Legacy (15 page)

Chapter Thirty Six

Mum when she was there always tried her best to ensure we were happy. I remember hot summer day trips to Portrush and enjoying my first holiday (that I can remember, Mum had taken us on an exchange trip to Germany once, and even to Lourdes but I was too young to have any recollection) a full week in Port Stewart. It wasn't until I was eight or nine, I became acutely aware that money was scarce. That Mum worked hard but it seemed her overheads outweighed any surplus that she made. I can honestly say that Mum rarely treated herself, she had nothing; she lived for us. At the end of each month she would drive us all to Derry where we would stock up the cupboards and she would buy us whatever we needed. She wanted to ensure we never did without so no expense was spared, so much so that her entire pay check was often squandered in a day.

Yet she rarely got herself anything. On her days off she would wear her uniform for going out, insisting that she had so few days off that she didn't need a wardrobe. She spent so many days in bed through tiredness and depression that I'm sure she didn't require much. Mum always ensured through thick and thin that we had enough; any surplus money (and quite often non surplus money) went straight to us. Before the days of tax credits and the nanny state as it has come to be, surplus money on a nurse's salary was a rarity. Inevitably we often ran out.

That winter was especially cold the snow was thick on the ground and temperatures rarely left zero. That was the year of the brown coat and woolly gloves. As I was the youngest my sister's clothes were passed down to me. But by the time they got to me their condition left a lot to be desired. I begged my Mum that year for a new coat and she said she would see what she could do. I was so excited, my counterparts in school had lovely coats in shades of blue and pink and I had my eye on one just like theirs. I remember sneakily cutting out pictures from magazines or pointing to children on the TV or in the streets who had coats just like what I had in mind. I wanted to make sure that Mum knew exactly what to get. To ensure I didn't get hand me downs I waited until Mum was in bed and threw out all the old coats that were destined for me, that way I knew Mum would have to get me a nice new one. I was so excited and imagined myself being the envy of my friends as I walked into school in my fabulous new coat.

A few days later I walked into school coatless. I was furious and utterly humiliated, how dare my Mum expect me to wear such a thing. After all my hard work and weeks of pointing out exactly what I was looking for Mum had the audacity to come home from work looking as pleased as punch as she presented me with my new coat. It was in a big yellow bag and as she handed it to me she was telling me how smart I would look, I positively quivered with anticipation as I peeked into the big bag. The first thing that struck me was the smell; a musty sour note assailed my nostrils.

“Take it out,” Mum was saying, as I lifted the coat out I swore I had never seen anything as ugly in my entire life. It was a woollen tweed creation the fabric a deep manure colour with threads I can only describe as curry colour weaved through it. I was appalled, horrified.

“Try it on,” was Mum's next line. I looked at her dumbfounded as I could hear Alison and Maxine's sniggers in the background.

I dropped the repulsive garment and fled to my room, the tears were tripping me. So much for being the envy of my class, if I wore that they would be starting a collection for me never mind the black babies.

I stayed in my room for a long time that day, I was seething with fury. I vowed never to put that thing across my back. I decided that if this was what my family thought of me I would just have to leave, these people simply had no respect. I stomped downstairs and told my Mum that I needed a lift immediately; I needed to get to the Nazareth House, our local orphanage. Mum looked faintly amused and didn't say no as I expected her to, instead she shrugged her shoulders and said “if that's what you want.” 10 minutes later we had stepped out into the freezing fog and got into the car, Mum switched on the engine and began to drive. Good, I thought at least the nuns won't expect me to wear a brown tatty brown coat. I buckled my seatbelt, folded my arms and settled back for the journey, going to Derry meant that we should head down the road yet it seemed Mum was heading up the road. Not understanding her detour I looked at her questionably, “where are you going, I thought you were taking me to the Nazareth house?”

“Yes we'll be going there in a minute, but first I think it would only be polite to say goodbye to your granny and granddad.”

My tummy lurched as my best laid plans had been foiled.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes Jayne,” Mum nodded.

That was it. The threat of facing my grandparents was enough to tell my Mum to take me home,

I could see her laughing even though she tried to hide it, yet rather than give in I said

“I need a day or two to come up with a good goodbye.”

That was the end of my protest over the brown coat. I never did make it to the Nazareth house but I did make Mum laugh.

Later that evening, I peered down the stairs and saw my Mum sitting on the living room chair with jumpers which were strewn across the living room floor. Curiosity got the better of me and I ventured down and asked Mum what on earth she was doing.

She looked at me her face slightly drawn and said,

“Jayne, it's freezing outside and I have two weeks to pay day.”

I looked closer at her work and saw six sleeves lying on the arm of the chair. Each one was stitched at the top.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Gloves, yours are the cream pair, they'll match your wee coat.”

Shame raced through me, I believe that was the first time that I realised that things were tough, that Mum was doing her best and that my selfishness was not helping. Demanding a new coat so close to Christmas when I suspected she had already bought our presents, (using her entire salary no doubt) had been a cruel thing to do.

