My grandmother, Florence Annie Thorne, is at her prettiest in this photo. She’s wearing a mauve, shot silk dress and a black straw hat, as was in half mourning for her sister Edith who’d died earlier that year. I imagine she was relieved to have the ring on her finger and the marriage certificate. So many women of her generation were never to marry. Many spent their lives grieving for dead fiancées. My grandfather was reported missing, believed dead, but my grandmother never believed it. My handsome grandfather was a catch yet she must have known that William wasn’t the same young man who’d been conscripted just three years earlier.
Great grandmother Alice Thorne, front left, was truly a woman of substance. Her short brimmed hat is different to the other women’s. It’s a more masculine style than wide brims and flowers. She’d given birth to 11 children. 10 survived. Her husband Sidney is the small man in the back row. His generous moustache compensates for his small stature. He was a travelling salesman, working for a confectionary company. I note the way he wears a cravat, rather than a collar and tie. There’s a bit of flamboyance about Sidney. Quite an achievement, to support ten children, in uncertain times.
Behind Alice is my other great grandmother, Elizabeth Seymour, a single parent. She’s poised at her youngest son’s side, ready to catch him if he falls. He’d arrived home from the war in December 2018. He looks shell shocked, as if his eyes are still seeing the battlefields and the P.o.W camps from which he’d had such a narrow escape. Her husband Thomas had died of a heart attack, some months before their son was born. She worked to support her three children, running a shop near Saltwell Road. You can tell she’s a woman of action, not accustomed to standing still.
I like the way she stands with arm resting on great grandmother Thorne’s shoulder. This shows a surprising intimacy. They knew and trusted each other. I suspect there’d have been no wedding, without the consent of these two women.
The tall man is my grandfather’s best man. Their bridesmaid was my grandmother’s younger sister, Hilda. She’s the girl standing in front of Sidney. I haven’t identified the woman front right.
It must be said, no one, with the possible exception of the bride, looks happy. Perhaps smiling wasn’t allowed. Did she regret not having a wedding dress? I doubt it. Look closely and there’s something of a Mona Lisa quality to her smile.
War was over, but hard times lay ahead. My grandparents weren’t as effected by the depression as many in the North East, but life was uncertain and money in short supply. Like my grandmother, Alice was still in mourning for her daughter Edith. Her son James had died of TB the previous year, aged 23. Alice herself didn’t have long to live. She died of cancer in 1924. Perhaps she was already ill. Hilda died the following year, of TB, at the age of 23. All four are buried in Saltwell Cemetery, at the far end of Rawling Road. My grandmother used to take me to visit their graves, when I was still in a push chair.
I like to think this wedding party was a celebration. For Alice, another child married, her future as secure as any future can be. For Elizabeth, her son returned from the horrors of the Somme and prison camps, starting out on a new life.
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