Don’t Tell Mummy (13 page)

‘Yes, Daddy,’ I replied as I slid further down the bed, trying to avoid the glare of his eyes. In their depths I could
glimpse the seeds of the rage that would be unleashed should I ever dare to disobey him.

Every day I waited for my mother to come through the double doors again, and was repeatedly disappointed. When at last she made another appearance she was full of apologies. Her excuses drifted around my head and I, wanting to believe her, nodded my head at appropriate times. Work, she told me, had tired her out. Such a long way to come by bus, she continued. She told me that Auntie Catherine was looking forward to my visit, and that because her family were well off she did not need to work. She wished she could afford to take time off to look after me but she knew I would understand why she couldn’t. I must be looking forward to my visit as well.

I, at eleven, only knew I wanted to go home to my mother, but my desire to please remained as strong as ever.

‘It’ll be nice to see Auntie Catherine,’ I replied and was rewarded by a brilliant smile and two kisses planted on each side of my face.

The final days in hospital blended into one as I read, played with the other children and waited to be told that the following day was to be the last one there. Finally it came.

I dressed early that morning, packed my small suitcase with the accumulation of books and clothes that I had acquired over the three months I’d spent there. When that task was finished I sat patiently on my bed and waited for my mother.

?

M
y mother had taken me by train and bus to the large rambling house on the Kentish coast where my aunt lived. Here I had been given a pretty room where the wallpaper matched the flower-sprigged eiderdown that covered my white-painted bed. This, I had been told, had been Aunt Catherine’s daughter’s room, but now Hazel was in her teens she had moved into a larger one so it was to be mine for the duration of my visit.

My Aunt Catherine was not a blood relative, but my mother’s closest friend. In the fifties adults’ names were often prefixed with the title ‘aunt’ or ‘uncle’ to anyone under twenty-one. She was a pretty woman with the shoulder-length hair of a mousy-brown hue that was fashionable then, belonging to a generation that relied little on the artifice of hairdressers’ skills. Her evocative perfume, a mixture of a light floral scent and delicious baking smells, lingered in the room after she left it. Her nails, unlike my mother’s, were short, varnished with just the palest pink polish, and on her feet she wore flat sandals. High heels, I noticed, were only worn on special occasions, such as days when she took me to tearooms reminiscent of my early childhood.

The first outing I had with her was to a large department store, where she asked me to choose some material.

‘You’ve grown tall in hospital, Antoinette, and so thin that none of your clothes seem to fit.’

Thus she tactfully dismissed my case of hand-me-downs, gratefully received by my mother and greatly despised by me. ‘Let’s choose something pretty together.’

Taking my hand she led me into the lift where its guardian, a war veteran dressed proudly in the store’s uniform, his empty sleeve pinned across his chest, rested against a stool as he recited the goods of each floor until we reached haberdashery. Those were the days of post-war England, before automation made such jobs extinct.

Passing through the section where the buttons, wools and various knitting accoutrements were, we came to the fabric section. Bolts of fabric in every colour of the rainbow met my delighted eyes; colours I’d never seen before. Delicate silver cloth and beaded chiffon caught my attention first. I wanted to rush over and examine them all, but Aunt Catherine gently took my hand and steered me to the more appropriate cottons.

‘Look,’ she exclaimed as she pulled a delicate pink and white striped roll towards me, ‘this will suit you.’ Then, before I could answer, she pointed to another pale blue fabric. ‘Do you like that one?’

I nodded, scared the spell would be broken. The excitement had stilled my tongue and made me hold my breath.

‘Well, then we’ll have both,’ she exclaimed happily. ‘Now, we need one for best.’

She saw my eyes alight on a rich tartan, like the fabric from the favourite dress I had now outgrown.

‘We’ll take that as well,’ she told me. Then, with our purchases wrapped and bagged, she took me to tea. I felt I
could die of happiness, not one new dress but three. I trotted along at her side with a smile so wide it almost made my cheeks ache.

