Don’t Tell Mummy (15 page)

A
lthough the teachers had little rapport with me, not knowing why but sensing something different in me from my peers, the fact that at the end of term exams I came first in nearly every subject gained their respect. My ambition was to go to university. Education would, I thought, bring me freedom, and without knowing my reasons they realized my ambition.

Since my hospitalization, I was still considered too delicate to take part in physical education classes, so those periods I could use for extra study. This I did in the familiar school library, which housed an extensive range of reference books. Obtaining top marks was important to me; it was the one area of my life that I felt in control of, the one part I felt a pride in.

Dr Johnston, our headmistress, made frequent visits to our classrooms and always acted as an inspiration. She liked to open up the minds of her pupils in different ways. She encouraged us to read about politics and history, listen to music and choose books from the library by authors she recommended. She helped us to form our own opinions and not be shy in airing them.

At the beginning of term, which, unknown to me at the time, was to be my last year of school, she announced a competition. Two lists of subjects had been pinned to the notice board that hung in the large entrance hall. One was considered to be of interest to the under-fourteens, the other for those over. We were told to read through them carefully, choose a subject that interested us, then during the term research and write an essay on it. This we would have to present orally to a panel of teachers as well as the other competitors. The prize was a book token, something I coveted a great deal.

At the break, going to the notice board, I read the under-fourteens’ list dismissively. I hadn’t read a child’s book for several years and all the suggested subjects looked ridiculously childish. Then one of the subjects from the senior list jumped out at me: ‘Apartheid in South Africa’, part of a continent that I had already formed a fascination for from articles I’d read in encyclopaedias.

I went to the more available Deputy Head to ask for permission to choose that subject instead of anything in the younger category. Patiently she explained that if I chose a senior subject, I would have to compete against girls up to five years older than me. When she could see I was still determined, her patience lessened and she informed me that no allowance would be made for my age. Still I was adamant that I knew what I wanted to do.

She called Dr Johnston over and told her, with a slightly patronizing laugh, what I had asked for. Surprisingly, instead of agreeing with her Deputy, the Headmistress overruled her and said that if I was prepared to work in my free time researching a subject not covered yet at school, I had her permission.

I was pleased with my victory, pleased that for once I had obtained my own way. Unknown to me then, however, I had made an enemy of the Deputy Head, a fact I would suffer from the following year.

As I started my research, my passion for my chosen subject grew. I read how the workforces for the mines were recruited once gold and diamonds were discovered, and based the beginning of my essay on that. I wrote that when the white man discovered gold, he also found that many tons of earth had to be shifted to produce an ounce of this valuable metal. To mine successfully, cheap mass labour was needed, which meant black labour. But what, they asked themselves, would motivate the villagers to work long gruelling hours underground when they had never seen the value of the metal buried in the soil? They had operated a barter system for centuries and currency carried no importance for them. The government then passed a new law, stating that the villages would be taxed. Now that the land no longer belonged to the original inhabitants, neither did the gold, which left them unable to pay their taxes. The only option left to them was to send their young men in droves to work the mines. Wives were separated tearfully from their husbands, children from their fathers. First they were herded into lorries, which took them to the trains to travel, often for hundreds of miles, to face uncertain futures.

How did they feel, those men? No longer could they experience the joy of watching their babies grow, feel the warmth from the smiles of their women folk, or listen to stories told by their elders, stories that had been passed down through the years from one generation to another, keeping their culture alive by informing them of their history.

Nor, at the end of the day, could they contentedly sit to watch with wonder the beauty of the African sky, waiting for the sun to gradually disappear, leaving in its wake a sky shot with shades of the palest pink, highlighted by flashes of scarlet and orange.

Neither could they smell the aroma of food being cooked in black pots, hung over open fires and tended by their women. Lost to them was the security and companionship of their village. The very essence of their lives was gone. Instead, their days were spent working long, back-breaking and often dangerous hours in the dark, hearing the unfamiliar sounds of many tongues, until they returned to their bleak soulless dormitories. Their awakenings were now controlled by their masters, not by the stirring of their village coming to life as the sun rose.

Here they quickly learnt that the pride they had felt when they celebrated the day they had come to manhood was stripped away. They became ‘boy’ to the white man for ever.

As I read more, I found myself totally opposed to the injustice of apartheid, a system created solely to benefit the white races. First they had claimed the land as theirs. They then controlled the original occupants, restricting their freedom in every sense, from the freedom of movement, to the freedom that the benefits of education can bring. These thoughts and opinions became the basis of my essay when I was thirteen.

Why was I so fascinated by a land that up until then I had known very little about? Looking back, I can see that I identified with the victims, as I saw them, and the control that the Europeans exercised over them. I recognized the arrogance of men who believed they, just by their existence, were part of a superior race. I had already learnt that adults also thought that they were superior to children. They also
controlled them, restricted their freedoms and bent them to their will.

