Don’t Tell Mummy (20 page)

The weeks before the house and my father’s car were sold passed in coldness, until even running the gauntlet of the stares and muttering of the town as I did our shopping was preferable to staying at home. I had expected at least some understanding, even sympathy, from the adult world but in the end small kindnesses came only from the most unexpected places. Our next-door neighbours, who must have heard some of the sounds of my father’s temper filtering into their house in the past, invited us for supper. The husband offered to help with any odd jobs that might be needed round the house so we would get the best price for it and his wife offered to help with packing. The next person was the owner of our local shop, the only person who spoke directly to me.

‘You’re always welcome in here,’ he told me. ‘I’ve heard the stories and I want to tell you my viewpoint is different from most you’ve come across. If anyone is rude to you in here they can leave my shop. They know that too.’

Nobody was – they just treated me as though I was invisible as I, with my chin up, not looking to right or left, selected our purchases.

My mother kept her word and, apart from the occasional visit to our neighbours, whom up to then she had always felt herself superior to, she never left the house to venture out in Coleraine. Not until it was sold and we were free to move to Belfast did she tell me what her plans were. She had organized the rental of a small house in the notorious Shankhill district, for that was all we could afford now. She could not return to England: she had no intention of her family finding out where her husband was, and for the same reason I could not leave. I would have to find work in Belfast, a reality which I had already come to terms with. I would, I had decided, look for a job living-in, which would have two benefits. It would give me independence and get me away from my mother. Judy, I realized, would not be able to come with me and I knew how much I would miss her, but my mother loved her too and I knew she would look after the little dog if I was not there to do it. My need to escape the constant guilt I felt outweighed every other emotion. My long-cherished dream of living with my mother without my father had become a nightmare. I still loved her, longed for her to show me some understanding and affection, but she, caught up in her own depression, had none to give me. Two months after the court case we made our move and arrived in Belfast.

I thought the streets of tiny red-bricked houses, their doors opening straight onto the road, looked similar to my grandparents’ area, but bigger and more interesting. Here there were numerous shops, a pub on every corner and a constant flow of people. Predictably, my mother hated it at first sight. This, she felt, was the end of her dream of life in Ireland; this was rock bottom and she was there through no
fault of her own. Now a slow rage, fuelled by her resentment of life, seemed to burn in her. A resentment not just of the position she was in but also towards me. I let two days pass then told her that now we were unpacked I was starting my job-hunting the next day.

I
n the morning I eagerly scanned the newspaper’s situations vacant column, ringing around all the advertisements that stated accommodation would be provided. I wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible. Then, armed with a bag of coins, I walked to the nearby phone box.

The first number I rang was answered by a friendly lady who informed me that she wanted help with her two small children. As she and her husband had a busy social life, there would be on average four nights of baby-sitting duties, which was why accommodation was provided. She asked me if that would be a problem. I assured her I had no wish to go out at nights, except to visit my mother. We arranged an interview for later that day.

Feeling a sense of accomplishment that not only had I arranged an interview, but I might also soon have my own accommodation, I went home to choose a suitable outfit. I settled on a navy skirt with matching twin-set which, after checking for creases, I laid out on my bed. I polished my black kitten-heeled shoes until I could see my face in them, then selected clean undies and checked my stockings for runs.

Once I was satisfied my outfit was ready, I went down to the kitchen, where I boiled saucepans of water to shampoo my neatly cut hair and to have a strip wash. Looking into the age-spotted mirror propped against the wall by the kitchen sink, I carefully applied my make-up. A dab of matt foundation carefully blended in, a sweep of mascara, followed by a pale pink lipstick.

Knowing that my old school was unlikely to give me references, once I’d dressed I placed my last school report, which both praised my scholastic abilities and my exemplary behaviour, into my bag. I hoped these would satisfy my potential employer and she would not find the need to ask for further written confirmation. I had carefully rehearsed my story of why an ‘A stream’ pupil was looking for work as an au pair, over and over again in my mind, until I thought it sounded believable.

Giving one last look in the mirror to satisfy myself with my appearance, I picked up my bag and, armed with my private school accent, my school reports and my well-rehearsed lies, I left the house.

The first bus I had to catch took me into the centre of Belfast, then a short walk to another stop, where I was taken to the more fashionable Malone Road area. Nearby, I knew, was the university that I’d now accepted I would never be able to attend.

When I reached my destination, I walked the short distance to the house I had directions for. Before I had time to knock the door was flung open by a pretty, smiling young woman in her early twenties. She was holding a chubby toddler in her arms, of indeterminate sex, only the blue romper suit giving me a clue. The second child, a small girl, sucking the thumb of one hand, clutched a fold of her
mother’s skirt with the other as she surveyed me with curiosity.

