Secrets My Mother Kept (24 page)

‘Well you don’t sound very happy about it.’ She smiled. ‘Wedding nerves?’

‘Mmm, I guess so.’ I looked out of the window as the sun shone down hotly. 1976 had been the hottest summer on record so far, and the bus was very stuffy.

‘Are you going on honeymoon?’ she asked. I just wanted her to stop talking, or at least I wanted her to stop talking about the wedding. I could feel tears beginning to sting my eyes and didn’t want to embarrass both of us on a crowded number 72 bus!

‘Yes, we’ve booked two weeks in the Canary Islands.’

She started to laugh. ‘The Canary Islands! That’s going to be even hotter than here!’

I returned a watery smile. ‘Mmm, I know.’

What I wanted to tell her was that I had a recurring dream that I would wake up in the sunshine and realise that I was married and that my life was over. I wanted to tell her I was terrified of being trapped, that I didn’t know what love was, who Patrick was and most importantly I didn’t know yet who I was! But I didn’t know Rachael well enough to say those things to her. She fumbled with her bag and then looked at me directly in the eyes. I don’t know what she saw there but it prompted her to say in a slow and serious voice, ‘You’re really not happy about all of this are you?’

I shook my head, and then the tears did begin to slide down my cheeks. I left them there unchecked and looked away.

‘Kath, you’ve got to do something!’ she said, putting her arm around my shoulder.

I was aware that other people on the bus were beginning to look, so I quickly brushed my tears away and tried to smile. ‘But don’t you see, I can’t do anything? I’m trapped.’

‘You’re not trapped! No one can make you get married if you don’t want to.’

I tried to explain. ‘It’s like I’m on a train speeding out of control, and the passengers are on board. The reception is booked, dresses are bought, honeymoon booked and, worst of all, everyone is really looking forward to a big Irish wedding – everyone but me! And if I derail the train to stop it there will be a massive crash, it will just leave too many casualties – don’t you see?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You’re insane. Don’t be bullied into this.’

I knew she thought I was weak and probably stupid as well, and I suppose I was, but I was used to looking after people, calming conflicts not making them, and the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was to cause an almighty explosion. No, there was no choice. I would be getting married at the end of July.

When I got home Mum was in the scullery washing up. We had a fridge now and although it was very old it worked beautifully. Aunty Maggie had donated it to us when they moved to Bishop’s Stortford. It was a 1930s design so took up a lot of space but the benefits it brought far outweighed the disadvantages. I was desperate for a cold drink so went straight into the tiny scullery to see if the new addition could provide one.

Mum looked up. ‘Oh, you’re earlier than I expected,’ she said, smiling.

‘So are you,’ I answered, surprised to see her home from her cook’s job in London.

‘Oh Friday is POETS day.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘POETS day!’ she repeated, pleased that she had learnt a new saying from her colleagues. ‘Push Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday!’

She seemed really happy in this new job and had surprised the whole family, firstly by actually getting the job , and secondly by going to work three days a week, leaving home at about 5 a.m. and not usually returning until about 6.30 p.m. She was earning lots of money as well, and for the first time that I could remember she looked really, genuinely happy. How could I spoil that new state of happiness by turning everything on its head? No, I would just have to stick it out. I had got myself into this mess and now I would just have to put up with it. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Patrick or that he wasn’t a really nice young man, but I just wasn’t ready to be the person he needed me to be, and I wasn’t sure that I ever would be.

‘I’ve got my new hat for the wedding,’ she said proudly. ‘Josie got it for me in Ilford. It’s a really good one – not cheap.’ She dried her hands on her apron and led me into the kitchen. ‘Look, here it is.’ She plucked out a pretty blue hat covered with tight fabric flowers, and pulled it on to her head. ‘What do you think?’

She looked so sweet. Although she was quite overweight and her hair was silvery white and rather thin, she still had a rosy bloom to her complexion, and bright twinkling eyes. She had kept her lovely soft skin and there were very few wrinkles on her face. She had some gentle laughter lines, but they suited her and she was sixty-one after all.

