Eighty Not Out (3 page)

San's domineering sister, Molly, lived with her hen-pecked husband in Carrickfergus. She bore no physical resemblance to San; her imposing corseted bosom tapered in a tight ‘costume' to slender legs like a pouter pigeon. She seldom removed her hat as she installed herself in an armchair beside the fire, from which she fired intrusive questions at me. Despite the length of her journey, she never lacked energy to conduct an inquisition into all aspects of San's affairs. Thereafter, she would pontificate on how much better the lodgers, the dog, the laundry, San's hair and, not least, Murray could be managed. San just got on with laying the table, lighting the next fag, or arranging a vase of sweet pea. I do not think that Molly expected any response to the diatribe, and she always tucked in with relish to high tea before leaving. One time she arrived regally, driven by her husband in their Rover; tall and thin, with a highly polished pointed dome of a head, he spent most of the visit talking to Murray in a shed at the far end of the garden. Their sanctified only child, an
RAF
pilot, was shot down off the coast of Sicily in 1941 – missing, presumed dead. Molly never fully recovered her sanity, and there were shaming incidents of shoplifting. San grieved deeply too, but with more restraint.

Female lodgers, for the most part from Lancashire, widened my experience of humanity. One, tall and thin, owned a dance studio in Belfast, while her sister, short and fat, owned a newsagent/confectionery shop near the Holywood Arches. Early in the war extra staff were recruited for the top security establishment, locally known as the Listening Station, near Manns Corner. Some of these lodged with San, and without exception took advantage of her generous nature – she was aware of this, but never seemed to bear any grudge, sometimes excusing inconsiderate behaviour with a sigh, remarking: ‘Och, she's just a poor lonely soul, but good at heart.' My mother and I thought several among them blatant spongers. Murray reserved comment.

San was a chain-smoker who had recently abandoned Players, with a bearded sailor on the packet, in favour of Craven A – kinder to your throat – with cork tips in a neat red box. I regretted this, as there were no more cards to collect. She was addicted to the extent of doing the washing-up, fag in mouth, a length of ash trembling over the bowl. I would hop around offering an ashtray, but she always managed to avoid the ash actually falling in with the dishes. Long before twin-tubbed washing machines became commonplace, she coped with an enormous wash and hung it outside to dry; if the weather was wet, it would hang drearily in the garage. A vast pile of ironing was then taken up to the hot loft space, which Murray never got around to fully flooring. They had a seldom used sitting room with a cabinet containing Belleek baskets, china dogs, horses and rabbits, but pride of place went to the bride and groom from the top of their wedding cake. There was always a bottle of fizzy lemonade in her kitchen – a real treat for me, as fizzy drinks along with sherbet and gobstoppers were not allowed at home.

My mother brought gifts back from the regatta week: a cressgrowing set, a devilishly difficult maze puzzle in Bakelite with nine small silver balls to be trapped at the centre, and a blue Box Brownie. Later that summer she acquired a trailer for camping equipment and we – my mother, Rosemary, Johnny and I – set off for Dunaff Head in Donegal. The weather was not propitious, so we ended up sleeping in an abandoned Black and Tans barracks on the headland. The following year we went across Ireland to Sligo and Achill Island, where I looked in vain for amethysts. The first pictures taken with the Brownie are landscapes with slightly sloping horizons, and Conrad, our dachshund, makes his first appearance. At Emlagh, near Roonagh Quay where the ferry now sails to Clare Island, we asked permission from Mrs MacHale to park the caravan on her land. She was unsparingly hospitable, allowing us to use her little stone well fed by pure spring water, and giving us a daily supply of warm milk from her one cow. She insisted that I should try my hand at the milking, with dire results; a true suburban child, I hated warm milk, and was none too keen on the proximity of her curious cow. I did my best to co-operate, but it must have been evident that I was not in my element.

I suspect the acquisition of camping paraphernalia and a caravan was an attempt to show my grandmother Eileen how well my mother could manage as a single parent. Grandma Eileen had paid for three summer holidays at Drumaweir Hotel in Greencastle. For me they are treasured memories, but for my mother, enduring the daily company of Grandma can only have been stressful. Her antics, such as emerging dripping from a swim to exhort fellow guests, quietly enjoying the sun in their deck chairs, to join her, as the water was ‘really warm', and her claim to have met the ghost of my grandfather, referred to as ‘dear Dav', at dusk, in a pink cloud, on her way to the shore, tested the other guests' ability to repress mirth and adopt a sombre expression of sympathy. She was a fast, impetuous driver who used the horn frequently, and her car bore evidence of past impingements; offers to ‘take the child for a spin' were difficult to refuse without being downright rude. These visits to Greencastle must have been punitive for my mother who had happy memories of visits dating back as far as 1910.