‘Can’t shake hands,’ the young woman laughed as she stood aside for me to enter. ‘You must be Toni. I’m Rosa. Come on in.’

I followed her into a pretty pastel-coloured room that was dominated by a large playpen. Bending down she gently placed the toddler inside it, motioned me to a chair and seated herself, carefully appraising me.

Rosa, friendly as she was, obviously had a list of questions for anyone she was going to be trusting some of the care of her children to. I hoped I could pass her test. The first question, where I had gone to school, I had expected and answered matter of factly. To the second one, why I had left so young, I had ready my rehearsed answer. I omitted the numerous schools I had attended and gave her the impression that I had only attended one. I explained I had not been a scholarship pupil, which prepared me for my biggest lie. My father had tragically died some months previously, leaving very little money. I further embellished on that fiction by telling her the only reason my mother and I had made the move from Coleraine to Belfast was to seek work. Seeing sympathy growing in her eyes, I threw in my final lines with confidence.

My mother had not only lost her husband, but had now been forced by lack of money to move from her pleasant house to the less salubrious Shankhill Road. My wish, I explained, was to help with her rent, which I felt I could only do if I was living in, thus removing all responsibility of my upkeep from my mother’s shoulders.

It worked far better than I had hoped for. I knew before I put the icing on the cake by producing my school reports that the job was mine, and my fear that written references
would be asked for were groundless. After another hour of chatting and getting to know her two children, baby David and Rachael, it was arranged for me to move in with my belongings the next day. Rosa would then spend time with me, showing me my duties.

In the evening she and her husband, who she had proudly explained to me was a busy doctor, would often be dining out. When they were absent, my job would be to put the children to bed, and then I would be allowed to watch television in their sitting room.

As I returned home that afternoon, I felt a sense of freedom. I knew that Rosa and her children had liked me. For the first time in many months I thought I had met people who had judged me for the person I was, not for what they knew about me. What I did not understand was that whereas the children liked me for who I was, Rosa liked the person I had invented for her: Toni the well brought up teenager who had not, as I had told her, even had a boyfriend. She had liked a girl whose interests were reading and animals, whose sole ambition was to learn to be a children’s nanny and whose one desire was to help her widowed mother. I had described my extended Irish family, where I had learnt my childcare skills, but omitted to mention that I was now banished from their homes.

The feeling of confidence lasted me over my two bus journeys and did not waver when I let myself into our small house. My mother was already home and I knew, with a sinking heart, that her air of despondency meant that her job interview must have been futile.

‘Mummy,’ I blurted out, ‘I’ve got a job. It’s living in and I start tomorrow. It pays three pounds a week plus my board, so I can help you with money.’

She looked uncomprehendingly at me. ‘What will you be doing?’ she enquired after a few minutes.

‘Looking after children and helping with housework,’ I replied, knowing what was going to come next.

‘Oh, Toni, and I had such hopes for you,’ she exclaimed, making me feel guilty for having let her down again.

It was that guilt that made me even more determined to leave. So, ignoring her last remark, I talked with an enthusiasm that I was beginning to lose about Rosa, the children and the nice house I would live in.

‘I’ll eat with the family when they’re in,’ I continued.

‘Not if they knew about you, you wouldn’t,’ she flatly informed me. ‘Still, no doubt you’ll enjoy watching television. I would too, if I could afford one.’

On the surface I refused to let my mother’s depression reach me, but underneath I still longed for some affection, some warmth; but none came. From being the dutiful teenager in Rosa’s eyes, I was now the selfish daughter in my mother’s.

We sat silently around the tiny sitting room, listening to the radio and reading. After a light supper, I went upstairs to pack my few belongings.

Rosa had pressed some coins on me for my travelling expenses, so at least I did not have to ask my mother for any money the next morning. Standing at the door, I looked at her as I struggled with the feelings that I had not yet learnt to suppress, but found impossible to show.

‘I’ll see you next week on my day off,’ I said eventually, as I picked up my suitcase, opened the door and left. She, as usual, said nothing.

Arriving at my new home, Rosa showed me to my room, where I quickly unpacked before eagerly going down to the
kitchen to find my charges. I had my first lesson in feeding the under-fours, which brought back memories of helping with my little cousin when she was the same age.

I soon found that my routine was an easy one. On my first evening, before I bathed the children, I was introduced to Rosa’s husband, David senior, who gravely shook my hand and told me he hoped I would be happy with them.

Bathing the children resulted in squeals of delightful laughter as I turned floating toys into submarines and made them dive under the soap-sudded children. Hearing the noise, David and Rosa, dressed for the evening, came to say their goodnights. Avoiding the suds, they kissed their two children goodbye, then left me in charge.

