Don’t Tell Mummy (7 page)

M
y eighth birthday arrived, bringing with it an early autumn quickly followed by the chill of winter. A diet of dark-brown peat was constantly supplied to the stove, producing a red glow, but however much we fed it the warm pool of heat never seemed to spread more than a few feet. I would huddle as close to it as possible as my permanently damp coat, shoes and woollen tights steamed on the wooden clothes horse. Since I only had one of each they had to be ready for the following day.

My mother’s voice would float up the still uncarpeted stairs to wake me in the darkness of every early morning, and a chill would nip the tip of my nose as it ventured outside the cocoon of blankets. Automatically my arm would stretch out to the wooden chair, which doubled up as table and wardrobe, as I fumbled for clothes, which I would draw in under the blankets. First my school knickers, followed by woollen tights, brought from the kitchen the night before, were wriggled into. Then, with chattering teeth, my unbuttoned pyjama top would be hastily pulled over my head to be replaced by a woollen vest. Only then would I swing my legs out of bed, leaving my warm nest behind and venturing into the cold of the unheated house. Hastily I would boil the
kettle on the range, which would eventually, with some prodding from the poker and some small pieces of peat, come slowly to life.

I would wash quickly at the kitchen sink while my breakfast egg was cooked, then scramble into the rest of my clothes. Breakfast would be consumed hurriedly, then, pulling on my still damp coat, I would pick up my satchel and leave for school.

At the weekends, dressed in an old sweater, mittens and wellington boots, I would help my mother collect eggs, both from the deep litter outhouses and from the scattered hiding places of the free-range chickens. Hoping for brown eggs, she gave them cocoa every morning at eleven o’clock. Whether it increased the ratio of brown eggs to white we were never sure, but the chickens would come running when she called. Greedily, their beaks would dip into the warm sweet liquid time and again. Lifting their heads from the bowls they would shake them, their little beady eyes gleaming as the liquid trickled down their throats.

Frogs would be rescued from the well’s bucket and twigs collected for kindling. But my favourite time was when my mother baked. Scones and soda bread were removed from the griddle and, once cooled, placed into tin containers, because food had to be protected from the army of mice that took shelter with us during the winter months.

Sugary-smelling cakes and biscuits were placed onto racks and, if my mother was in a good mood, I would be rewarded with the bowl to lick out, my fingers sliding around its cream and white sides, scrupulously gathering up the last drop of the buttery mixture. I would suck them clean, under the gaze of Judy’s and Sally’s bright and hopeful eyes.

Those were the days when flashes of the old warmth that kept my love fuelled sprung up between my mother and me. For if her mind was firmly locked on the memory of the handsome auburn-haired Irishman in that dance hall, the man who waited for her at the docks, a man generous with his hugs and unfulfilled promises, mine was for ever locked on the smiling loving mother from my early childhood.

From the money that I’d stolen, I bought myself a torch and batteries. These I hid in my room and at night I would smuggle up a book. Tucked up in bed with the blankets pulled high I would strain my eyes every night as I shone the weak light of the torch onto the print. The rustling and scurrying sounds of the insects and small animals that lived in the thatch receded once I lost myself in the pages. Then for a short time I was able to forget the days when my father took me for the ‘drives’.

Each time he picked up his car keys and announced that it was time for my treat I silently implored my mother to say no, to tell him she needed me for an errand, to collect the eggs, fish the frogs out of the well water, even bringing in the water for washing from the rain butts, but she never did.

‘Run along with Daddy, darling, while I make tea,’ would be her weekly refrain as he drove me to the wooden shed and I learnt to separate my feelings from reality.

On our return sandwiches would have been prepared and a homemade cake, cut into thick slices, would be arranged on a lace doily, which covered a silver-plated platter.

‘Wash your hands, Antoinette,’ she would instruct me before we sat down to our Sunday afternoon tea.

She never asked me about the drives, never asked where we had been or what we had seen.

