it for my story. It also keeps the narrative clearer, because most of the events happened when she was only two years old. Although, the Underhill name gives the story an interesting twist at the end.
Grandma was born in the latter part of Queen Victoria’s reign, in 1881 at Rood End in Warley Wigorn, then incorporated in the town of Oldbury, which in those days was in the county of Worcestershire. In 1884 the name Wigorn was dropped, and over the years the area names have changed considerably, Rood End is now in the district of Sandwell, West Midlands.
During the Victorian era, and up to living memory, there was a very large glass manufacturer in the area called Chances, now sadly defunct. So naturally, many of the families in Rood End, including the Lunns, earned their living working at the factory.
Grandma continued to live in that vicinity all her life, never moving more than a couple of miles from her birthplace. She raised a family of seven children, my mother being the youngest, passing away in 1965, at 115 White Road, Smethwick, a small three bedroomed terraced house she’d occupied since the 1920s.
She lived through an era of considerable change, and could relate stories of such rich textures and amazing events, keeping the listener enthralled for hours.
This opportunity may have been missed, but Dad’s attempt to settle us down in his native Glasgow failed. So, at the age three, in 1947, we returned to live with Grandma and Grandad in their tiny terraced house in Smethwick.
The Second World War had just ended, houses were in short supply and so, like many families, we relied on the charity of the older generation, until housing and many other shortages could be sorted out.
Influence
Fortunately for me, this meant spending time with Grandma. Mom and Dad were never around during week days. Dad would be at work and Mom out shopping or seeing friends, she also had a lunch time job at the local pub, allowing her little time to spend at home. So, Grandma was a great influence on my daily life, at that young and impressionable age.
She was the archetypal grandmother, short and plump with grey hair, a lovely friendly smile, soft gentle hands, twinkling blue eyes and the patience of Job. This was derived from life’s experiences, blunting the sharp edges of human nature and is the essence of what makes grandparents so special.
In the 18 years I knew her she never said an unkind word. The closest she ever came was “Empty cans make the most noise,” and the nursery rhyme “What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all things nice. What are little boys made of? Snips and Snails and puppy dogs’ tails, that’s what little boys are made of”. These seem pretty innocuous now but such was her gentleness, and the fact that I never forgot them, meant they must have taken me aback at the time.
It was those dark winter afternoons I treasured the most. After our midday meal, with a coal fire blazing in the grate, she would lie down on the settee to have her afternoon nap. My job was to keep the fire going, raking and adding coals, while she slept. There in her small living room, complete peace and calm settled into my world. This was emphasized by gentle ticking of the casement clock, which even at that age reminded me of the remorseless passing of time.
Staring into the hot embers entertained my vivid imagination and the sight of a small black, burnt piece of paper stuck on the grate’s bars, moving in the thermals, foretold of a stranger’s arrival. This, together with multitudinous shadows dancing by the light of the fire around the walls kept me entertained till she arose from her slumbers as the time for afternoon tea approached.
She would then, take a large loaf, holding to her chest like a small baby and in horizontal strokes, deftly slice off four pieces of perfect consistency. It always drew my attention, like watching Scottish sword dancers, the apprehension, fearing what damage the blades could inflict if things went wrong; that feeling of relief when it was all over.
Then came my part; she had me well trained. I would select the toasting fork from the irons stand in the hearth, grabbing its brass spiral handle very firmly. Sitting before the hot coals on a small footstool, I double threaded a slice of bread handed to me on a willow pattern plate. Toasting would then begin; angles were critical, get them wrong and the toast would smell and taste of coal smoke. On reaching a consistent golden brown I would hand each slice back to Grandma, who would lather each slice with a thick layer of butter and strawberry jam.
This would be served up with a hot cup of sweet tea poured from an old brown teapot, insulated by a large multicoloured woollen tea cosy. The scene was set, between munching on her toast and sipping tea, she would begin to reminisce about important events in her life. One particular event, which I will relate to you here, is remembered particularly well. Then, I wasn’t sure whether it was true or just a tale to warn me of the results of bad behaviour. On researching our family history, I found that it was indeed a true story.
The names, dates, places and details are all recorded as accurately as possible. Information confirming Grandma’s story was obtained from contemporary newspapers, birth certificates, Censuses, naval records, court records, voting registers, etc. I have used artistic license and my imagination to blend it into palatable fare, which, I hope is accurate enough to breathe life into this small part of my family’s past.