The black Africans, like me, were dependent for the food on their plates and the roofs over their heads upon people, who because they were in a position of power abused it. In my case and in many of theirs, cruelty was used to make us feel helpless, and our helplessness made them feel superior.

I visualized the people whose country it had once been, having to ask for passes to visit their families, having to always play a subservient role to their white masters. Masters who in many cases they despised as much as I did mine. I could imagine the despair and humiliation they must have felt, and identified with that. I knew, however, that one day I would leave home. As an adult there would be hope for me, but for them, I suspected, there was none.

At the end of term the day arrived for my essay to be heard. I walked into the assembly room, where the black-gowned judges sat to the left side. The fifth and sixth formers faced me while the upper sixth, in their smart green skirts and nylon-clad legs, sat to the right.

Conscious of my creased gymslip and my knee socks, I climbed the two steps onto the dais, clutching the essay that I had spent the whole term researching. I was the last contestant that day, being the youngest.

Nervously, I opened the pages and felt my voice waver as I started to read. As the passion I felt for my chosen subject calmed my nerves, I felt the atmosphere in the room change from impatience and amused indifference to interest. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the judges lean forward to hear me better. As I finished my last sentence, I felt the applause break out before I actually heard it. I knew I had won before Dr Johnston announced it.

A wide smile spread across my face as I stood there, triumphant. The cold stare from the Deputy Head’s black eyes could not spoil the joy and pride I felt at that moment.

My headmistress warmly congratulated me as she presented me with my book token, and then more applause broke out as I stepped down from the dais. I had never felt so appreciated.

That afternoon, catching the bus home, feeling warm from the glow that success had given me, I let myself into the empty house, which always felt cold. I stroked faithful Judy’s head for a few minutes as I told her about my day, and then opened the door for her to play in the small garden.

My father, who I knew was not working that day, was out. He would, as he always did on his free days, collect my mother and they would return together. I slipped into my routine of changing out of my uniform, hanging my gym tunic up carefully and pulling on an old skirt and thick jumper. I emptied the pot-bellied black stove of the previous night’s ashes, and carefully laid a new fire. Once that was lit, I went to the small dark kitchen, where I washed up the dishes from the night before. Finally, I laid a tea tray, so that tea would be waiting for my parents as soon as they came through the door.

Once these chores were done, I would let Judy back in, so that she could sit at my feet as I started my homework. That afternoon I was almost too excited to work. I wanted to tell my mother of my achievement, wanted her to hug me with pride as she had not done for so long.

I heard my father’s car draw up and quickly poured the water that I had kept simmering over the tea-leaves in the pot. As they came through the door I started telling them my news.

‘Mummy,’ I said, ‘I’ve won the prize. My essay came first in the whole school.’

‘That’s nice, dear,’ was her only reply as she sat down to drink her tea.

‘What prize was that?’ my father asked.

‘My essay on apartheid in South Africa,’ I almost stammered, feeling my glow fading as I saw his mocking gaze.

‘What was the prize?’ he asked.

Even as I replied, ‘A book token,’ I knew with a sinking heart what the outcome was going to be.

‘Well, give it to your mother,’ he commanded. ‘It can go towards your school books. A big girl like you should be contributing.’

As I looked at him, I tried to mask the contempt I felt, for I saw not only my father, but what he represented: the gross misuse of authority. As I watched my mother by her silence agreeing with him, I saw how she pandered to his tyranny. I looked at his smug, complacent face and felt such a wave of hatred that it was all I could do to stand upright. I found myself giving a silent prayer to a God I no longer believed in to bring his life to an end.

Into my head for a fleeting moment came a mental picture of him gone, and my mother and I being happy together. For I still believed that my mother’s actions were totally controlled by him. As I watched the mother I adored, I thought that surely her life would be better without him. I saw her fuss around him and then I was aware of an intimate loving smile on her face, one she saved just for him. Smiles like that were never given to me.

That was the moment I finally realized that the reason my mother stayed with him was her desire to do so. She, I suddenly knew, would sacrifice anything to stay
with the man she had married, to please him and keep him happy.

That evening I, who for years had always blamed my father and never found fault with my mother, only saw her as weak. She appeared to be a woman who not only had lost the chance of a normal happy life, but someone who had lost herself through the love she felt for my father. I knew then that I was not weak like my mother. My achievement that day had proved it to me. Only by standing up to the Deputy Head for what I wanted had I been able to win. I made a vow to myself, then, that no one would ever control my emotions. I would save love for the children I expected to have and for my animals. I would never allow myself to be made weak by it, never allow anyone to come that close. It was a decision that would cloud my life for many years.

T
he mind-numbing routines of the hospice seemed to merge the days into one, and the first ten days slipped away without me really noticing.

Sleep would leave me early as the discomfort of the chair reminded me of where I was. As consciousness arrived before my eyes reluctantly opened, I would listen for my mother’s breathing and wonder if during her sleep she had finally relinquished her tenuous hold on life. Half hoping but half dreading the answer, I would force myself to look, only to find her gaze holding mine as she patiently waited for me to awaken.

