Don’t Tell Mummy (22 page)

A mental hospital in those days was a community isolated from the outside world, where it was felt that all the inmates’ needs were catered for. It had a shop and a canteen, which we were allowed to visit. But each time I went, I returned disheartened. This seemed like a village of lost
souls: people who nobody wanted and who had long been forgotten.

The massive hospital stood some distance from the main road, dwarfing all the more recently constructed buildings dotted around the extensive grounds. Sometimes, when the doors opened to release a convoy of blank-eyed inmates, either starting their walks or going to their dining rooms, I would get a peek inside one of the wards. There were cot-like beds and wooden chairs. Seated on some of them were the patients too unfit to even walk in the grounds. They rocked backwards and forwards on their chairs, moaning softly.

It was after I had my first glimpse of what life was like for the patients not considered well enough for the psychiatric unit that I realized how lucky we were to be placed there. Not only was the decoration fresh and modern but we had television, a games room and the kitchen was unlocked twenty-four hours a day, so we could make hot drinks whenever we felt like it and take them to one of the comfortable chairs nearby. We could sit and gaze out of the unbarred windows, browse through books or go for walks whenever we felt like it. The only restrictions were that we walked in groups for safety and were in the unit when our therapy was due. We were forbidden to leave the grounds unless we had permission, which would only be granted if we were accompanied by a visitor. We were never tempted to disobey that rule and visit the outside world because we had no wish to leave the safety and companionship of the hospital.

Visiting hours in our ward were also relaxed. As long as the visitors departed before the last night-time drinks were served there was no strict time of arrival and departure. I looked for my mother each day for the first six days I spent
there. Had I been forgotten by the only person I had left, I would ask myself in despair as each evening failed to bring her. Once I realized it was too late for her to arrive that day I would retreat to my bed from where, with the curtains partly drawn around me, I would observe my fellow patients as they sat with their visitors grouped around their beds. I would affect a look of indifference and hold a book for comfort.

Each night I saw the red-haired woman’s husband and their two little boys, one still in nappies. The children had her hair and eyes. On every visit he would hold her hand and talk while the children sat with their colouring books and toys and I would feel both his despair and the bewilderment that hung over all three of them. She would sit, unmoving, a small expressionless smile on her face. Not once did she speak. She no longer had any choice about staying in that space where reality had no meaning, but I began to realize that I still did. Watching them, I felt a small spark of optimism kindle inside me, and although I knew how easy it would be to let go, disappear into myself until I was like the red-haired woman, I no longer wanted to do that. Somewhere that strength that belongs to youth was returning.

My mother arrived on the Sunday carrying fruit, paperback books, magazines and flowers. I felt such a surge of love for her that it hurt. Later I found out that the hospital had phoned her and asked her why she hadn’t visited. I was still a minor and would have to live with her on my release. Charmingly she had confirmed her concern; the only thing that had stopped her visiting, she had told them, was that she was working. As a manageress she had to supervise the staff in the evenings, but of course she was planning to visit
on Sunday, her only free day. With only one wage coming in she could not afford to take extra time off and she knew I would understand.

The staff nurse, who tried to look as understanding as my mother expected me to be, informed me of the situation and I, blindly loyal to my mother, agreed it would be difficult.

Seeing her coming into the unit, I rushed to meet her and received a hug in return, the first one in a long time. She told me how worried she’d been about me, and how I was in the best place for the time being. Then she told me how much she liked her job. She had made plans for us both, she continued. I was not to live in other family’s homes. It was the way they had treated me, she was sure, that had caused my breakdown. Then she said what I most wanted to hear: I could work in the coffee shop as a waitress when I was better, and live with her till I was older. She had seen a house, she continued – a pretty little gate lodge which, with my wages as well as hers, we could afford. Waitresses where she worked made more than she did as the manageress, because the coffee shop catered for businessmen, who were generous with their tips, especially to pretty, nicely brought-up girls like me, she added, with one of her warm bright smiles that I had not seen for so long.

