W.I. Centenary – selection of winning entries

100 Presidential Perils (or thereabouts) – by Adele Abbott, Duffield Cumberhills

• What if the speaker doesn’t turn up?
• Or if he does and no one is interested in Conservation around the Thames Barrier?
• Or, if he turns out to be a carrier
• Of some dreadful lurgy, and everyone falls ill?
• What if there’s no room to park and people have to walk
• And fall, and cut their head? Do we have a first aider? And a kit? Then someone said
• ‘I told you so – I mentioned it at the last meeting!’
• What if someone wants decaffeinated tea?
• Or there’s nowhere to do a wee ‘cos the toilets are flooded?
• What if no one wants to help at the Carnival, or bake cakes,
• Nor go to the Group Meeting, be a delegate for all our sakes,
• At the Albert Hall – no help at all!
• What if there’s no one for the vote of thanks
• Or the money in the bank’s not enough?
• What if I lose the agenda? Forget my memoranda?
• Or the music doesn’t play – must check it today
  Along with the microphone.
• What if all the committee resigns because they do not like my designs
• For the new welcome pack?
• What if no one smiles at my jokes whatever I say?
• Or, if some of the older folks can’t hear them anyway?
• What if the kitchen is locked and we can’t find the caretaker (or site manager as we now call him)?
• Or if the sink is blocked and water overflows onto the electrics underneath?
• Then there will be a fire – what if we can’t get everyone out and they can’t breathe
• Too late for a first aider then, even if I found one
• And someone will say – again –
  ‘I mentioned that at the last meeting’!

—

A Mother’s Centenary, by Janet Chambers, Cromford WI

Tomorrow I’ll be a hundred. I’ll receive a card from the Queen
You think I’m a sweet old lady but don’t know how bad I have been
You are my much loved children, life’s been good to me
But you’ll never know you had a brother, who’d now be eighty-three.
I’ve always loved your father, caring, steadfast and true
Of course I told him the truth of my past, but we felt no need to tell you.

But when you think I’m dreaming, with a faraway look in my eyes
I’m remembering the headlong rush of those days of seemingly cloudless skies;
That wonderful teenage summer, with my handsome golden boy,.
The all consuming first love, its delights, its pain, its joy.

I held my child, my firstborn, for just a few precious hours
I remember those dark unfocussed eyes – which had unexpected powers
To see into my very soul – did he know the heartbreak I felt?
I had no choice, they took him away, their hard hearts wouldn’t melt.
So shocked that I refused to repent
They wouldn’t tell me where he was sent.
When I held him he was my miracle, a person whom I had made
I hadn’t known I’d love him, that memory would never fade.
It broke my heart to lose him, but he was never out of my mind.
I hope that’s he’s been happy, his new mother loving and kind.
I pray that he’s forgiven me, for I’ve always regretted the day
They told me I couldn’t keep him, and snatched my love away.

There are four generations in my family now, and I know that I’ve been blessed
With many years of love for you, your father, the joys that I’ve possessed,
But there’s a tiny jewel in the heart of me, a secret I take to my grave
My darling son, my first born, whose love I will always crave.

And so my beloved children, when we open my card from the Queen
You’ll take my hand and smile kindly, never knowing how bad I have been.

—

Envelope of Memory
Barbara Daykin MBE – Smalley W.I.

Jennie was going through old photos and letters, emptying a trunk in the attic of family memories collected over the years. The reason for the ‘clean up’ was that the W. I. was celebrating its centenary with a competition, “100 years ago”. Jennie picked up an envelope, stiff brown paper with a forces stamp, addressed to Mrs. Megan Jenkins, 3 The Cottages, Sea Lane, Llanfairpwll, Anglesey. It was a letter to her Great-great Granny from Great-great Granddad. The date on the letter was September 11th 1915. Amazing Jennie thought, our next meeting is this coming Friday, September 11th 2015, exactly 100 years from the date on the letter.