My help was needed to assist her to the bathroom. With one arm around her shoulder and one under her arm we would shuffle across the two-yard distance. The return from the bathroom would result in another agonizingly slow journey back to her chair, where once seated she would lie back with a sigh, worn out before the day had begun.

Around me I would hear the murmur of voices, the quiet tread of rubber-soled feet, the squeak of an opening door and a radio releasing music into the air as the hospice came to life.

We would wait, my mother in her chair, I on the edge of the bed, for the sound of a trolley. It was the arrival and departure of these inanimate objects, pushed by smiling nurses or kindly volunteers, that marked the passing of the hours.

Four pairs of eyes would open and focus on the doorway as the clatter of the first one was heard. This brought the medication, which nullified any pain that consciousness had woken from its slumber.

The second was the gratefully received tea trolley. With my hands curled around the hot cup I sipped the steaming beverage as I waited for the third one, which brought a brief respite for me and breakfast for the patients.

On its arrival I would make my escape. First to a shower room, where standing under its powerful jet I would feel my tension ease. Second to the lounge where, armed with a mug of strong coffee, I would read the daily newspaper in welcome solitude. Here ‘no smoking’ signs were not displayed, because to these patients the weed was no longer an issue.

No comment would be made when a yellow-tinged patient removed his oxygen mask to replace air with nicotine, as with trembling fingers he held a cigarette to his bloodless lips and sucked deeply. I would remove a packet from my pocket, then thankfully inhale with a sigh of pleasure. The thought that I might be in the right place to cure my addiction was banished from my mind as my craving was fleetingly satisfied.

The clatter of the returning trolley would penetrate my solitude. I knew it would be piled high with dishes still covered with the residue of brave attempts at eating when all appetite had gone.

Eagerly anticipated doctors’ rounds would follow. As I returned to the ward I would notice how four old ladies with limited time left would visibly brighten in the presence of a good-looking young male. All hope of returning home had faded from their minds: both they and he knew that any chance of a cure had ceased on the day they were admitted. All that was left for them were the daily questions on pain control and the adjustment where necessary of medication. Here, with gentleness and compassion, the last journey was eased.

Minor victories would give me fleeting moments of triumph, like a sparkle in my mother’s eyes after I had persuaded her to be wheeled to the visiting hairdresser, massaged with aromatherapy oils, or have her nails manicured by a voluntary beautician. The enjoyment of an hour of being pampered temporarily eclipsed the memory of pain and anticipation of what would inevitably follow.

Afternoons brought my father’s daily visit. Neither the nice nor the nasty father appeared, but in their place an old man clutching his gift of flowers, bought in haste from a petrol station more skilled at fuelling cars than in flower arranging. An old man who gazed with both tenderness and hopelessness at the only person he had to the best of his ability ever loved, and who in turn had sacrificed so much to stay with him. His tread slowed and his face saddened as he watched his wife die, little by little, day by day.

The pity I felt for him mingled with my night-time memories, and my past and present collided.

On the eleventh day my mother was too weak to shuffle to the bathroom.

On the twelfth she could no longer feed herself.

As I had pleaded inwardly all those years ago for an adult to read in my eyes the desperate need I had, so I inwardly pleaded now, silently begged her to ask for my forgiveness. Only that, I knew, would help her let go of that gossamer thread that connected her to life.

My father’s slow tread would quicken as he approached her bed, a smile that masked his feelings appearing just for her. Their palpable bond was a force that had its own energy, which sapped mine. I saw the lounge as my sanctuary, a book as my companion whilst coffee and cigarettes were my sedatives.

Finally my father came to me. ‘Antoinette,’ I heard him say with a pleading note in his voice that I had never thought him capable of, ‘she’s never coming home is she?’

I looked into the tear-misted windows of a tormented soul, where evil lay dormant, replaced by the sorrow at his own impending loss.

Wearily, neither seeking nor wanting this confrontation, I replied, ‘No.’

Looking at the grief that showed in his eyes compassion rose unchecked; my mind flew back through the decades to the memory of the laughing, handsome, nice father who so many years ago had met us at the docks. I remembered with sadness how much I had loved him then as he had swung me up in the air and kissed my mother. As though that fleeting moment was frozen in time I saw again how my mother had glowed with optimism, and how over the years her hopes had been eroded. A terrible sadness threatened to overwhelm me as I wondered how two people capable of such love for each other had eventually felt so little for the child they had produced between them.

‘I know,’ he continued, ‘I’ve done terrible things, but can we be friends?’

Many years too late, I thought. Once I wanted love. I craved it. Now I could never give it to you.

A tear escaped from his eye and slid unchecked down his cheek. His age-spotted hand touched mine briefly and for a moment I relented and simply said, ‘I’m your daughter.’