“Thanks Mum, they're lovely,” I said and retreated back up stairs.

The next day I donned my ‘new' coat and gloves made from old jumpers and made my way to school. Despite feeling embarrassed the overwhelming feeling that prevailed was warmth for I had been fortunate enough to have my Mum who did her very best to ensure that we had what we needed.

Despite that as I got within 100 yards of the school I took off my brown coat and my make shift gloves, rolled them in a ball and tossed them in my schoolbag. Warmth or not I had my pride.

The brown coat was a wakeup call to me; it made me notice how poor we actually were. Granted the end of each month Mum would stock up the cupboards but by mid-month they would grow bare and usually contained bread milk and beans. When those ran out we relied on Mum's little yellow book to feed us.

Every Monday without fail I remember Mum would sign the yellow book and leave it on the mantelpiece, one of us would take the little book to the post office and queue. When we reached the top of the queue the lady would stamp it and give us a few pounds. We used this to buy precious supplies. Occasionally I snuck a bag of sweets or two. It later became clear that this little book was a family allowance and in the absence of Dad this book was the only help my Mum got.

The other person we relied on was Mum's grandmother, or ‘nanny' as I called her. She would call at our house often and was a great support to Mum. She too had been widowed young and understood what Mum was dealing with. She used to come with a fresh loaf of bread and milk and all sorts of supplies for the cupboards. As early as when I was a toddler she would bath us and buy little necessities like vests and pyjamas. I used to find her gifts boring and would have preferred a toy or sweets but now I see that these little purchases were essential for a young family. Mum knew her Gran had used her limited funds to buy these and her kindness always touched her.

Chapter Thirty Seven

I liken Mum to a poem I used to hear when I was little. It went, “when she was good she was very, very good but when she was bad she was horrid.” When Mum was with us she was the best Mum in the world, yet when Misery snatched her from us as she frequently did Mum became horrid. She became silent and reclusive, her eyes became blank and she cared about nothing or no one. It was during these times that Mum gave up and we catered for ourselves. My sisters remember calling my grandparents and my nanny to come and help telling them that we were scared and that Mum was quiet again. I suppose they were petrified and in the end out of desperation Mums family brought the doctor out to see her. Mum was completely unresponsive yet she heard them utter, “Changed person”, from her bed she let their words pass her by. When Misery was with Mum she walked and talked occasionally but was no more than a puppet imitating life, the strings that moved her were gone and she was lifeless.

Mum was diagnosed with a deep depression and was started on a strong course of anti-depressants; she was given sleeping tablets as well as she hadn't been sleeping. She had sitting up each night staring at nothing. Well that was what they thought, because Mum wasn't staring at nothing she was looking at Misery and Misery was holding her attention.

Looking back, drugs were the worst courses of treatment that my Mum could have been given. I wish they could have addressed the root of her problem, I wish they had offered her some therapy some help to cope. Drugs were never the answer, they were the easy option. I firmly believe that by introducing Mum to such drugs that set her on a path of no return. The more depressed my Mum became the more she remembered my Dad and thought of how things could be; the more drugs she was given. A dependency was created that had ramifications so strong that they would obliterate her later life.

My parents were stalked by racism in their time together. Admittedly they found it unsettling but they hadn't dwelled on it; they refused to let it defeat them. They had each other and they had their plans. When my Dad had fulfilled his contract to his firm they had intended to leave Northern Ireland and bring us girls up in a more tolerant society. The bomb that took my Dad's life had temporarily put a halt to these plans, yet in the back of Mum's mind she longed to someday fulfil them. This was reinforced all the more when the vile monster of racism reared its ugly head again. This time though it didn't level itself at adults, instead it targeted three innocent children.

Living as a mixed race family in Strabane or indeed
any
small town had its downsides, none of which made our lives any easier. Like everywhere the vast majority of people in the town treated my sisters and I the same as any other little girls, but like everything in life the few ‘the minority' give others a bad name. Initially after Dad died, Mum refused to let us out the door. Every bang, bullet or bomb she heard seemed to alert her to the danger on the streets. She thought if she kept us all in and with her at all times that we would be ok. The barricading us in lasted for a few years until Mum reluctantly had to let us out to face the world.

Rather than terrorist threats the first thing that threatened us was something she hadn't expected. On the mornings when she could leave us to school she would watch us making our way in. We stood out so much from the other children; our little brown faces a stark contrast to the sea of white faces that surrounded us. Her heart reached out to us as she knew deep down that our differences would soon result in trouble.

Yet considering the circumstances Alison and I seemed to be settling into school. Maxine was the exception she had grown into an introverted child, her teacher had told Mum that she wasn't progressing academically and alarmingly was painting only black. Now it is clear that a depression had fallen on her. Once again no help, no counselling existed to help bereaved children of the troubles. Instead Mum resolved that watching and monitoring her was all she could do.