Knowing this was a special day, she allowed me a piece of cake, despite my restricted diet. As I swallowed the soft sponge and felt the sweetness of icing on my tongue, happiness enfolded me and I felt I wanted to stay with her for ever.

Entering a life previously only glimpsed before from the conversations of other children, I had gone ‘through the looking glass’, like Alice, and had no wish to return. That day I forgot about Judy, how much I was missing her, and allowed myself to savour every moment. My obvious pleasure animated Aunt Catherine as she chattered on about different outings she had planned for us.

‘We can’t do too much,’ she warned me, ‘because you’re not fully better yet, but in a few weeks I want to take all of you to the circus. Would you like that?’

I felt my eyes grow larger; this was a treat I had only read about. I had dreamt about going to a circus but had never been.

‘Oh yes!’ I managed to squeak. Surely, I thought, this day could not get any better.

Over the weeks I stayed I learnt that making her family happy was what gave Aunt Catherine the most pleasure and I felt part of it. Her two children – Roy, who was one year older than me, and Hazel, five years older – had largely ignored me. Roy ignored me because I was still not strong enough to play and Hazel because of the age difference. So I was surprised, but very pleased, when two weeks after my arrival Hazel offered to show me her horse. Horses were her passion; she’d been riding since she was a little girl and had owned a pony
until she outgrew it. Her new horse had been given to her for her fifteenth birthday and was her pride and joy.

He was a gelding, she informed me, a light bay of fourteen hands. She, I learnt, felt about him much as I did about Judy, although she made it clear that whereas a dog was very good to talk to, a horse could be ridden and was therefore more useful.

Aunt Catherine gave us a bunch of carrots to feed to him, warned Hazel not to let me walk too far and, with the beginnings of hero worship forming, I followed her to the field. There a light golden brown horse, a lot bigger than the ponies from Cooldaragh, came trotting up to us. I was told to hold my hand out flat with my offering, which, tentatively, I did. I felt a wave of delight as his soft breath tickled my palm and my confidence grew as he allowed me to stroke his head.

Hazel saddled him up, then to my delight asked if I would like to ride him.

‘Oh yes!’ was my instant reply. After all, I’d only been told not to walk too far; nobody had said anything about riding.

I had to stretch to gain a foothold in the first stirrup as Hazel held her steady. Then, with one more heave, I was on. Suddenly the ground seemed a long way down, so I looked straight ahead and took the reins. First he walked and I, feeling over-confident, gave him a light tap with my heels, as I had seen riders do. I felt him pick up a little speed and, as I tried to move to his rhythm, he, with all the joy of a young horse, broke into a canter. Wind made my eyes water, my vision blurred and, as I felt my control go, my excitement changed to fear. I heard Hazel calling his name as he cantered round the field. She shouted at me to pull on the reins, but all my efforts were being spent on staying on.

Then, with frisky pleasure, his back legs went up in the air and I flew over his head. My breath left my body in one big huff and for a moment I saw stars, as I lay on the ground with my limbs akimbo and my eyes open but unfocused.

Hazel’s worried voice penetrated my haze and hero worship strengthened my spine. I braced myself until the world stopped tilting, then gingerly I stood. Hazel’s look of worry lessened as she brushed me down, no doubt thankful that there were no broken bones to be explained away.

To my dismay she said, ‘You have to get back on the horse. If you don’t you never will, you’ll always be afraid.’

I looked at the gelding who, unconcerned at my discomfort, was contentedly munching the last of the carrots, and saw a giant. Hazel reassured me that she would lead him and, not quite believing her, I climbed back on. Hero worship can make brave little soldiers of us all. I was rewarded, for that day she and I became friends as we silently conspired that Aunt Catherine would be happier not knowing of that little adventure.

Life at my aunt’s house that summer was peaceful. Being more confined to the house than her two children, I would spend my days either sitting in the garden reading or helping her in the kitchen. In the mornings her sewing machine would be placed on the large wooden table and clothes for all the family seemed to miraculously appear. First though she made my three dresses. I would stand while she, with a mouthful of pins and tape measure in hand, would pin the material into place until only the hem was left to sew, which she did in the evenings by hand.

