Fandango in the Apse! (2 page)

For once though, I’m not prepared to take the whole blame…I think someone
else should have a share of it…and that would be…My Mother.  I didn’t want to
mention my mother again quite this soon, but on reflection I think I must.  She
was such an integral part of my formative years and as I’ve already said, I now
feel her to be partly to blame for the shambles that has been my life thus
far.  So forgive me while I veer off at this point, I will return to the
subject in hand, but in order to fully understand what I’m going to tell you,
(unfortunately) you have got to meet my mother.

I disliked my
mother.  Make no mistake about that, I really did, but after my aforementioned
sessions with Patti, I now know that it’s
perfectly acceptable.  In
fact, once the concept finally dawned on me, I felt so liberated that I went
out and bought a fridge magnet that proclaimed in large red letters, “Friends
Welcome, Family by Appointment”.

Let me explain.  Margaret Hessey, my mother, was a nasty person –
actually, I really think the Third Reich suffered considerably by her absence. 
I can say that without fear of reprisal because she is now six feet under – I would
say pushing up the daisies, but as nothing has ever grown on her grave, I won’t
bother.

She was also the meanest person I have ever known.  I kid you not; she could
peel an orange in her pocket and eat it before you knew she had it. You might
think I’m being unfair to the deceased, but read on and you’ll see what I mean. 

My mother was a tall angular woman, not a soft edge in sight.  Her
countenance, I know from looking at pictures of her in her younger years, might
once have been called handsome.  It’s an old-fashioned description, but in this
instance rather fitting. 

I mention the pictures because in my lifetime (she had me when she was
forty), I could only ever describe her appearance as acerbic.  She gave the
impression she was permanently sucking a particularly sour sherbet dab.  Add to
this steel grey, perfectly coiffed hair and I’m sure you’re getting the
picture.

She was probably born nasty, but my father’s desertion to the furthest
place he could find – Australia – didn’t help one whit.  Left alone in our
immaculate semi just outside Exeter, she festered until any residue of humanity
she might once have possessed, curled up its heels and bid a fond adieu.

I’ve pondered on that since, and I don’t think it was my father’s
desertion that finally did the damage – I think it was the fact that he didn’t take
me with him.  You see, my mother never wanted children, I know this to be true
because she rammed it home at least twice weekly.

 Using a method that guaranteed success – not partaking of the heinous act
– she managed to get to forty, childless.  You may be wondering, given that I
wasn’t yet born, how I know such intimate details of my parents’ sex life. 
Well, it’s simple; I eavesdropped on a conversation.  I’ll let you know about
that shortly. 

In a way I can see my mother’s logic, no matter how off-kilter it
appeared.  You have to look at this in the context of my mother being a
religious zealot.  She was a devout Catholic, and I mean devout, in the
strictest sense.  One of her favourite rants, and I fully believe the nuns in
her convent school instilled it into her, was that “the sexual act was for
procreation only”.  Therefore, having decided she didn’t want children, she was
obliged to abstain. 

As you can imagine, this can’t have done much for my father, who I know
from my eavesdropping had to make alternative arrangements with regard to his
carnal desires.  OK, I hope that’s my last word on my parents’ sex life, as thinking
about it has the same effect on me as silver paper on a tooth filling – have you
ever done that?

So, there I am trapped in a pristine two-up two-down semi with a woman
who loves the Gospels, but hates her child.  Nice!  My mother was obsessed with
cleanliness.  I think if OCD had been around then, she’d have been a prime
target for diagnosis. 

The kitchen was a typical sixties style – bland cupboard doors and Formica
worktops.  One thing that always looked out of place was a pretty, glass-fronted
wall cabinet, holding my mother’s collection of china.  My mother liked china. 
She liked to drink her tea from a proper cup and saucer.  A common or garden
mug never saw the light of day in our house. 