‘Mum, you look gorgeous,’ I smiled, and she smiled back and put the hat away in its bag, humming ‘I’ll Be Loving You Always’ to herself. I walked upstairs to the bedroom we shared, and saw my dress hanging on the wardrobe door covered in plastic. My heart gave a lurch. At college I loved dressing up, I loved acting and becoming a different person from the real me, loved hiding behind the mask of theatre. On my wedding day in just a few weeks’ time, I was going to have to give the best performance of my life.

35

My Wedding

The end of term and my second year at college arrived. We had a party to say goodbye to Mrs Dalgliesh, who was retiring. Typically of the drama department it was to be a ‘Chekhovian moment’ by the lake in the grounds of the college. The sun had shone brilliantly all day, and although it was 6 p.m. by the time we gathered together, it was a magnificent evening of soft breezes skimming off the lake, dragging the aroma of the musk roses and honeysuckle towards us as the bees droned soothingly. The trees were shaking their leaves gently, offering some welcome shade. I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined I was far away on my own and could do whatever I wanted, with no wedding, no honeymoon and no life mapped out in front of me. Then one of the other girls called out and the spell was broken. I came back to reality with a jolt.

I should have been happy, I reminded myself. My end of term production piece had been really successful. Our task had been to stage an excerpt from one of the plays we had read. We not only had to produce it but also had to cast it, set the scenes and make the props, light it and rehearse it. It was a tough challenge, but we had all relished it. I had decided on a scene from ‘Waiting for Godot’ by Samuel Beckett. There was something about the bizarre nature of the play, the strange conversations that the characters trapped themselves into, the hopelessness of their condition, that appealed to me. I decided to cast the characters of Vladimir and Estragon as clowns, and two of my fellow drama students consented to play them. They were brilliant; they listened to my every instruction, discussed it all with me and basically did a fantastic job. It was mainly down to their amazing interpretation that I was awarded an A-.
Why can’t life just go on like this?
I thought.
Why does it have to change?

As the term ended I collected my things together, packed my case and returned home to Dagenham, where preparations for the wedding were at full throttle.

‘Aunty will press your dress,’ Mum said. This had become a tradition in the family. ‘Your aunt used to iron for the Prince of Wales,’ Mum would tell us time and time again. ‘The collars were terrible to press; she had to dip them in starch to make them stand up stiffly.’ So Aunty would always be given the chore of pressing our wedding dresses before the big day. It was strange really because it was just about the only household job she ever did. When I was a child I remember Aunty always being placated, always being served dinner first, and having to walk round on tiptoe when she was home in case we disturbed or upset her. As she went to work every day, she was never expected to do any housework or cooking. As a matter of fact she was a terrible cook, although she did sometimes have a go. Bacon sandwiches were her speciality, and she would fry the bacon up, swimming in melted lard, until it was crispy and then slap it into the middle of two doorsteps of white bread and say, ‘There you are. Yum yum, piggy’s bum.’ She had been known to try to cook a suet pudding but although we had eaten it because we were so hungry it had lain in our stomachs for ages, sitting there like a lead weight.

Apart from ‘cooking’, Aunty would occasionally have a bleaching frenzy. She would come home from work carrying bottles of the stuff, and then proceed to slosh it everywhere until the whole house smelt like a swimming pool.

‘This place is filthy,’ she would shout, bustling round with her bottles and cloths. ‘We’ll all be down with the fever!’

We came to dread the stinging smell that choked our throats and burned our nostrils which followed in her wake.

Now Aunty was nearing seventy and starting to slow down. She could still have an outburst of temper if provoked, but was more mellow now, so much so that Margaret and I thought she might just respond to a little probing. The week before the wedding, Mum had gone to work and so Tony agreed to drop Margaret off at our house in the morning. Aunty was already out in the garden even though it was early, and waved to Margaret as she got out of the little Mini.