Mum had always kept she and my Dad's plans in the back of her mind before he had been killed they had resolved to move us somewhere else, somewhere more mixed. Yet the events of the last few years had left Mum insecure and afraid of all things new. So much so that she began to question whether uprooting us to a far of place would be the best solution. However her doubts were to be conquered very quickly. Immediately after Dad's death she had turned a blind eye to the remarks, stares and questions about her daughters but as time passed they were to become more and more difficult to ignore.

One day she came home from work to find Alison in convulsions; she was sobbing her heart out and was vehemently refusing to go back to school. On further examination the events of her day were unfolded. The children in Alison's class had been given an exercise to draw themselves. Alison, who believed she was quite the little artist, drew a picture of herself skipping. When the teacher had collected all the children's samples, she had stopped at Alison's and became outraged. She shouted at her the rest of her class the audience,

“That is not
you!”
she proceeded to draw an alternative picture on the board “
this
is you.”

On the board the teacher had scrawled a child with big lips, fuzzy hair and bad posture, she pointed to the board telling Alison, “
You
are a negro and negro's look like this!”

Furious, Mum arranged cover for the following mornings work and with Alison in tow, reported to the school the next morning. She demanded to see the head mistress and found a voice she never knew she had. She described to the head the events of the previous day and informed her that her complaint would be taken to the education board if she didn't receive an immediate apology from the culprit. Mum was told this would not be possible, the teacher involved was busy. Yet Mum would not be brushed aside she was determined to receive her apology,
their
apology. So she continued her battle.

“Not be possible? But it is possible for your staff to humiliate a child in front of her contemporaries? If she is busy I will wait whilst you arrange someone to cover her. I warn you though if she is not here in ten minutes I will begin instigating her dismissal.” Mum looked at her watch, taking note of the time and sat down, making it clear she was going nowhere.

The head mistress clearly defeated left her office and Mum and Alison sat waiting. The standoff was successful and precisely ten minute later Alison's shamefaced, mortified teacher along with the headmistress entered the office.

Mum and Alison were given an apology and reassured that such an event would never happen again. Seizing her moment Mum assured them that she would take this no further if they honoured one more request. That the teacher involved would have no further contact with any of her children again. Alison was removed from her class that very day and Maxine and I were never taught or spoken to by that teacher in the future.

Mum left the school feeling a lot stronger, she had done Max proud. But seeing her child so upset had a profound effect on her. This time she had been resilient and had coped with the situation, but what about the next and the inevitable next? Single motherhood was gruelling at the best of times, but being a single mother to three mixed raced children in an all-white town added even more complications.

The incident in the school was not the only incident, in only a few years in Strabane Mum had encountered more bigotry than she had thought possible. Even her mother had not been immune, she had once taken us to Mass and an old friend approached her at the end of the service and commended her on her charity work. By virtue of having little money her mother was never a big donator, she gave what she could, when she could, but she could never afford to give enough to have her generosity highlighted. Needless to say she was puzzled and asked the woman what she meant.

The woman explained saying that by taking in those African children and feeding and clothing them, she was highly admired and deserved a medal. In fact they all thought so. She had looked up to see the woman's cronies oohing and ahhing in agreement. Always known for her diplomacy she had quickly corrected them, but had been deeply upset at the incident.

I remember after that day in the church, it took Mum quite a while to convince Maxine and I that we weren't adopted and shipped in from some far away African country. Not for the first time I would look at myself and then at Mum, weigh up the older ladies comments and conclude that the ladies and their friends were right. Somehow Mum had gone all the way over to Africa and picked us to bring back to Strabane. Despite being told about my Dad I didn't remember him, adoption was a much more logical explanation.

One afternoon Mum had left us in the little red mini on the main street whilst she ran to the bank to cash her salary cheque. The three of us were excited as Mum had promised us a trip to a toyshop were we could each select a gift. As it was the end of the month the queue for the bank was long and Mum seemed to take an age. I remember we were singing silly songs and laughing when all of a sudden someone peered in the window, very soon we were surrounded by spectators, all mystified by the strange but cute creatures that inhabited the car. I felt like an animal in a zoo. To our audience the sight of us three children in that little mini was as if an alien spacecraft had descended right there on the main street. Thankfully Mum returned and quickly dispersed the crowds using a few choice words. When she climbed back into the car she turned to us and tried to make a joke at how they were admiring our nice hair yet she quickly saw that we were all in tears. Mum says it took her a long time to compose us. We never got our toy that day instead she took us home and closed the blinds.

Those days became littered with battles; Mum must have felt like the towns very own Martin Luther King championing race relations on an almost every day basis. She grew sick of telling them over and over again that we were all the same until eventually she gave up.

That was the day when Mum decided that she would cast her fears aside and take us to Nigeria. She would never expose us to such experiences again. She was not foolish enough to believe that she could escape racism there but she knew such experiences would be lesser if her girls blended in a bit more.