            ‘Mugs are for navvies and common people,’ she said, on
numerous occasions.  She liked to think herself a cut above; I think it was to
do with her job as a senior planning officer for the council.  She had power
and knew how to wield it.  I heard it said, in the first six months after her
retirement there was an unprecedented flurry of new building and extension
plans submitted to the planning office, followed by an unprecedented flurry of
new buildings and extensions appearing around the town.  It’s safe to say her
job, combined with her Chairmanship of St Bartholomew’s Church Restoration Fund,
gave her delusions of grandeur. 

The cabinet held two services, the ordinary everyday set and a hideous
Royal Albert red and pink flowery creation, which she classed as “best”. The
lounge was a perfect fifties throwback, all spotless nylon carpet, itchy sofas
and G-Plan.  Two lamps, their shades still wrapped in the original cellophane,
stood either side of a brass crucifix on the sideboard. 

I can’t tell you the amount of times I wanted to rip off that cellophane,
I mean, what is the point of buying two lamps with perfectly good shades and
then keeping them covered?  To me, it’s like having your hair done and then
wearing a hat; mind you, old women do that as well, don’t they? 

I did my best to avoid my mother’s wrath, mainly because in full meltdown
she was like a stealth bomber; you didn’t see her coming until you got blown
away by the blast.  I’ll give you an example or two, but before I do, you need
to know my mother didn’t believe in outright violence.  What she did believe in
was far worse, and honestly, there were times when I would have much preferred
a swift kick up the backside. 

Picture this… it was a Sunday morning; I was sitting in the kitchen
dressed in my church clothes, trying to play with the cat while waiting for my
mother to come downstairs.  I didn’t like the cat; he was as cold and
unsociable as his owner, but periodically I liked to make an effort to remind
him he had once been a playful kitten.

That morning he was particularly unresponsive and after a hiss of
annoyance, he jumped from my arms.  That would have been fine, except in his
rush his claws caught the tablecloth and dragged it, and a jug of milk, down
with him.  The almighty crash had my mother in the kitchen in seconds.  As she
stood in the doorway taking in the scene, I couldn’t help my heart beating in
time to the purple vein pulsating on her almost transparent temple.  I was in
deep trouble and stood transfixed by my mother’s distorted features, awaiting
the inevitable.

‘You stupid fool,’ she growled. ‘What have you done now?’ 

‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ I whispered, bending to pick up the broken shards.

‘Get up, you gormless idiot! You’re getting milk on your dress!’ she
shrieked, as she swept past to get the dustpan and brush. ‘Dear Lord, why did
you see fit to saddle me with this imbecile?’ she whined into the pantry, as if
she fully expected the Lord’s answer to come from behind the tins of baked
beans.

She turned around and the sight of me standing there with milk dripping
from the bottom of my Sunday best sent her into overdrive.

‘This is just typical of you.  Get out of my sight and change your dress,
you useless lump!’ 

I murmured another apology as I headed for the door.  I’d have done
better to keep my mouth shut.

‘You’re sorry, you’re sorry?’ she sneered in a singsong voice.  ‘You
will
be sorry, you hateful child, make no mistake about that.’

By this time, I’d had nine years’ experience of my mother’s
vindictiveness and had reached the conclusion that she made a conscious effort
to dream up the nastiest punishments she could think of.  I’d had them all – my
mouth washed out with carbolic soap until I vomited, for telling a fib.  The
time I had to stand outside for ages, barefoot in a bucket of cold water in the
middle of winter.  I got chilblains from that.  It was for running up and down
the church pews when she was in confession – I was about five at the time.  The
irony of it still gets to me. 

The list is endless, so I won’t bore you with it, except to say, the one
that affected me most she inflicted not as a punishment – but out of sheer
spite.  Every year on my birthday and Christmas, a parcel arrived from my
father.  I knew it was from him for two reasons, the first being nobody else
ever sent me anything, the second was the brightly coloured Australian stamps.

My mother always placed it carefully on the sideboard for me to see; I
could look, but not touch.  Then in the evening once the fire was blazing up
the chimney – well, as much as half a dozen lumps of coal could blaze, she
would place the unopened parcel in the flames then poke at it until it was
nothing but ash.  I ached to know what those parcels contained.