“My Dearest Meg, just a few precious minutes in this filth and bedlam to write and say that I am well. How are you my lovely? The children, is David keeping the garden good and little Jennie helping you with the work? If she’s anything like her Mum I’ll have some good food to come home to. When that will be I cannot say, this war seems endless, I miss you so much. I miss your warmth and your embraces; it is cold, bloody and noisy here. I yearn for the quiet of the hillsides and the valleys, walking by the sea. Keep the bed warm my lovely; say a prayer when next in Chapel. From Your loving Boy. Tom.”

Folded in amongst other papers was Meg’s reply.

“My Deerest Boy, I’m not for riting I expec you will lauf at my spelin. We are all well we had mesles on the island, David is beter, but young William Brown’s iyes will never be rite he’s neerly blind. The garden is well and little Jennie is my good girl. We had some xcytement this week, tonight the ladies is getin together at The Chapel, a lady frum Canada with ideas that we women should get together to be eddukated on lookin after the ‘ealth and ‘appiness of the family, the cheek of it, but it will be good to get out for a bit. We miss you singin in Chapel; Mrs Jones is xpecting number ate. The bed is cold, miss you, come back safe Tom.
Your luvin Girl Meg.”

Great-granddaughter Jennie wiped the tears away as she read a telegram also in the envelope, “Dear Mrs Jenkins find enclosed the effects of Private Thomas Jenkins (R.W.F.196322) it is my painful duty to inform you that your husband was killed in action on September 11th 1915 at Loos France.”

Meg had received the telegram on her return from the new Women’s Institute. A day that was to live with Meg always, she remained a faithful W.I. member of Llanfairpwll. all her life.

Jennie put the letters and the telegram back in the envelope, definitely not for the W.I. competition, a precious fragment of her family’s life; she would have to look elsewhere to mark the 100 years of the W.I.

—

One Hundred Heartaches
by Carol Anderson, Morley W.I.

June 10th 1915. Ada’s wedding day. She is marrying Fred; handsome, hardworking, reliable Fred. He had pursued her tenaciously and swept her off her feet. Ada knew instinctively that Fred would be a good husband.

As she turned towards her bedroom window, the early morning light came trickling in, through the slats of the wooden blinds. She had slept fitfully; waking, dozing, tossing and turning. Like the ingredients of a cake mixture her emotions were mixed and stirred together.

This should be the happiest day of her life, but the day is tinged with sadness. It was not because she did not want to marry Fred. Two days ago he had received his call-up papers. In a few days he would be leaving her, and England, for how long nobody knew. Would he return? Ada’s hopes and dreams for the future lay in disarray amongst the silken ribbons of her trousseau. Was she strong enough to endure the piercing heartache and uncertainty for a second time?

Ada was stirred from her reverie by the sound of her mother’s voice calling from downstairs. Ada quickly pulled on her robe and hurried down to the kitchen. The air was filled with the sweet fragrance of orange blossom. Warmth from the range had drawn the scent from the blossom filled pots and jugs, which were standing on the kitchen table waiting to be taken up to the schoolroom, where the wedding breakfast was to be held. Although it was June, the range was lit, the kettle gently boiling so that tea could be offered to any well-wishers who might call in to pay their respects.
Nell stood in the doorway. She was Ada’s dearest friend and soon to be bridesmaid. She had arrived early to help Ada dress. Nell threw her arms around Ada and kissed her cheek. Ada had been walking out with Nell’s brother Harold. Tragically he had been killed in action at the outbreak of the war. How different their futures might have been. But this was no time to dwell on “what ifs”.

Ada stood at the head of the stairs, adorned from head to toe in white lace and silk. As she tentatively placed her slippered foot on the first tread, the clock on the mantle began to strike the hour; heralding her grand entrance and subsequent departure towards her new life.

Her father smiled proudly as she crossed the parlour towards him. He squeezed her hand reassuringly as she took his arm. Time to go.

The dappled pony and the trap festooned with silken bows was waiting at the gate to take her on the short journey to chapel. Had ever a journey been so short yet felt so far? As Ada’s father closed the garden gate behind them, she glanced back towards the family house, her sanctum for the last thirty years.

Life would never be the same again – for any one of them.