Visits to Coleraine, once taken for granted, now became longed-for treats. I missed my large family there, the warmth I always felt in my grandparents’ house and the companionship of my cousins.

On the rare occasions my father decided that a visit was due, the tin bath would be filled in a curtained-off part of the kitchen the night before. Here I would sit in the shallow soapy water, scrubbing myself clean and washing my hair. My mother would towel dry me, wrap an old dressing gown of hers around my skinny frame and seat me in front of the range. Taking up her silver-backed hairbrush she would run its bristles through my dark brown hair until it shone. The next morning my best outfit would come out, and my father would polish my shoes while my mother supervised my dressing. My hair would be swept back and held in place with a black velvet band. Looking in the mirror I saw a different reflection to the one my peers saw at the village school. Gone was the unkempt child in crumpled clothes; in her place stood a child who looked cared for, a child who was neatly dressed, a child with loving parents.

This was the start of the second game, a game all three of us took part in, the game of happy families. It was a game directed by my mother, a game of acting out her dream, the dream of a happy marriage, a handsome husband, a thatched house and one pretty daughter.

On our ‘family’ visits my mother would sit with an expression that I had already come to recognize. It was an expression that showed she was there on sufferance. A polite, slightly patronizing smile would hover on her lips, a smile which showed toleration of those visits but never enjoyment, a smile I knew would disappear immediately the visit ended and our car turned out of my grandparents’ road.

Then a steady trickle of condescension would float in the air until, drop by drop, it fell into my ears. Each relative received my mother’s verbal appraisal, accompanied by a laugh with no humour. I would watch the back of my father’s neck growing redder as mile by mile she reminded him of his origins and, in comparison, her own worth.

If my mother’s memory of my father remained locked on the handsome ‘Paddy’ who had danced her off her feet, in his eyes she remained for ever the classy English woman who was too good for him.

As my mother regurgitated her views of the day, my pleasure would evaporate until, by the time my bedroom was reached, it was a distant memory. The game of happy families had ended and I knew it would not be played again until the next visit.

Just before our last Christmas at the thatched house we visited my grandparents again. To my delight, in the tiny back room where my grandfather had at one time mended shoes, was a strange-looking bird. It was bigger than a chicken, with grey plumage and a red gullet. A chain attached to one of its legs, secured it to a ring in the wall. It looked at me with what I saw as hope. Hope for company. Hope for freedom. On asking my grandparents what it was called they simply said ‘a turkey’.

I promptly christened him Mr Turkey. At first, mindful of his beak, which was considerably bigger than a chicken’s, I simply sat and chattered to him. Later, seeing how docile he was, I grew braver and reached out my hand to stroke him. The bird, disorientated by his surroundings, allowed me to pet him without protest and I believed I had made another feathered friend. No one told me what the fate of my new friend was going to be.

My grandparents had invited us for Christmas Day, and I dutifully wore the uniform and played the role of the child of a happy family. A small Christmas tree, overburdened with red and gold decorations, stood in the window of the small cramped sitting room. Chattering relatives occupied every available space, while plentiful drinks were poured, passed round and consumed. My father, flushed with alcohol, was the centre of attention. He was the joking, jovial, favourite son and adored brother in his family, and I was loved because I was his.

My grandparents had moved their small table from its place by the window, where the tree now stood, to the centre of the room. The table’s extensions were so seldom used that they seemed to be of a lighter wood, once it was extended to accommodate eight people. Cutlery had been polished, Christmas crackers arranged beside each setting and borrowed chairs had been placed around it. I was seated opposite my father.

Delicious smells wafted from the tiny kitchen along with the noise of great activity. Meat, boiled vegetables, crispy roast potatoes all swimming in gravy were put onto plates and carried to the table by my grandmother and aunt. My mother had not offered to help, nor was she asked to.

As I looked at my piled-high plate of food, my mouth watered; breakfast had been a hurried weak cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. Impatiently, I waited for the first adult to commence so that I could follow, and then my father pointed to the meat and told me what had happened to my friend.