Lunch would be a light snack, eaten in the warmth of the kitchen, but evening meals would always be served in the dining room.

During the afternoons the sewing would be put away as the preparation for the evening meal began. I would chop vegetables, peel potatoes and make us both cups of tea as she prepared the family favourites of delicious stews and casseroles, except on Mondays when cold cuts of meat from the Sunday joint were served with pickles and mashed potatoes.

Uncle Cecil, Aunt Catherine’s husband, a tall slim man with a warm smile and twinkling eyes, the manager of the local bank, would change every evening out of his pinstriped suit into more relaxed corduroys, shirt and a leather-trimmed cardigan he favoured. Then he would relax with a gin and tonic that my aunt poured for them both as part of their evening ritual.

After the second drink was finished we would sit down to our meal. He took his place at the head of the table and she served our supper. This was always a family affair where he would gently enquire of his children’s and wife’s activities of that day. Not forgetting me, he would ask about my health and comment on how well I was beginning to look.

Often there would be games of cards or board games such as snakes and ladders once the kitchen was cleared, then bath and bed. Every night I was allowed to read for half an hour before my aunt would come to my room, tuck me up and turn out the light, and I would fall asleep with the happy memory of my good-night kiss.

The day we were going to the circus finally arrived. Dressed in my new pink and white dress and white cardigan, I climbed into the back of the car. Roy, with his precisely parted blond hair combed neatly back, wearing long grey trousers and navy blue blazer, sat beside me trying to look nonchalant as I babbled with excitement.

Bright lights illuminated the big top, the queues filled with children, their bright faces reflecting the thrill they felt as they clutched their parents’ hands. Entering the enormous tent the smell of sawdust assailed my nostrils as we took our seats on the tiered benches. I was totally enraptured. First came the clowns with their painted faces, their mouths stretched into permanent smiles, followed by the dancing dogs, small black and white energetic creatures with white ruffs around their necks. At the end of their act each dog sat on a small stool, waiting for the round of applause that was their due. All around me I could see children with their eyes huge and cheeks pink with the thrill of the circus, craning forward to see the clowns reappear, then heard the collective gasp as their act was followed by the large cats. With hands splayed on each side of me to keep my balance I strained to sit as high as possible, not wanting to miss a second of their performance. I shared the excitement of other children, holding my breath with them as those big, beautiful, golden creatures jumped through the ring of fire, clapping my hands vigorously as their tamer took his bow, then falling silent as my mesmerized eyes were drawn upwards and my mouth formed an ‘oh’ with the rest of the audience as the trapeze artists began their incredible flights.

Then came the majestic elephants, each with their trunk holding the tail of the one in front and a baby one bringing up the rear. I waited for the tiny stools to break when, for their finale, they perched their massive rumps on them, sighing with disappointment when they left the arena. Lastly the clowns made their appearance to announce the end of the show. I could hardly move. I felt encased in a magic bubble of pure joy that only childhood brings. Many
years later, when I signed a petition to forbid animals being used in circuses I still remembered the magic of that night with rueful nostalgia.

Two weeks later Aunt Catherine told me what she thought was good news. My parents were coming for the weekend and I was to return home with them. I was to have a check-up at the hospital and, provided all was well, I could return to school for the autumn term.

My feelings on hearing this were mixed; on the one hand I missed my mother and Judy, but on the other I had become used to life in a happy household, being well dressed and feeling part of Aunt Catherine’s family. Wanting to please her, I put a smile on my face and assured her that I would miss her, but of course I was looking forward to seeing my parents.

The weekend arrived. I heard their car draw up and stood at the door with my aunt as she welcomed them in. There were hugs and kisses, and exclamations about how much I’d grown, how well I looked. That night it was my mother who tucked me into bed and gave me my good-night kiss, a kiss I still felt warming my cheek as I lay in my bed, wondering what the next week would bring.