That was the first time since I was a small child that my mother had paid me a compliment and I glowed with pleasure. I chattered to her as I had not done for so long, and told her about some of the other patients I was friendly with. When visiting time came to an end I happily waved her off, wishing I did not have to wait a whole week for her return.

The weeks I spent in the hospital passed quickly, because although our days were not particularly structured, they always seemed to be full. It was in there that I made a
friendship that was to last for several years; my friend’s name was Clifford. He’d heard about my past and with my bandaged wrists he, like everyone else, knew what I had tried to do. It was a platonic relationship, which suited both of us. He had little, if any, sexual interest in women and repressed any other desires he felt; a fact that had caused the departure of his wife and his subsequent breakdown. This he had told me on some of our walks together, sensing that, unlike his wife, I would find that particular confession reassuring.

My depression began to lift, helped by the constant company, Clifford’s friendship and my mother’s now more frequent visits. I felt there was a direction in my life; I had a home to go to, a job waiting for me, a life to start.

Three months after I had been admitted to Purdysburn my mother collected me.

W
ithin a few days I had my interview with the owner of the coffee shop, a young man whom I could see felt lucky to have my mother as manager and who offered me work straight away.

I was given my uniform of a peach-coloured overall and a cream apron and, to my relief, found the work easy. As my mother had told me, the tips were good. I was able to go to the hairdresser’s and buy new clothes, as well as give my mother money. She, seeing that more cash was coming into the house, went ahead with her plans to buy the gate lodge. The small mortgage on it was easily covered by my extra contribution.

Nearly two years of peace followed, my father’s name was never mentioned, nor was my breakdown, and she and I once again were close. There were evenings when we were both free. Being ardent film lovers we would often visit a cinema together, then spend hours discussing the various merits of each film we saw. Without my father’s presence we no longer had to sit through westerns but could choose exactly the ones we liked.

On other occasions I would meet her from her shift and we would go for a coffee at a nearby café. There we would sit and
chat as two women do. For I was at an age when I felt part of the adult world; certainly I felt I was contributing towards it. I was convinced that without my father’s company my mother had finally grown to enjoy mine, a feeling that made me more and more satisfied as the weeks went on. Without his dark presence and his jealousy of any attention I received, I could show the love that I had always felt for her. Like a flower that seeks sunlight to grow strong, I needed the freedom to show love in order to flourish. Being able to do so in numerous ways filled me with such happiness that I was perfectly content to spend most of my free time with her.

During that time I felt very little need for other company. Sometimes I would cook our evening meal, lay the table and take pleasure simply from watching her eat a meal prepared from my latest recipe book. Although we both enjoyed reading and listening to music we also spent many evenings happily watching our newly acquired television, which was still a novelty to us. It only had two available channels so we seldom disagreed on which one to watch. There we would sit in front of a crackling fire, she in her favourite wing armchair, me curled up on the settee with Judy at my side. When our programme ended I would leap up to make us both a hot drink before going to bed.

Other times I would scour the small antique shops that had sprung up in Smithfield Market, to find her an unusual ornament, or a piece of jewellery.

Friends I’d made, such as Clifford, accepted that not only was my mother an important part of my life but that I also wanted her included in any social activities. I would present new friends to her in the hope she would like them and be entertained by them, because I felt her loneliness and wanted to protect her.

The only area of discontent lurking inside me was the knowledge that I didn’t always want to be a waitress. I wanted to achieve something better, not just for myself but also for my mother. I wanted to make her proud of me, wanted to get a good job, one that would enable me to take care of her.

Just before my sixteenth birthday I resolved to do something about it. I had relinquished my ambition to go to university, knowing that three years out of the workplace would put too much of a strain on our joint finances. Without the much-needed money that I brought into the house my mother would not be able to make the mortgage payments.