‘’Ello Margaret,’ she called affectionately, ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ She put down her spade and followed Margaret into the house. ‘Kathleen, your sister’s here,’ she called out, and I came downstairs, trying to formulate a plan.

‘I’ll make the tea, Aunty,’ I offered. Aunty made awful tea, and anyway I wanted to get her in a good mood. She sat down with Margaret in the kitchen and I could hear them chatting.

‘Do you want some bacon? I’ll make you a bacon sandwich,’ she offered. ‘No? What about some toast and jam then? Nothing? Look at you, all skin and bone; no wonder if you don’t eat.’

I brought the tea in.

‘Just like when you were little, an ’am bone with a frill on, that’s what you are,’ she joked. Margaret and I sat with Aunty as she drank her tea. Sip sip.

‘Do you want to go and get a cake from the baker’s?’ she continued. ‘Here, take some money.’ She rummaged in her bag.

‘No, it’s okay Aunty. We don’t want any cake, thank you.’

‘I can leave me money around now, you know,’ she continued. ‘If I put this five pounds on the mantelpiece it would still be there tomorrow,’ she continued, apparently amazed at this fact. Poor Aunty – we could only guess at the things she had put up with from Mum over the years.

‘Your mother’s got plenty of money now. Ah, but she’s had an ’ard life, yer know.’ She carried on drinking her tea: sip sip. We didn’t answer; we knew the rules well.

‘You might fink she’s bad, but she only ever did what she did for you children.’

Aunty lapsed into silence, deep in thought. Margaret and I sat waiting when suddenly she continued. ‘Your Uncle John loved ’er, you know. She was wrong to take advantage like that, and he never really forgave her.’ Aunty sniffed loudly and continued. ‘Ah well, it’s a long time ago now and I suppose she didn’t know what else to do.’ We exchanged glances – what was all this about?

‘Aunty Betty is coming to the wedding you know, and she’s bringing Dot and George.’ Aunty Betty was our Uncle John’s widow, and we hadn’t seen her since the last wedding. They had lived in Birmingham for the whole of my life, and had brought up their children there, but both Dot and George, our cousins, had visited on occasions. George was a lovely, funny young man, who had bought me a toy sewing machine once when he had arrived unexpectedly and found that it was my birthday.

Aunty now sat without saying another word and finished her tea. Sensing that she was about to go back to her garden I decided to take a chance.

‘Aunty, what did she do to Uncle John?’

Aunty got up without meeting our eyes, sniffed loudly and said, ‘The Lord makes work for idle hands.’ Putting her cup down loudly on the table, she went back out of the front door to her precious garden.

On the morning of my wedding day I got up and went over to the hairdressers to have my hair styled with my sister Margaret. We were both going to wear our long hair loose. I had a little ‘Juliet’ cap with a beautiful lace veil, and my dress was a simple Empire line with scalloped, almost medieval, sleeves that draped gracefully. It was a delicate dress that suited my tiny frame, and I felt very special as I walked down the stairs out into the sunlight on my brother Michael’s arm. It was the tradition at that time for all the neighbours to come out to their gates and see the bride off, and I felt a bit shy as we made our way to the shiny black car. I didn’t say anything on the short journey to church, but my insides were twisted in knots. The sun was hot and the church felt cool and calming as I walked down the aisle to become a married woman. The church was full to bursting, and every head turned as I made my way towards the altar, clutching a bouquet of Madonna lilies, just like my mum had many years before me in this very same church. A shiver ran down my spine, despite the heat, and I looked to where Patrick waited, with his smart new suit and freshly cut hair, little knowing that the vows we were about to make would last for such a short time.

36

The First Cracks Appearing

After we got back from honeymoon, we set up home in Rainham. It was a sweet little house that was built at the turn of the century, with a long strip of garden at the back. Unfortunately it was perched right on the side of the A13, a busy dirty road running through Dagenham towards Ford’s, and lorries thundered past relentlessly night and day.