T
he check-up at the hospital had gone well, and I was pronounced fit to return to school, although I was to be excused from all sports and PE classes, as I was not yet considered strong enough for them. That news I received with pleasure; popularity was won at that particular school not by the ability of a pupil in the classroom but by their skill on the hockey field, speed on the netball court and agility in the gym. None of which I excelled at. Now I had a cast iron excuse to escape the lessons I disliked, and the ridicule that inevitably followed.

My mother had taken a short holiday from work to get me settled and for the next two weeks I enjoyed coming home to her. There were always hot, freshly baked scones and a pot of tea waiting for me and, on Fridays, homemade coffee cake, my favourite. But my greatest pleasure was having my mother to myself, being able to chatter to her without feeling the stealthy gaze of my father following me around.

After I’d eaten and played with Judy I sat at the kitchen table with my homework, which was more demanding now that I was in the seniors and had a lost term to catch up on. My mother would prepare supper as I worked, and as I sat in that warm kitchen I wished those days would never end.

I made up my mind then to stand up to my father when my mother returned to work. I would tell him that now I knew what he did to me was wrong. Although I had always loathed what he did to me I had, up till then, accepted it as unavoidable. After six weeks in a happy household I had come to realize just how wrong it was. Instinctively, I had always known that I must not discuss ‘our secret’, knew that it was a shameful act, but was still too young to see that the shame was his not mine. I felt that if I told people what was going on they would never again see me as a normal child and would in some way blame me.

Lulled into a false feeling of security, I had settled back into school. My reputation for being delicate made me even more of an oddity, but at least the other children left me alone. Their teasing and taunting ceased because after such a long illness the teachers had made it clear that bullying me would not be tolerated.

The last day of my mother’s holiday arrived, bringing with it the reappearance of the jovial father. He entered the house, a dazzling smile on his face and a faint smell of whiskey on his breath. I tried not to wince as his hand chucked me under the chin and then slid up my cheek to rest on my head.

‘Look Antoinette, I’ve a present for you.’ He unbuttoned the top of his coat to show me a small grey wriggling bundle of fur. Gently prying small claws from his jumper, he held it out and I reached up my arms to take it. The warm little body nestled up to me and the first rumble of a contented purr vibrated from its stomach. I stroked its fur unbelievingly, a kitten of my own.

‘He’s yours. I saw him in the pet shop and thought I’d get him for my wee girl.’ And I, still wanting to believe in the
nice father, allowed myself to be convinced that he existed again, and beamed up at him with delight. The little grey bundle was named Oscar by me, given a box lined with an old blanket to sleep in by my mother, and a sniff by Judy. The following morning he was curled up contently by Judy’s side, basking in the warmth of her body while she acted with complete indifference.

That week my father commenced night-shift hours and when I came home it was him and not my mother waiting for me. I put my newly found courage into practice: I said ‘no’. He smiled at me, then came that wink.

‘But you like it, Antoinette, you told me so, remember? Did you lie to your Daddy then? Hey?’

I felt the trap close round me, for a lie found out was punishable by a beating. Speechless with fear and confusion I stood in front of him with my body trembling.

His mood abruptly changed.

‘Make your old man a cup of tea,’ he commanded and gratefully I made my escape. A few minutes later he was slurping the hot liquid with his eyes narrowed in an expression I could not read but knew did not bode well for me.

‘You know, Antoinette, your Mummy and I do it. We do it all the time.’ I gazed at him with horror, unable to tear my eyes away from his mocking stare. ‘Do you not know yet how babies are made?’

I didn’t but I soon did, and he, I could tell, took a delight in seeing my disgust at what he told me. I thought of all the pregnant women I’d seen, women who seemed happy at their condition, and felt a sickness wash over me at the thought that they were party to such a horrible act. Why, the aunt I loved so much must have done it, I thought, at least twice, and my mother. How could they? My thoughts
churned in my head and a different fear entered it. My whole perception of adults shifted that afternoon and the last shreds of security, as I knew it, disappeared, leaving me cast adrift, with only bewilderment as my companion.