Nausea replaced hunger, silence hung in the air for a few seconds as I looked around the table in disbelief. My father’s eyes both mocked and challenged me. I saw the amusement in the adult faces as they exchanged glances and I forced
myself to show no feeling. Instinctively I knew that if I refused to eat, not only would he be pleased, but somehow in that mysterious adult world where children’s feelings are not real, any tears shed for Mr Turkey would be gently mocked.

I ate it, even though every mouthful stuck in my throat. As I forced it down a hopeless rage rose inside me; hatred was born that Christmas. Laughter around the table became the sound of adults conspiring and my childhood, although still not completely gone, only hung on by a few threads.

Crackers were pulled, hats were placed on top of heads and faces grew flushed, both from the heat of the fire and the whiskey diluted with water that everyone, except my mother and I, drank in copious quantities. She had her bottle of dry sherry while I drank orange squash.

My mind stayed on the big gentle bird that had looked so forlorn when he had lived in that tiny back room for the last days of his life. I felt shame that Christmas had meant he had to die and shame that to protect myself from ridicule I had swallowed that meat.

The Christmas pudding was served next and my portion had the silver coin. Then it was time to open our presents. My grandparents gave me a new jumper, my aunt and uncles hair ribbons, slides, trinkets and a doll. My parents handed me a large parcel with an English postmark. Once opened it revealed several Enid Blyton books with my name written in them from my English grandmother. I was filled with a feeling of such longing to see her again as memories flooded in of my earlier, happier days. I saw again her small, neatly dressed figure, heard her voice calling ‘Antoinette, where are you?’, heard my own laughter as I pretended to hide and smelt her perfume of lilies and face powder as she
bent down to kiss me. Somehow, I thought, if she was there our home would be happy again.

My parents gave me a pencil case for school and two second-hand books. Fairly soon after that it was time to go.

That night we drove back to the thatched house and I went straight to bed, too tired to hear the scurrying in the thatch, or to switch on the torch.

On Boxing Day I went for a walk on my own, for once leaving the dogs behind in the hope of seeing rabbits and hares playing. There was a field at the top of a slight hill where I could lie to watch them. That morning I was to be disappointed. The weather was too cold for me and for them.

It was not until Easter that my patience was rewarded as I lay motionless on top of the daisy-spotted hillock. I held my breath, scared that the slightest noise would alert the rabbit families. I stayed out of sight, but close enough to see the whites of their bobtails. Whole families left their burrows to gambol in the field below and welcome the spring in. That day I came across a baby rabbit that seemed to have been abandoned by its parents. It sat, unmoving, with its bright eyes flickering nervously as I bent to pick it up. Tucking it under my jumper for warmth I could feel its heart beating rapidly as I raced home.

‘What have you got there?’ exclaimed my mother, seeing the bulge of the rabbit.

Pulling my jumper up I showed her and she gently took it from me.

‘We’ll make a home for it until it’s big enough to find its family,’ she said.

Gathering newspapers, she showed me how to shred them so that they would provide a warm nest, then she
found a wooden box and the first of the makeshift cages was made. When the farmers found that we had one rescued rabbit they brought us several more. They explained that dogs and foxes often killed the parents, leaving the young unable to fend for themselves. The care of these orphaned rabbits was something my mother and I did together. We put straw, water and food into the cages and fed them by hand.

‘When they’re big,’ she warned me, ‘you can’t keep them as pets any more. These are wild rabbits. They belong in the fields. But we’ll keep them until they’re strong enough to be released.’

My father silently watched my mother and I doing this together. Always sensitive to his moods, I felt his growing resentment, aware of his gaze. For once he said nothing, as it was an interest my mother shared with me.

A few weeks after the first rabbit had been rescued and we were preparing to release it into the fields I came downstairs to find my mother glaring at me, her face white with anger.

Before I could duck her hand rose and struck me full in the face. Her hands, surprisingly strong for someone of her size, took my shoulders and shook them. My father was watching us furtively as he warmed himself by the range with a complacent smirk on his face.