A Letter from Annie White, 1950
My dear children yet to come,
I pray this letter finds you in good health
and good heart, though I know it will be many years before your eyes fall upon
these words. Still, I write as though you were near, for in truth you are
always near to me—in my thoughts, in my prayers, and in the quiet hopes I carry
for the future.
Life for me at present is modest and plain. I
live in a small two-room bedsit, where each day begins with the sound of
footsteps in the rooms below and the clatter of kettles being set to boil. To
fetch water for drinking or washing, I must go down a flight of stairs to the
floor below, where the tap and bathroom are shared by all. It is no great
hardship, though in the cold mornings it does test one’s resolve and I try to
save money by not lighting my paraffin stove. I work as a parlourmaid, and my
days are ordered by the rhythm of service—polishing, dusting, laying fires, and
tending to the needs of others. There is satisfaction in keeping things neat
and proper, though it leaves little time for one’s own pursuits, particularly as I walk to and from my place of work.
On Sundays, when I have a little freedom, I
sometimes meet with other servants—some from my present household, others from
places where I once worked. These gatherings are simple, often just a walk or a
shared cup of tea, but they bring comfort and a sense of belonging. My own
family ties are few. I keep in touch with only one sister, for I was long ago
estranged from the rest after an unfortunate incident in my youth. That loss
has weighed heavily on me, and though I seldom speak of it, I know it shaped the
path I have walked. At times, I wonder if I hardened my heart too much, or if I
might have found a way back to them had I been braver. It is a sorrow I carry
quietly, and though I have learned to live with it, there are moments when the
ache of it still finds me.
Perhaps it is why I have clung so firmly to
duty and to faith, for they have given me the steadiness that family might
otherwise have provided.
At this moment, I face a choice that weighs
upon me. There is talk of moving to another household for work, one that
promises steadier wages but would take me farther from the familiar streets I
know. Security is tempting, yet the thought of starting afresh in a strange
place fills me with unease. Such decisions are never simple, but I remind
myself that courage is not the absence of fear, but the will to go on despite
it.
I have been fortunate in my employers, who
have treated me with kindness and respect. Once, I even received a bequest from
a former master, a man who had served as mayor of Hastings. Such gestures
remind me that even in service, one’s efforts are seen and valued. To be
thought well of is no small thing, and I take pride in knowing that my work has
earned trust and regard.
What sustains me most are the values passed
down through my own kin: the importance of family, even when scattered; the
strength of faith, which steadies the heart when the world feels uncertain; and
the belief that honest work, however humble, has its dignity. I hold fast to
traditions—Sunday service, a simple meal and walks.
I do worry, at times, about what lies ahead.
The war is behind us now, yet its shadow lingers in rationing, in the faces of
those who lost so much. I wonder what kind of world you, my descendants, will
inherit. Will it be kinder, freer, more just? My dream is that you will not
only have more comforts than I, but also more opportunities to learn, to
travel, to live without fear.
If I may offer you a word of encouragement, it
is this: never forget where you come from, for roots give strength even as
branches reach toward the sky. Cherish one another, for family is a treasure
beyond measure. And do not be ashamed of humble beginnings—often it is in the
smallest rooms, with the simplest meals, that the truest love is found.
And now, as I close, I cannot help but wonder
about you. Did our family prosper? Do you still tell our stories, and remember
the names of those who came before? More than this, I hope you have found ways
to mend what I could not—that the divisions of the past have softened, and that
love has bridged the gaps where once there was silence. If so, then my heart is
lighter, knowing that what was broken in my time may be whole again in yours.
With all my heart,
Your grandmother,
Annie White
Penned by Co-Pilot after my original prompt and revised with more information from me. It made me feel emotional about the memories it invoked.