He told me that I could not get pregnant, as though that was my only fear, but still I said ‘no’. He laughed at me.

‘Let me tell you something, Antoinette. Your Mummy, she likes it.’ Then, seemingly bored with tormenting me, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

Had I won the first round, I wondered. Had it really been as easy as that?

No, I had simply won a minor skirmish, not even a battle, and the war was about to begin. The following day I went to my mother’s office. I would surprise her I thought, meet her from work and thus avoid my father’s taunts; the taunts that had given me a sleepless night as disturbing images scurried around my brain. The more I had tried to eject them, the more stubbornly they clung on as I tossed and turned.

‘What a lovely surprise, darling,’ she exclaimed as she showed me to a seat where I could wait for her. When she finished her work she looked up, gave me a warm smile and introduced me to her work colleagues as she played the role of proud mother. Then, with her arm round the shoulders of a daughter who wanted to believe in her, she ushered me out.

My father was waiting for us. Somehow, when I had not returned from school, he had guessed where I’d gone and had quickly moved to outwit me. He told my mother there was a film at the local cinema he knew she would like and he’d come to take her there. The cinema was a treat I loved so, thinking I was included, I looked hopefully up at them.

‘Well Antoinette, have you done your homework?’ he asked, knowing the answer before I replied.

‘No.’

‘You get yourself back to the house then. Your mother and I will see you later. If you’d wanted to come with us you should have gone straight home.’

He smiled at me as he spoke, a smile that told me I was beginning to lose again.

‘Never mind, dear,’ my mother added, ‘there will be plenty more times. Help yourself to something to eat and make sure you do all your work.’

I turned in the direction of my home while they, engrossed in each other’s company, walked in another.

Three days later, when I came home from school, I saw Oscar lying in Judy’s basket, completely still. I knew he was dead before I picked him up. His head was at an odd angle and his small body was already stiff when I held him and looked despairingly into my father’s face.

‘He must have broken his neck when he was playing,’ was his explanation, but I didn’t believe him.

Years later, when I looked back on that day, I thought that he most probably was innocent, because I never saw him being cruel to an animal. Perhaps that was one act I accused him of wrongly. Believing him guilty weakened me and he, seeing that, seized the opportunity of taking advantage of my grief. He took my hand and led me to the bedroom.

The tears were running down my face and with a note of kindness in his voice, a note that belied his intent, he gave me a small bottle and instructed me to drink. A fiery liquid slid down my throat, making me choke before I felt its warm glow spreading through me. I did not like the sex that followed, but I liked the whiskey.

So at twelve, I discovered that alcohol could dull pain and saw it as a friend. It was only in later years I realized that a
friendship with a bottle can overnight turn into a relationship with the enemy.

I woke up knowing that something good was going to happen. My mind, still dormant, searched for what it was and then excitement flooded my body. My English grandmother was coming to visit. She was going to stay with us for several weeks, sleep on the bed settee downstairs and be there to greet me every day when I returned from school. And the best part of all, during her visit my father would not dare come near me. For the duration of her stay the nice father would be on show and my mother could play her game of happy families.

I stretched with pleasure, thinking of the freedom the next few weeks would bring, and then reluctantly dressed for school. I wanted to be at home to greet her, instead of which my father would be. However, as he did not see her visits giving him freedom, in fact rather the reverse, I knew there was another bonus. He would, as he had done before, swap his shift to a daytime one, so I would have to see much less of him.

For once at school I found it difficult to concentrate and the hours ticked away slowly. Eager to go home, I waited impatiently for the final bell. On hearing it I rushed through the gates and walked as quickly as I could to our house.

I called out to her as I went in and she came with a smile of love on her face and her wide-open arms embraced me.

