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My mother was born in the village on the borders of Norfolk and Suffolk, right on the Waveney River, which had been the home of her family for many years: her mother Rose was brought up there by her great grandparents, Daniel and Matilda Betts, and many relatives lived nearby.

Mum was Rose’s the third and last child, who had all been born in what would now be seen as very quick succession: the eldest, Reggie, was less than three years old when Pamela arrived on March 27th 1933. She was born at home – 8, South View, Mendham.

It was a difficult birth, and both mother and child were lucky to survive: Pamela spent several of her first few hours of life in a makeshift oxygen tent on the kitchen table. As a result of her weakened state, Rose was persuaded to allow her eldest child to be looked after by his aunt and uncle, a decision which later led to a family rift, which sadly could not have been foreseen at the time.

However, as babies are wont to do, Pamela not only survived but grew into a healthy little girl, attending the village school along with her elder brother and sister Peggy. Family photos record seaside trips and Sunday School outings – her teachers there were her own Aunt Annie, her father’s sister, and Winnie Blyth, who was years later to become her sister-in-law. Her future husband was also a pupil at the school, albeit nine years ahead of her.

The school is still there and I remember being taken past it as a child: Mum would reminisce about her schooldays, and to me the separate entrances clearly labelled ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’ was a testament to another era.

When Pamela was just six years old, World War II started: her memories of the war from the viewpoint of a schoolgirl in a rural East Anglian village was more of land girls appearing to help on the farms than of the Blitz. She did recall the doodlebugs though – and recounted how they would hear them going over and pray that the droning noise they made would continue – because the moment the noise stopped, they knew it was about to come down.

At ten years old, Pamela had a bout of rheumatic fever, which left her with a damaged heart: not that this made any difference to her life at that point, but sadly it was the main cause of her relatively early death.

After school, Pamela worked in a few different jobs – we have a lovely photograph of her at work in a sewing factory, and she showed a particular aptitude for cookery – her jugged hare was apparently very popular.

Her life was leading her away from Mendham however, as her relationship with my father developed towards marriage. Not that it was all hearts and roses: my Nan always told the story of Cyril trying to teach his girlfriend to drive in his car. She was not a natural, and after one heated exchange during a driving lesson Pam got out of the car in fury, slammed the door and walked home. Cyril leaped into the driving seat and proceeded to follow her at walking pace all the way, clearly finding the whole situation very amusing. The funnier he found it, the angrier she got, and she strode into her mother’s kitchen, picked up the bread knife and slammed it into the loaf – probably imagining it was her boyfriend’s head. A moment later, Cyril walked in laughing.

They must have made it up because they married in October 1955 and after a few months staying with Pam’s parents they moved into their own home in Dickleburgh. Not just a home, it was their shared workplace too, as I have detailed elsewhere in this blog. For Pamela, in the coming years it meant juggling the demands of the shop alongside her children and the housework. Understandably she found it most irritating at times to be called to the shop because there were lots of customers to serve when she was halfway through hoovering the bedrooms, but she maintained a regular routine which ensured all the jobs got done and her family – the centre of her life – were looked after.

As the three of us grew up, Mum was the lynchpin of the family, and home meant her wonderful cooking and care. She knew exactly what foods each of her offspring favoured, and even when we all departed to college and our own lives, she made sure that when we visited our favourite dish would appear for dinner.

After retirement, Pamela devoted herself to looking after her husband and enjoying her grandchildren, her home and garden. It wasn’t a great surprise that having cared for Cyril through his last illness, it was only after he died that she felt the effects of her own poor health. She missed him a great deal and when she followed him to their shared grave only eighteen months after his death, however much we mourned, we felt that she was where she wanted to be – back with her lifelong partner.