Clothes changed, I sat in my room and waited for the call from my
mother.  I dared not go down while she was still cleaning up the mess.  Ten
minutes later, we were finally on our way to Mass.  As usual, I made sure I was
a few paces behind her, I loved to watch the odd way she walked, it was all
tight arse and stunted steps.  She had a way of covering ground that looked
like she was trying to hold a red-hot poker up her backside by no means other
than her sphincter.  Highly amusing.

 I had been given my punishment when I eventually plucked up the courage
to show my face in the kitchen.  Today, I would not be allowed in the church
hall with the other children.  Today, I would have to sit beside my mother
through the whole, boring service and when the collection plate came around, I
was to hand over the money I had been saving for months for a pair of roller
skates.  I was heartbroken over the skates, especially as I had only been two
pounds off buying them.  Luckily, she was unaware that the first part of the
punishment wasn’t the blow she had intended. Fraternising with the kids, most
of whom, went to the same school as me, was difficult enough during the week. 
Having to do it on Sunday as well, was to say the least, difficult. I’ll
explain why.

It was all to do with frilly socks and plaits.  These two things, I can
honestly say, blighted my childhood and were the cause of many a traumatic
nightmare.  Although, to be fair, while I was in the younger years of primary school,
neither of them mattered much.  Young kids don’t give a damn about what you
wear or how you look, you’re just accepted.  However, by the time I got to nine
or ten, I had begun to stick out in the crowd.  Round about that age we were
all beginning to be aware of fashion.  Suddenly pigtails and plaits disappeared
and girls were having their hair cut in actual styles.  I wasn’t.  No matter
how much I begged and pleaded, my mother insisted on doing my hair in exactly
the same way as she had done since the day I started school.  I was a laughing
stock – it still makes me come out in a cold sweat when I think about it. 
Every morning she would make two plaits just behind my ears, these, she would
catch up and tie to the top of my head with a ribbon so the plaits stood out at
right angles.  Do not dare laugh when I tell you this, but I actually went
through my entire primary school years with my head resembling a two handled
sugar bowl. 

Then, just to add to the trauma, there were also the frilly socks.  Oh,
Lord, how I was jeered over those bloody socks.  My mother always bought me
white ankle socks that had a lace trim around the top.  OK, this may be pretty
when you are four or five…but at ten?   I’ve no idea why she did this, it was
either a deliberate attempt at humiliation, which succeeded brilliantly, or a
throwback to her doily fetish – I’ve just realised I haven’t told you about
that have I? My mother loved doilies, the scraps of frilly-edged material adorned
every surface in our house, there wasn’t an ornament that didn’t have one
underneath it – I detest bloody doilies.  Anyway, the socks and plaits alienated
me from the children at school and I found myself increasingly alone in the
playground.

After a while, I formulated a plan in an effort to hold onto the few
friends I had left.  I waited for days for an opportune moment to broach the
subject with my mother.  Finally it came. She had just come home from her WI
meeting and was unusually civil to Mrs Williams, the woman she paid to look
after me when she was out in the evenings.  Normally, she was quite abrupt and
I could only assume Mrs Williams was desperate for the money to put up with my
mother’s off-hand treatment.

I went into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea, and then placed two
ginger biscuits on the side just the way she liked them. I took it to her in
the lounge, making sure I didn’t spill any tea in the saucer, because she hated
that.  Personally, I was under the impression that was the purpose of the thing
– to catch the drips.

Because she was a stickler for manners, she thanked me, but her lips
remained pursed and she didn’t spare me a glance.  I sat on the sofa, making
sure I stayed still because “fidgeting” was another of her pet hates. Finally,
after a count to ten and just as she picked up her book, I summoned the courage
to ask my question.

‘Mum?’

‘What?’ This was said with some annoyance as she opened the book at her
marker.  I swallowed my nervousness and forged ahead.

‘Could I invite, Amy and Josie, for tea on Friday, please?’  I’d picked
Friday because it was one of her committee nights

‘May I invite… not could… don’t they teach you anything at that school?’

‘Um… sorry, so… may I invite them?