With her upright stance and feet always encased in high heels, I’d always thought of her as being tall, but as I hugged her I was suddenly aware of how tiny she was. In
my flat, lace-up school shoes, I found that my head already reached higher than her shoulder.

Sitting at the kitchen table a few minutes later as she poured out tea I studied her face through the cloud of smoke that always seemed to surround her, a tipped cigarette permanently glued to her lip. As a young child I had watched in fascination, waiting for it to fall, but it never did.

It had been several months since her last visit and I saw that more fine lines were appearing on her porcelain skin and that nicotine had placed a yellow streak in the front of her now faded red-gold hair. Her smile, still full of warmth, which I felt was a special one reserved just for me, flitted across her face as she fired numerous questions; questions about my health, school and what plans, if any, I had made for when I left.

I reassured her about my health, told her I was now fully recovered, even though I was still unable to take part in sports. I said that although I didn’t like my school, my marks were constantly high, and I confided in her my ambition, the ambition of going to university and becoming a teacher of English.

For the next hour her bone china cup was constantly raised to her lips as we talked. Our conversation was only interrupted by the boiling of more water for our numerous refills. I remembered as I watched her drink how she had repeatedly told me the only china a teacup should be made from was the bone thin kind, infuriating my mother when she proceeded to take her own cup from her bag and place it on the table.

I was fascinated by its prettiness and had stared at it with admiration the first time she had held it up to the light, amazed that I could see the outline of her fingers through it.
I wondered how such a delicate object could be strong enough to resist cracking when she filled it so many times with the almost black, boiling hot tea she favoured.

Now that my grandmother was at home, my parents acted as though a permanent baby-sitter had arrived and their nights out, usually to the local cinema, became more frequent. I didn’t tell her that my parents would have left me on my own had she not been there, although not so often that the neighbours might have noticed. If ever my father’s violent temper towards me failed to scare my mother, the prospect of gossip always succeeded.

My parents would exit in a swirl of instructions directed at me – to finish my homework, to be good, to go to bed when my grandmother told me – followed by a quick kiss from my mother. A bright, ‘See you in the morning, darling’, would emit from her carefully lipsticked mouth. Then the door would close behind them, leaving my grandmother and I glancing furtively at one another; me wondering what she thought of my being ignored, and she wondering how much I minded.

Those evenings my grandmother and I spent playing cards. Now that I had left children’s games such as snap behind I happily progressed to gin rummy and whist. Some evenings board games such as snakes and ladders or Monopoly would appear out of her case. The hours would flash by as, determined to win, I would silently concentrate on the moves I had to make. She, with apparently equal determination, would squint through the smoke of her precariously dangling cigarettes.

Bedtime would arrive all too soon and a last hot drink would be swallowed before I climbed the stairs and fell into bed. Always she would give me thirty minutes before
following me up. There would be a hug and I would breathe in the scent of face powder mixed with her ‘lily of the valley’ fragrance, which, over the years, had become almost masked with the familiar odour of cigarettes.

Only once in my presence did she show her disapproval of my parents. They, dressed up again for their evening outing with that glow between them that made them a couple, never a family, mentioned the title of that night’s film. It was a Norman Wisdom one that I had heard my classmates talking about and wanted to see. My expression must have shown the hope I felt, hope that just once I would be included. My grandmother saw it and tried to help.

‘Why, Ruth,’ she said to my mother, ‘that’s a “U”-rated film. Don’t worry about leaving me alone – tomorrow’s Saturday so Antoinette can go with you if you like.’

My mother froze for a moment before gathering her thoughts and answering lightly, ‘Oh, not this time, she has homework to do.’ Then she turned to me with a promise that I no longer trusted. ‘There’ll be other times, darling,’ she said in a voice that was meant to console me but didn’t, ruffled my hair and was gone, leaving me sitting desolately behind.

‘That’s not right,’ I heard my grandmother mutter. ‘Still, cheer up Antoinette,’ and with that she put the kettle on to make me an extra cup of tea.