Mother to two boys and grandmother (Nanny) to three grandchildren, she disliked her wonderful name, choosing to be known as ‘Nicky’ Pond. Lily was married to George. They were born on the same street, bathed side by side as babies and grew up to marry, spending the rest of their lives together.
Lily loved pin-curls, as depicted in the photograph above. She kept hold of everything and anything useful and the suspender clips were amongst the items found in her sewing box, after she died.
Lily created the most wonderful poetry treasure hunts, typed on her trusty typewriter and often over-typed to correct. These slips of paper were hidden around her house to the joy of her grandchildren, who would be rewarded at the end with some trinket or another, often sourced from her travels with George.
Coupled with the stories handed down from Nanny Davidson, Annie, it is the life depicted through the diaries of Lily, which were saved and stored in empty cigar boxes and passed onto her granddaughter Jo, which have inspired this body of work.
For Annie Davidson and Lily Pond, my Grandmas, Glenthorpe Road & Woodville Road, Morden, South London, 1940:
You sat
In the cupboard under the stairs
Babe at heel, babe at breast
Babe on lap, babe to be
Waiting and listening
In prayer
The stairs were your Anderson
You left, when the door blew in
4o/c, 5 o/c 8 ‘til 4.30
Raids logged like shorthand
As you sat
Shared shelter visits
Interspersed with daily rituals
The dining table limits
A safe haven for three
Lest we forget
Your kin ran across the Bridge of London
Hands above heads
Bombs falling around them
You pawned jewels for food
Knitted socks with next door
And looked to the garden gate
Longingly
For son and husband, post war
Now, just whispers of memories of stories
And jaded diary pages
Corroborated by archives
We sit together
Through hand-me-downs
Stored in diamonds
And trinkets
And pointless belongings in boxes
A suitcase of photos of unnamed faces
Tins of oddments with browned sticky tape labels
And your handwriting
Inherited blood and belongings
We’ve touched the same items
Displayed the same mannerisms
Echoed shared experiences
When our line ends
We will no longer repeat the same habits
No longer pass down the same genes
Or the desire to hoard
We will leave collectively
A legacy in objects
- Jo Pond