Another option would be to take a secretarial course that would give me a school-leaving certificate stating a leaving age of eighteen, an age that prospective employers would find more acceptable than my present one of fourteen. I had already enquired about the cost of putting myself through a private college and worked out that, if I could get time off from the coffee shop during the summer to work in holiday locations for the season, I could save enough money for the fees in a few months. I did not foresee any problems with that arrangement since Belfast, being a university town, had no shortage of students ready to fill my role in their holidays while I worked away. I knew I would have to have enough savings to carry me through two terms, then I could repeat the plan the following year.

Once decided on my course of action I went to talk to the owner of the coffee shop.

There would be no problem, he assured me, and in fact he could help me out sooner. He had a distant cousin who owned a boarding house, grandly called ‘a hotel’, in the Isle
of Man. She would be looking for staff over Easter and with his recommendation I could easily be placed there. The work would be harder than I was used to, he warned me: in a small establishment such as hers not only did the two waitresses she employed have to serve breakfast and evening meals but also clean the bedrooms and serve early morning teas.

Wages were not high but the tips were very good and I should be able to make more than twice the amount I made with him. If it worked out, I would be employed again in the summer.

Two weeks later, with promises to phone regularly, I caught the ferry to the Isle of Man.

Work in the hotel was hard with only two waitresses working as general dogsbodies. We would rise at seven-thirty, make the morning teas, and then climb the three flights of stairs to deliver them. Next, breakfast was served and only when the last dish was cleared could we sit down for ours. Lunch was not catered for in the weekly rate and we assumed that would be our free time. The owner, a short, overweight woman with dyed blonde hair sprayed stiffly into a backcombed helmet, had other ideas.

The silver had to be cleaned once a week, she informed us. Her voice, wheezing from her incessant smoking, would follow us wherever we went as, on short stubby legs, she would puff and snap at our ankles, seemingly frightened that without her supervision items would disappear or work would be left undone.

When holidaymakers had to be booked in, she would greet them with a charming smile, which would be replaced by a glare of impatience at us the moment the guests were looking the other way. We were never able to move fast
enough to grasp their suitcase handles before she barked out her instructions to show the newly arrived families to their room. We would struggle up the steep staircase with luggage that seemed to weigh as much as us, then no sooner had we descended than tea had to be made.

New arrivals needed refreshments to revive them after their journeys more than we needed a rest, she informed us testily when we once had the temerity to ask for a break. We were young, she continued, while she had a bad heart. Did we not want to earn our tips, she asked us and, cowed, we refrained from introducing the subject again.

Her bad heart, I noticed, did not force her to abstain from smoking, or from eating large portions of puddings. Every time I heard her opining how she could not carry anything heavy, I thought sourly ‘except yourself’.

Every day I looked at her flushed face with increasing dislike and wondered how anyone as charming as the coffee-shop owner could have such a dragon as a relative.

Some of the husbands would protest at a girl being asked to carry their suitcases, only to meet her frosty gaze as she icily informed them that we were paid to do it. Once we had turned the corner of the stairs, still within hearing distance but out of sight of her gimlet eyes, they would sometimes tap us on the shoulders to indicate silently their intention to relieve us of our burdens. Gratefully, we would relinquish the cases, show them to their rooms, then go to the kitchen to make the tea. Up we would go again, balancing the trays, our legs aching and the owner’s voice ringing in our ears as she complained that we were not moving fast enough. No rest for the young was certainly the motto of that hotel. Whatever wage she had to grudgingly pay us, she made sure that the hourly rate was low.

Each night I would fall into bed exhausted, wondering if I was ever going to see the nightlife I’d heard so much about. I didn’t see any of it that first season. When the number of residents decreased, leaving only a few diehards, she did give us both a free afternoon to go shopping, but I think that was only because I told her I wanted to buy a present for my mother.

With early morning tea served in the bedrooms from eight and the evening meal being cleared away at nine-thirty, it had not been difficult to save all of our wages and tips. I ended up with more than I had expected towards my college fees, and knowing how much the hotel owner liked saving money, I asked if I could leave a few days sooner than had been arranged.