Sunday morning on 22nd April, 1883, began as usual at Bristnall Terrace, Rood End. The Lunns were a happy close-knit, working-class family.
Father, William was a 47-year-old, glass cutter at Chance’s glass factory. Mary, his wife, was 41, a traditional woman, the homemaker of today. They had six children, William junior, 25, Maud, 20, Apheaus, 17, Charles, 14, Harriet, 12, and Lilly, two years old.
Breakfast had just finished, the girls were clearing the table and washing up. Charles, called by everyone Charlie, was running around their cramped living quarters, with his little mongrel dog Billy.
Walk
Finally, exasperated, Mary shouted “Charlie it’s a beautiful day out, take Billy for a walk, but make sure you’re back for morning church service.” Charlie replied in the affirmative, grabbing the lead and jumping down the front steps in one leap, he was on his way.
He decided to walk along the canal towpath, he enjoyed watching the barges pulled by great shire horses, straining at their ropes. What excited him most, was the barge approaching a bridge. Suddenly just before entering it, out would jump the bargee unleashing the horse. Timing was crucial, running with the horse, shoulder to shoulder over the humped towpath, crossing at right angles to the bridge. Then, immediately after the barge passed underneath, reconnecting it to the horse on the other side. It was like watching two unmatched wrestlers fighting for supremacy.
Going on a walk along the canal was always a colourful action-packed adventure; he also had great admiration for their artwork and the pride they took in their boats.
The warm gentle spring sunshine and peaceful surroundings were only disturbed by the occasional flurry of hedge sparrows, fighting for territory and nesting materials.
He was far away in the imaginative world of a 14-year-old, when his musings were rudely interrupted by a yelp from Billy. Looking up he heard the sharp click of a second stone, hitting the quay and falling with a sickly plop into the canal. It was Octavius Cotterell, the local trouble-maker and nuisance; he was on the opposite side of the canal, gleefully throwing stones.
He took delight in tormenting Charlie and had found his soft spot, the love for his dog Billy. “Hey cut that out,” shouted Charlie, but it made little difference, only encouraging Octavius more, so Charlie began to retaliate, but it was too late. Octavius turned and quickly ran away laughing and gesticulating. The stones falling harmlessly in the space no longer occupied by perpetrator.
Charlie’s thoughts were now about revenge; he wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
Today though it would be unlikely, Sunday was always occupied with family pursuits, so he would need to be patient. He lived only a couple of streets away and went to the same school, he could wait, he would get his chance.
The days went by, somehow Octavius managed to avoid confrontation. He had continually kept an eye-out, and for a time it worked. Whenever Charlie threatened to be moving in his direction, he deftly made his retreat. Charlie was serious and very angry, desperate to teach him a lesson; Octavius saw it quite differently. To him it was a game of “cat and mouse” the more he could torment and upset Charlie, greater the fun. This worked for a few days but as Charlie thought, it wouldn’t be too long before he would catch him off-guard.
The fateful day came, Friday, 22nd April just before four o’clock in the afternoon. Charlie was on his way home from school, walking along Cemetery Road he observed at some distance, two boys talking. One with his back to him he recognized as Richard Hickman, a friend of Octavius. The other boy was obscured, but he guessed who it was. They were only a few doors from where Octavius lived, he drew level, crossing the road towards the two boys, to check it out.
They were so engrossed in their conversation, Octavius initially jumped with surprise and shock at the sight of Charlie but ran into the middle of the “horse road” and began picking stones. Charlie did likewise and threw the first stone missing his target. Octavius, then hurled his first stone and it harmlessly missed too. It was Charlie next, and that flew wide of its mark. Then a stone hit Charlie on the left side of his head, between his ear and temple, causing him to stagger and he struggled but kept to his feet.
His vision dulled and his eyes lost focus for a few seconds. He saw Octavius running away, diving into the entry of his house, slamming the door shut.
He had escaped. Charlie halfheartedly threw his last couple of stones at the door then turned away, heading for home. After a few minutes the excitement of the moment and his adrenaline levels began to fade; he realized he’d been hurt. His head was thumping, the worst headache he’d ever known. The distance to his home was only a few hundred yards but it seemed miles. His eyesight kept
blurring, fading and momentarily blacking out, it was difficult to coordinate his legs and keep going. Finally, he reached home, banging on the front door.
