By Sandra Groom
When I was about 13 years old, we went on holiday from Northern Rhodesia to South Africa. We stayed with my Uncle Frank and Aunty Bubbles and their two sons in Johannesburg. One evening at dinner, one of the teenage sons was rude to their mother, and my quiet, gentle Uncle Frank leapt to his feet and angrily shouted “Do not speak to your mother that way! That is my sweetheart you are talking to!”
‘His sweetheart’. I never forgot that.
Aunty Bubbles died some years later, I think it was around Christmas or New Year. We only heard much later, given the telephone system in those days. Broken hearted Uncle Frank and his sons buried dear Aunty Bubbles, and went home to one of the son’s house, where Uncle Frank was staying for a few days. The next morning, the sons went into their Dad’s bedroom, and found their father dead.
Uncle Frank could not live without his sweetheart.