Brenda Hazel Augustus Died2006 10th April (1927 - 2006)

The last bombs of World War Two were still falling, and by a small way of celebration my pretty mother was fired headlong into her sixteenth birthday exploding into womanhood like a bright shining morning. Nervous and naïve she sat smiling behind layered veils of ‘Craven A’, pale ale and the strong odour of church hall lavender. Sweet velvet rose, bursting to bloom, dark and hidden within a bouquet of giggling wallflowers at their first Services dance. She was so sure that she would only dance with heroes, she’d know what to say, and she’d know what to do.

My father wasn’t a hero but he had made her laugh when he accompanied her home and asked if he could see again.
She had made love with my father just the once, seduced giddy after a night of nicotine kisses and ‘Casablanca at the Kings Cinema’. She had acquiesced upon the cold sandy shingle as had they listened to the sea while they awaited the chain ferry’s tired rattle somewhere beyond the breakwater as it echoed across from the river estuary.
She would never dance with heroes now.