As I remembered that Easter, sitting in the hospice, I could hear the voice of seventeen-year-old Antoinette in my head. ‘Remember, Toni, remember what she did; remember the choice she made.’

Too late I tried to push away the memory of the day my unquestioning trust for my mother finally died.

I wanted to surprise her with my early return, so I didn’t tell her when I was due. Anticipating her surprise and pleasure at seeing me, and with my suitcase bursting with presents I had bought for her, I boarded the Belfast ferry. On arriving at the docks, too impatient to wait for a bus, I took a taxi. I visualized our home, seeing Judy and watching my mother’s face as I told her all about my adventures in the Isle of Man over a cosy cup of hot chocolate. I had stored up
amusing anecdotes of the characters I’d met there, including the slave driver of an owner, which I knew would make her laugh. I imagined seeing her eyes light up as she unwrapped the presents I’d bought. I thought especially of a pale mauve half-slip made of netting and edged with silk which flared out in layers from the hips, a style popular then, when full-skirted dresses were the fashion. When I spotted it in the shop I thought it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Resisting the impulse to buy it for myself, I had it wrapped for my mother. In my mind’s eye I saw the pleasure that would be on her face when she opened it, for my mother loved surprises and presents, and adored pretty clothes.

The twelve-mile journey from the Belfast docks to Lisburn, where our house was, seemed to take for ever as I sat in the back of the car, excitedly wishing the miles away.

On alighting I hurriedly paid the driver, picked up my cases and walked up the short path. I put my key in the lock, opened the door and walked in. I called out, ‘I’m home’. The small furry body of Judy came hurtling out to greet me, but my mother’s voice was silent. Puzzled, because I knew she wasn’t working, I pushed the sitting-room door wide open and stood stock still, taking in the scene inside the room.

My father was sitting in my mother’s wing armchair, a look of such triumphant smugness on his face that I froze in my tracks, unable to believe my eyes. My mother sat at his feet, her face turned to him as her eyes looked up adoringly. It was a look that I’d forgotten; a look that in our previous life I had often seen directed at him, a look that had never been there for me. In that split second I knew I’d lost. He was what she wanted, he was the centre of her universe and I had only provided the company to fill her time until his return.

Revulsion coursed through my body, mixed with a feeling of betrayal. I had believed in my mother, trusted in her, and now I was faced with reality. As I stood there in my semicomatose state, her voice battered against my ears, uttering words that I wanted to block from my consciousness.

‘Daddy’s been released for a weekend,’ she told me. ‘He’s going back tomorrow. I wasn’t expecting you, otherwise I would have let you know.’

The explanations tumbled out of her mouth in the bright tones of someone announcing a delightful surprise; a surprise she wanted to share with me. Her willpower was silently commanding me to join in the game, the familiar old game of happy families. Her smile remained fixed and her tone of voice never wavered as she continued as though he had just been working away from home, which I suppose in a way he had. Certainly, I found out later, that was the story she had been telling the neighbours. That was why, I now realized, she had forbidden him to write to her: she did not want letters with the prison stamp arriving in our post. I had hoped that it was because she had finally decided to end the marriage. Now I understood. This was why we had moved to Belfast and not returned to England: she had been waiting for him.

I wanted to escape both of them; the room seemed to shrink with his malevolent presence and the sound of her voice became a noise that hurt my ears until, not being able to bear another moment of their company, I took the case to my bedroom. I unpacked slowly and removed the parcel containing the mauve slip, which had been chosen with such care, hiding it at the back of my wardrobe. There it remained unworn, because I never gave it to her but I could not bring myself to claim it as mine.

The next morning I could hear my mother humming the old melodies that once she and my father had danced to. Grabbing Judy’s lead I silently left the house. When I got back he had already returned to prison. There he would serve the remainder of his sentence, content in the reassuring knowledge that he had his family to come home to.

That was the start of another game played by my mother to an audience of one: ‘When Daddy comes home’.