Gramp and Rosa had brought my mother to Drumaweir when she was fifteen, and Rosemary a toddler; it was a family-run hotel and she had formed a lasting friendship with the owner's daughter. Here she first met the Stevenson family, and she told me that in 1912 Hugh had talked about how, when he was very young, Eileen had played her role as wicked stepmother – ‘those rings of hers can cut you know'. They had played croquet and badminton; there had been wild horse-play, and my father, two years younger, had pushed my mother into a clump of pampas grass. She had stayed as a guest of the family, without her parents, in the summer of 1918, grieving for the loss of her fiancé, Jack, who had been killed just before Christmas 1917. But the wound had already begun to heal; in August 1918 her diary records dancing into the small hours in the boathouse with officers from the
US
navy who were stationed at Culmore. They seem to have had no difficulty in getting hold of assorted vehicles, in which they went joy-riding as far afield as Malin Head.

Gradually contact with Grandma dwindled to visits to Belfast, when she stayed at the Royal Avenue Hotel, and we would be summoned to lunch. It was clear she would have liked to see more of me on my own, and in this respect I fear my mother was insensitive, seldom releasing me; when she did, strict rules were dictated about the hour of return. Once only do I remember Grandma coming to visit us at Knock. She thought, correctly, that I was getting no spiritual guidance, and that a spot of church-going would not go amiss. Attendance, when it did take place, was not calculated to implant any wish for repetition. Grandma sang so loudly as to attract glances, particularly when joining a congregation in which she was unknown. I was acutely embarrassed, not least because I had difficulty in finding the right place in the hymn book, and could not bring myself to join in, despite hissed encouragement. On the way out Grandma would collar the minister to introduce herself and ‘me grand-daughter', with a garbled explanation about why we were not seen more frequently.

Despite the eccentric antics, I enjoyed her company to a degree – a fact that had to be disguised from my mother, though some incidents, such as yoo-hooing down a lift-shaft when impatient to descend, and checking that a cubicle in the ladies was occupied by bending down to see the feet, make me cringe today. The worst was when she tried to force entry to a small cinema in Derry: the doors were shut and a queue had formed outside, awaiting the exit from the last performance. She, determined to have a word with the commissionaire, could be seen from the foyer, jumping up and down like a chimpanzee, rattling the doors until he opened them. Then she demanded if he knew who she was, and that she wanted two seats in the dress circle. Admirably he kept both his cool and a straight face, while informing her that she would just have to take her place ‘like any other body'. This was bonus entertainment for the queue, which had in the meantime lengthened, and the end of which I joined, wishing the ground would open. During the screening of the Marx Brothers comedy, which I found unfunny, she commented loudly on the block to her view caused by the entwined couple in front of us, eventually prodding them apart with her umbrella. When the lights came on after ‘God Save the King', I expected a counter-attack from the young seaman, but he contented himself with a grimace. She had a fixation about tracking down silk/wool mixture stockings, once putting a still shapely leg on the counter for the blushing young male assistant better to see the style she wanted.

3

Kindergarten with the Misses Fitzgerald

T
he fact that at seven years old I could read fluently, but had no formal education, had to be faced. My mother enrolled me at a small private kindergarten run by the Misses Fitzgerald. The red-brick three-storey, semi-detached house was a fifteen minute walk from home, and knowing every short-cut in the neighbourhood, I insisted on going alone on the first day, carrying an orange cardboard attaché case. It contained a pencil-box, with a picture of Mount Fuji on the lid, an assortment of Venus pencils – I knew all about their degrees of hardness from Auntie Rosemary – an India rubber, a six-inch ruler, a compass and a box of multicoloured crayons. Books and stationery were to be supplied by the school. Here, at last, was a chance to mix with other children, but I cannot remember anything about them, except that there were about six, all larger than me.

We were introduced to rudimentary French – not verbs, just the genders and words for familiar objects. Each pupil had a Vere Foster copy-book, beginning with elementary pothooks, which I was already skilled at reproducing. I remember taking great care in copying a picture of the Taj Mahal. There was a big map of the world showing many of the countries red, which I knew meant they belonged to the British Empire, of which I was supposed to be proud. However, I had difficulty in distinguishing India from Africa, or in which one my father was supposed to be working. We drew pictures of ‘a native outside his hut'. As Christmas approached preparations for a stage production were under way, and my mother was soon in conflict with the Misses Fitzgerald. Crêpe paper in various colours had been suggested for the costumes, but my mother said this would not be adequate, adding that the room designated for the performance was inadequately heated. The Misses Fitzgerald's argument that Chilprufe vests or other warm underclothes would be hidden under the paper was brushed aside. What part had been assigned to me I forget, but I did not appear in the Nativity play.

Both my mother and Auntie Rosemary were cinema addicts, going at least once a week to the Astoria or the Strand, which were within easy reach, or to the Picturedrome in Mountpottinger, despite the latter being known as the Flea Pit. They bought magazines devoted to the movie stars of the time, and I spent much time colouring and otherwise embellishing the pictures of Joan Crawford, Claudette Colbert and a host of others, lengthening already lush eyelashes and outlining pouting lips. Premieres were screened either at the Classic, or the Ritz (with Joseph Stone on his Mighty Organ) in central Belfast. The sisters took lessons in tap-dancing, to which they drove in the Austin Seven, dressed in what I felt were unsuitably short skirts. They also drove to Armagh Observatory to hear Patrick Moore lecturing on astronomy, and my aunt went to classical music recitals in the Ulster Hall.

