My Christening, as told to me by others

My Gran, Mum, and Great Gran at St Andrew’s Church Eastbourne, 1957

I never knew my Grandfathers. Not for me the visits to the workshops to watch them build things while we sucked happily on a Werthers Original. My paternal Grandad died of an illness that the NHS would’ve sorted out if only it had been around then, in 1936, and Bloody Hitler put paid to my maternal grandad in an air raid on Weston Super Mare in 1943. But Grandmothers? Yes, I’ve had a couple of those.

Both my Grandads died young, so my Grandmothers had to be strong willed and determined women to get through a life that was a lot harder then than it is now. My Dad’s Mum (who isn’t in the picture) I remember as a kind woman who brought us sweets every time she visited, and had lots of trinkets that I could get my childish fingers on whenever we went round to her house for Sunday tea. She passed away in 1970, far too young at 71.

And what of the girls in the picture? To the bottom left of the tea stain (it is an old photo after all, and was probably passed around at various tea times down the years) is my Great Grandmother, Lucy Bonner. She wears a determined expression and a rather unflattering hat. Mum tells me that she had quite a formidable nature, and I tend to think of Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Agatha whenever I think of her . But I never knew her, as she died in 1958, just 18 months after this photo was taken. I particularly treasure this picture because it is one of only two that I have of her.

On the right is my Mum’s Mum, Ivy Marsh, or “Gran” to me. She was widowed at 37, and brought up two kids on her own at the height of the Second World War. I spent a lot of time with Gran as I grew up, and got to know her well. I never really thought about how hard her life must have been, but that’s kids for you. It’s also a testament to her that she didn’t burden us with her troubles.

I often think of the day she leant out of the window of the pub we used to live in and shouted “BREAD” at us while we were in a queue at the bus stop over the road. People near us thought she must’ve been crazy, but she was just trying to get us to remember to buy a loaf while we were at the shops. She passed away in 1995. I remember her with love.

By the look of me in the photo I’m trying to leap out of the arms of my Mum, seemingly distracted by something shiny. Mum was only 20 at the time. Of course I remember nothing about the day itself, and I’m astonished to look at a photograph of me from as far back as the 1950s. That makes me as old as Rock and Roll, only not quite as cool.

But the really unbelievable thing about the picture is this. In the 21st century, I’m looking at a photo of me taken in the 20th, with a relative (Lucy) who was born in the 19th.

Now all I have to do is make it to the 22nd.

*4th Generation. Geddit?