In 1911 a girl was born
Before the country by two wars was torn
To a family known as Race
Young Hette was fair of face
But hardly her mother’s only child
Brothers and sisters probably ran wild
Seven at least saw adulthood
But Mrs Race must have been good
For with children, she wasn’t finished yet
And into her family she brought our Bet
Though sadly she wasn’t long for this world
And the rest of Hette’s life unfurled
With younger siblings to take under her wing
It can’t have been an easy thing
And must have put her to the test
Though by now she’d already flown the nest
Life had dealt Hette another card
That saw her marry a Coldstream Guard
How did she meet her husband Reg?
She was at Maurice Dean’s selling fruit and veg
When this soldier came in to open an account
But he wouldn’t be satisfied with any amount
Of fruit, it was Hette that caught his eye
Which is precisely the reason why
He sought out her house, this canny fella
And walked away with young Hette’s umbrella
When she saw it, she hardly found words to speak
She told him it was a ‘bloody cheek!’
But she went all the same to the pictures that night
They must have been a fine old sight
Sat in the back of the two and nines
I wonder then if they’d seen the signs
That led to a marriage in March ‘43
Much of the rest is history
When in London, his dad bought a boarding house
Young Hette did not really grouse
She upped sticks and set off for the capital city
But life back then was fairly gritty
And Het was a simple Dorset girl
Not suited to the London whirl
The goings-on in Craven Street
Were, for her, too indiscreet
So home to Dorset, Hette ran
And took with her, Reg, her man
Once home, she very rarely strayed
From that place where she was made
But on the buses, she made her name
I’m sure that bus rides haven’t been the same
Since Het Morris ran upstairs and down
Collecting tickets all over town
To run a pub she had a break
But perhaps found it was a mistake
So back on the buses again she went
The passengers thought she was heaven sent
Especially the day that she stopped a while
Outside her house just to chose a tile
For the bathroom, you could hear their cusses
It was like a scene from ‘On the Buses’!
But Het for her time was very strong
With a keen sense of right and wrong
When her family came back from Singapore
She’d not see them out on the street for sure
Her park-side home she shared with them all
Bet and Malcolm, Martin and Paul
And from that time, until the end
She was their aunt, but also their friend
And she was a friend to the three boys’ wives
Knowing Het enriched their lives
A life-long pal to Bet her sister
More than sixty years as Mrs and Mr
Morris, 94 years of life
As woman, sister, aunt and wife
She loved her garden, where she’d spend hours
She inspired us all with her love of flowers
Thanks to her our gardens will bloom on
They’ll flower for her, now that she’s gone
And through their beauty, we’ll never forget
Our happy memories of you, dear Het.
Jo Ross – September 2005