Experience of live theatre was restricted to Jimmy O'Dea's pantomimes at the Empire Theatre, regarded by many as often ‘going too far' and unsuitable for children. The Empire was shaped like a windmill, decorated with multicoloured lights. Modelled on Parisian theatres of the late nineteenth century, it is long gone, as is the marvellous cast-iron gents in the middle of Victoria Square and the narrow graffiti-ridden streets in its vicinity. I never got a satisfactory answer to my question, ‘What does “Fuck the Pope” mean?' ‘It's hard to explain,' came the reply. ‘It's very vulgar, but some people do not like the Pope, who is head of the Roman Catholic Church. He lives in Rome. You must never, ever, use that word.'

I can remember seeing Jean Forbes-Robertson ‘flying' on all too visible wires as Peter Pan at the Grand Opera House. I was enchanted by the first Disney
Silly Symphonies, The Tortoise and the Hare
and
Three Little Pigs
, and many Laurel and Hardy comedies. Gory drama was provided by Wallace Beery in
Treasure Island
, and
Captain Blood
and
Robin Hood
starring Errol Flynn, whose father was professor of zoology at Queen's University, Belfast. I too had become a cinema addict, known as ‘going to the pictures', and by the time I was eleven or twelve, was allowed to go on my own to cinemas to see frightening films such as
The Tower of London
, Boris Karloff as the monster in the
Frankenstein
films, and Charles Laughton and Elsa Lancaster in
The Old Dark House
, based on a story by J.B. Priestly, as well as Bela Lugosi in a variety of repulsive roles. This freedom was riskier than my mother knew: several times I had to move my seat because of explorative hands from the next seat. Needless to say, I never mentioned this at home, or even to San, who helped my mother after Annie left to care for her late sister's children. After much agonising, inhibited by the teaching of her Church, Annie married her brother-in-law. She confided later to San that she had not known marriage was ‘like that'. Notwithstanding, the marriage proved solid, and she a perfect stepmother.

My prowess at ballet was on the same level as my equestrian skills. Classes were held at Miss Lena King's Studio of Dance in Belfast, and annual displays were staged at the Empire Theatre to advertise the proficiency of her pupils. The fact that I had never seen a stage production to inspire me may have explained my footlessness, though lack of talent is the more likely cause. My mother often attended lessons – the only parent to do so. During the drive home, my performance was analysed in detail. I was tone-deaf, had no sense of rhythm, which accounted for my movements seldom being in time with the beat, I was not ‘turned out' enough, and my hand movements lacked delicacy. Notwithstanding, I had been chosen as one of four cygnets in a parody of
Swan Lake
, and one of four red-jacketed galumphers waving whips and crying ‘Tally ho!', to appear in Miss King's annual display at the theatre. Dressed in old net curtains and holding hoops, the class stood as nymphs in a Grecian frieze, waiting for the curtain to rise: a voice hissed from the wings, ‘Take your shoes off'. A
Belfast Telegraph
photographer recording the event took a group picture in which I appear with an unbecoming wispy fringe, wearing a too-long tutu. The star performance was Lena King herself dancing
The Dying Swan
. She had danced at Sadler's Wells in her youth, but was now in plump middle age. To my mother, who had seen Pavlova dancing the original version at the Grand Opera House in Belfast, Lena's performance was a sacrilegious travesty: my lessons ceased at the end of the term.

Edward
VIII
abdicated on 10 December 1936, which threw the press into the sort of frenzy we now take for granted where royal affairs are concerned. I think the adults decided not to discuss it in front of me, lest it should provoke questions about mistresses, divorce and duty. In any case, I was much more interested in Christmas, in the acquisitive rather than the spiritual or moral sense; after the early ones at Greenisland, there were no more decorated trees. Maybe it was economic constraint, but I suspect my mother had some cranky idea about the display of trees in windows being vulgar ostentation. I shall never know, but I made sure my own children never had cause to complain, not even when we lived on the shores of Lake Victoria and the tree bore little resemblance to a Scandinavian conifer. We were a pathetic little group, my mother, aunt and me sitting down to a traditional luncheon. A small turkey was roasted, delicious stuffing made from a recipe of Rosa's, bread sauce, sausage and bacon rolls, and a variety of vegetables cooked healthily in the new pressure cooker which looked like a bomb, and of which I was frightened lest it explode. Rosemary made the pudding and rum butter, also a recipe handed down through several generations. I loved rum butter and the cider that was their celebratory drink. Afterwards, in late afternoon, if anyone could face it, there was a fruit cake with almond icing, crystallised fruits and chocolate bottles filled with liqueur; surprisingly I was allowed one, and I thought it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.