That first evening, as in the following ones, I scooped the plump, wriggling little bodies out of the bath, wrapped them in fluffy towels and rubbed them vigorously dry. I wondered if, with a promise of one last read, they would go uncomplaining to their bedroom. First baby David was placed in his cot, and then I would tuck the little girl into bed, reading them a story of Rachael’s choosing. When their eyes began to droop, I dropped kisses onto their heads before going downstairs to watch television.

Over the next few weeks I developed a deep affection for the children. When I played with him, baby David would grasp one of my fingers in his plump hand, giving me a toothless grin, which would almost split his face in two. Rachael would sit on my lap with a grave look of concentration on her face as I read to her. When I took David’s pram to the park, she would help me push, but one hand always held mine.

Six days a week I would make them their lunch, which I ate with them. Often, when the children had their afternoon
naps, Rosa and I would talk. Sometimes we would sit in her bedroom, where she would model newly bought clothes, seeking my opinion.

Lulled into the warmth of this family, I began to fantasize I was part of it. I let myself forget that Rosa, although friendly to me, was not a friend, and that she and her husband were my employers. I tried to win Rosa’s affection by offering to do extra tasks such as making her tea or helping with the ironing. She, on the other hand, seemed vaguely amused by my attentions; certainly she did nothing to discourage them.

The house always felt happy. It was clear that David and Rosa were not only loving parents, but cared deeply for each other as well. They reminded me of my Aunt Catherine’s family and as each day passed I felt lucky to be there. I knew always to be upstairs or in the kitchen with the children when David came home as I sensed he and his wife valued time together on his return. I had observed how, when she heard the sound of his car as it drove up the short driveway, she would rush to open the door for him.

Knowing this, I was surprised one evening, when they had no plans to go out, that they both came into the bathroom. I was kneeling, bathing the children. I sensed their presence before I heard David’s voice.

‘Antoinette,’ I dimly heard. ‘That is your name, isn’t it?’

I looked up at him and he saw the truth in my eyes.

‘My wife will take over from you. I will speak to you downstairs.’

Everything felt in slow motion. I stood up on legs that trembled as I tried to catch Rosa’s eye to seek some help there, but she averted her flushed face from my gaze. Feeling the adults’ tension, my two young charges looked
up in bewilderment, their faces turned up to me, wondering why I had suddenly stopped playing with them.

I slowly put down the soapy sponge that was dripping onto the floor, and then mutely followed him downstairs to the sitting room. Not motioned to sit, I stood facing him, seeing on his face the stony look I had seen so often before on other people’s faces.

‘Your father is not dead, is he?’ he pointlessly asked me in a tone of voice that told me he knew the answer. ‘He’s in prison and you’re lucky not to be in a home. Well, you’re certainly not staying in this home for one more night. Go straight to your room and pack, then stay there until I come for you. I’ll drive you to your mother’s.’

I tried to defend myself. ‘It was not my fault, the judge said so.’ I blurted out, desperate for him to believe me and allow me to stay.

A look of such revulsion and contempt crossed his face so that I felt myself wither inside.

‘Well, it is not his children you’re looking after, is it? You kept quiet for seven years; it was only your need for an abortion that made you talk. You even lied to your doctor who I have spoken to this afternoon. Your school expelled you because other parents quite rightly judged you unfit to mix with their children.’ I could sense the anger mounting in him. ‘I want you out of here tonight!’ He spoke with such finality that I knew my happy life there was finished.

As I walked out of the room, I heard his voice again, following me. ‘Rosa agrees with me, in case you think differently. She does not want to see you, so go straight to your room.’

I went, willing myself not to cry. That would come later, in private, I told myself.

Rosa’s bedroom door was shut, but behind it I could hear the murmur of her voice, interspersed with the higher-pitched tones of Rachael. I knew she had taken the children in there to avoid me.

The next half an hour passed in a daze as I packed my few belongings, then sat on the edge of my bed as I waited for David’s knock.

‘You have everything?’ were the only words he spoke to me after he fetched me from my room, put me firmly in the back seat of the car, along with my suitcase, and drove away from the leafy suburban area of the Malone Road to the narrow, dimly lit streets of the Shankhill Road area. When we reached my mother’s house, holding my arm firmly, he knocked on the door and waited for her to open it before releasing me. In the light of the single hanging bulb in the doorway, a resigned look came over my mother’s face.

‘I’m returning your daughter, Mrs Maguire,’ was all he said before he turned back to his car and drove away.

The witching hour came, bringing a wave of misery that engulfed me. I heard my father’s voice in my ears: ‘Your mother won’t love you if you talk. Everyone will blame you.’ I now knew with absolute certainty that what he predicted was true. I conjured up one kind face, that of the judge, hearing his voice as he told me, ‘You are not to blame, remember that, because people will blame you.’