Mrs. Finney

  

As we get older we cherish our memories, especially those from our early childhood. For me, the most prevalent are those associated with growing up in Enfield, England at the outset World War II.  I can still remember the bombing raids and the heightened sense of being that one experienced; the overwhelming sadness and unbelievable joy, and most of all the incredible importance of family and loved ones.

I spent the war years with my mother. My sisters were much older than me and by 1943 had already left home to continue their schooling. My father stayed at his office in London during the week, working non-stop to keep the roadways and shipyards moving smoothly. There were few social gatherings to attend in those days as the majority of men were stationed far away, somewhere on the battlefields of the world. Food was scarce and travel was dangerous, so outings of any sort were quite rare. Fortunately for me, however, my aunts, Lil and Vera owned several shops in the Seven Sisters area of London and each week my mother and I would travel into the city to visit them. Thursdays were half days for the shop owners, and each Thursday afternoon Mum and I would make the journey across town.  If I behaved well, I would be rewarded at the end of the day with a visit to the confectioner’s store next to Aunt Lil’s green grocery. Once there, I would gaze longingly at the rows of penny candies and boiled sweets displayed under the large glass domed case before eventually picking out the perfect piece. 

The journey to Seven Sisters required two bus rides, but for me the reward at the end of the day was well worth the quiet time spent gazing out the window at the bustling streets of London. We would arrive at the intersection of Seven Sisters and Portland Avenue at precisely one fifteen in the afternoon and begin our walk through the quiet neighborhood of brick stone houses and giant concrete blockades. The blockades were there to keep out enemy tanks and protect the area residents.  Each week we followed the same routine and each week we would pass the old stone house where Mrs. Finney lived. Lillian Finney was a kind old woman who lived alone, having lost her husband in the First World War. I can’t recall the street itself very well, but I can still see Mrs. Finney leaning out her second story window as clear as day. She always wore a flowered apron over her dress and a string of pearls neatly around her neck, matching her smooth white hair. She would wave her handkerchief, as if in surrender, as we made our way down the street toward her house. “Yoo hoo!” she would beckon as we got closer, a gentle smile always adorning her face.  My mother and Mrs. Finney would exchange niceties for several minutes and she would comment on what a handsome young man I had become. In response I would peer awkwardly at the ground, feeling rather silly about the whole affair. A few minutes later mum would wish her well, and we would be on our way, leaving Mrs. Finney with a warm smile.

One Thursday in September, my mother wasn’t feeling particularly well. I think I’d probably been a bit of a handful that morning and she just wasn’t up to making the usual jog to Seven Sisters. That afternoon, as I sat playing in the garden, I remember hearing a tremendous explosion in the distance as the ground gently shook all around me. The V-2 had made a direct hit on Portland Avenue, more than ten miles from our house, but to Mum and I, it felt as if it had landed just down the road. We would later learn that it had leveled two square miles of buildings from the bus depot at Seven Sisters to just before the shops on Hermitage Road. No one in the family had been injured and there had been only minor damage to my aunt’s shops. All in all, we’d been lucky – very lucky. The few windows and small amount of produce that had been lost could be replaced. 

The following Thursday Mum and I were off once more to help with the clean-up.  But this time, as the bus made its usual stop, I remember gazing out at the unfamiliar landscape. “Why are we stopping here, mum? I innocently inquired. “This isn’t where we usually jump off?”  My mother sat in stunned silence and I watched as her eyes suddenly began to well with tears. I’d never seen her cry before and it made my stomach feel uneasy. I looked back across the rubble and debris and could vaguely make out the shops on Hermitage off in the distance. There was no sign of the quiet brick stone neighborhood that had previously stood between us and our destination. My mother took a long, deep breath and gently reached down to take my hand “Come, dear, we will make our way through somehow,” she had said, forcing a smile as we stepped from the bus and stared at the devastation laying before us. Mum searched for a pathway through the tons of bricks and mortar. She could still make out the concrete blockades several blocks away and we slowly headed toward them, attempting to find a clearing in what was left of the street. As we stumbled through the rubble, I remember seeing bits of furnishings, broken dishes, and remnants of people’s lives that I just couldn’t process at such a young age. 

It seemed an eternity before we reached Hermitage Road and as we approached I noticed a small white handkerchief lying amidst a pile of rubble by the side of the road. I picked it up to take a closer look and carefully ran my tiny fingers over the intricate embroidery. I looked up at my mother and gave her a questioning gaze. “Mum?” I asked, my eyes searching the area. “Where is Mrs. Finney?”  My mother gently reached down and took the handkerchief from my hand and held it tightly to her chest. She stood for a moment gazing longingly up at the afternoon sky as tears streamed down the sides of her face. She took another long, deep breath, took hold of my arm and started down the path at a quickening pace. It seemed as though she was somehow cross at me for having asked such a question, but after a few steps, she abruptly stopped and knelt down next to me, “She’s with Mr. Finney, dear,” she explained, her voice quivering. “They’re together now and they always will be,” she added reassuringly, offering a faint smile as she continued to clutch the handkerchief in her fist.  We continued our journey toward Hermitage Road. I hadn’t really understood what she meant back then, but years later as the reality of the situation became clear, her words became a great comfort.

I have many memories of my mother during those years, but this one in particular continues to keep me grounded and reminds me of how lucky I am in so many ways. For all the memories we have, both good and bad, may we find a lesson in each of them and take away something special and meaningful from every experience.