William, his elder brother, opened the door. Charlie collapsed across the threshold, he was always fooling about, so at first, William was totally bemused. The slurred speech and staggering around wasn’t taken too seriously, but it went on far too long. Realizing it could be serious, Charlie’s face was ashen and his mouth drooping, William called out, “Mom, come here quick, Charlie’s been hurt.” Mary ran over to the front door where Charlie had fallen. “What’s happened, Charlie”? she pleaded, holding her hand to his head, Charlie said, “Octavius Cotterell threw a stone at me and it struck me here.” Then he began vomiting and sinking into unconsciousness.
Mary looked at the clock on the mantleshelf, it was just after twenty past four. She shouted, “We’d better get him up to his bed, he’ll be better there,” and with the help of William, carefully carried him up the dark and narrow staircase to his bedroom. She sent a note with Harriet to the local surgery, asking Dr Pitt for urgent medical help.
At six o’clock William, Mary’s husband arrived home; he was a glass cutter at Chance’s. He ran upstairs immediately, looking at the face of his son, now in a deep coma,
and gave out a huge sob. Holding Mary tightly, they exchanged words of support and hope, realizing, a need to recover calm and rationality in this family crisis. They both feared worse was to come, and hugged each other tightly. “I’ll go down and get some dinner for the kids, can you sit with Charlie?” asked Mary. “Yes, but don’t worry about any food for me, I’ll wait till the doctor comes,” said William.
Unconscious
It was about nine-fifteen when Dr Pitt’s assistant, Mr Burgess, arrived. Charlie was still unconscious, Mr Burgess asked, “How long as he been like this?” They explained the events of the last few hours. He examined Charlie, in a very quiet and professional manner, gently re-covering his patient with the bedsheets, clearing his throat, he said, “I’m very sorry, Mrs Lunn, but your son’s in a very bad way.”
His diagnosis was, compaction of the brain from the injury to his head. He said, “All we can do is keep him as comfortable as possible, and pray that he will recover,” but from his demeanour they realized, it was extremely serious. He told them Dr Pitt or himself would visit tomorrow, and bid them goodnight.
They agreed to take turns through the night sitting with Charlie, even their son William did his share of nursing. All they could do was watch and
wait, and keep him clean, moistening his dry lips from time to time. They tried to gain some sleep to keep up their strength, but found their minds kept going over the situation and its dire consequences.
So, it was a sad and weary Saturday, 28th April, that met the Lunn family. Billy the dog was continually scratching at Charlie’s door – he was missing his best friend. Mary had to keep busy, her family duties demanded it. She kept an eye on the situation developing with Charlie, but the two Williams, father and son, did most of the nursing that day.
Diagnosis
Surprisingly, Dr Pitt arrived first thing, just after breakfast. He confirmed his assistant’s diagnosis but could offer no alternative treatment to benefit the patient, asking them to pray for Charlie, saying only God could intervene and give him mercy now. He told them he or his assistant would visit again the next day to check on Charlie’s situation.
They agreed on the same arrangements for that night’s vigil, a feeling of helpless pervaded the household. The vicar from St Paul’s church visited them in the evening, saying prayers for Charlie’s recovery, advising God works in mysterious ways, and miracles can happen. He blessed them, and said goodbye.
Saturday evening eventually drifted into Sunday morning, the 29th April; Charlie still hadn’t regained consciousness. His breathing became laboured, Mary was with him. She screamed “William, William.” Both father and son dashed into the room, just as Charlie was taking his last few breaths. “He’s gone Mary, he’s gone,” groaned her husband. “No, no, it can’t be,” cried Mary, holding her head in her hands. Her husband gently took hold of her, she needed him more than ever now! He had to be strong, he was fighting with his own inner emotions. His whole world had disintegrated, he needed to grab reality for the sake of the family, mourning would have to be controlled, subdued, gradually vented over a lifetime. He called the children into the room; Harriet was holding little two-year-old Lilly. Mary asked them to kiss their brother goodbye, they quietly filed by Charlie, each kissing his still warm forehead; even Lilly seemed to grasp the gravity of the moment and quietly kissed her brother goodbye.
Later that morning the doctor arrived, he examined Charlie, apologized for being unable to save him. He told them, because of the nature of his death there would have to be an inquest. He also advised them, because of the circumstances of Charles’s passing, he would have to inform the police.
Grandma Lilly’s story concludes next week.