Secrets My Mother Kept (20 page)

‘You can’t go out like that,’ he said, suddenly looking concerned.

‘Why not? I wear hot pants!’

‘That’s different,’ he said, looking more and more uncomfortable. ‘Everyone will be looking at you.’

I smiled. That was exactly my intention.

27

My Secret Sister

We had the phone connected when I was about seventeen and it had been a revelation. No more going to the phone box! Aunty was wary of it at first but was getting more confident about using it to call Aunty Maggie and her other siblings. Mum loved it! She was always keen on gadgets of any kind and buying them on the ‘never never’ had contributed to the huge debts that she still carried around with her in that big black bag. Like a millstone around her neck it dragged her down and she never let it out of her sight.

Aunty was now retired from Plessey but had gone out and got herself a part-time job in Ilford in the café at Clark’s bakery. Margaret and I would sometimes get the bus there on a Saturday to look at the shops.

‘Come into me for your lunch,’ Aunty would offer, and if we did she would always say, ‘what do yer want? Welsh Rarebit?’ and would scurry around and present it to us proudly.

‘I don’t want yer money,’ she would say, waving us away, which was just as well as we never had any.

One day Josie and Pat were home from work, as they had both taken a few days holiday, and my brother Michael’s middle daughter Sheila was staying at our house. She was only about eight, and loved her Nanny desperately, as did Michael’s other two daughters, Vicky and Tricia. They would frequently argue about whose turn it was to come and stay, and the result was often that they all came. I dreaded those times. It wasn’t because I didn’t love them, just that our house was so crowded already that an additional three bodies made it almost unbearable, especially as they were lively young children. They had all inherited their mum and dad’s good looks; they had Michael’s colouring so their hair was blonde, but they had Isobel’s huge eyes surrounded by dark thick lashes, although where hers were dark Spanish brown, theirs were a bright blue. It was Sheila who had won the fight this time and Pat and Josie were going to take her and Pongo to Valentines Park on the bus to feed the squirrels.

Just as they were getting ready to go, the phone started ringing. I was getting ready to go out with Patrick later that evening and Mum was in the middle of making tea, so Aunty, who had arrived home after her lunchtime shift, wandered out into the hall where the phone was perched on a little table and answered it. I ran down the stairs assuming it would be for me, and stopped short as I heard Aunty shouting into the receiver.

‘Hello,’ she said, putting on her posh voice. ‘Who?’ She was going quite deaf now and struggled to hear people on the telephone. ‘Who is it? Oh my God!’ A shocked smile sprang to her lips. ‘Wait . . . Pat, it’s your sister Sheila! Florrie, it’s Sheila!’

Time stood still. No one moved. No one went towards Aunty in the hallway.

‘Pat,’ Aunty called again. ‘It’s your sister Sheila.’ I caught sight of Josie and Pat who had been almost on the point of leaving, holding little Sheila’s hand. She looked mystified, confused that there was another Sheila on the other end of the phone, and struggling to understand why everyone had suddenly stopped in their tracks.

Pat finally responded. ‘I’m not talking to her.’ She made to continue towards the door, but then Mum appeared from the scullery.

‘It’s Sheila,’ repeated Aunty again, looking from one to the other, getting more and more agitated. Still no one moved to take the phone from Aunty; Mum bustled back into the scullery, so finally Aunty thrust the phone at Pat who listened for a while, occasionally making a mumbled response.

‘I couldn’t care less,’ she said, ‘we’re not interested.’ After another few minutes she hung the phone up and grabbed little Sheila’s hand, muttering, ‘Ron Coates is dead.’

With that they left, leaving Aunty, Mum and me lost for words until Mum said, ‘Ask your Aunt if she wants a cup of tea.’

Aunty just sniffed, shook her head and, mumbling under her breath, turned away.

No one ever discussed that phone call. No one went to Ron Coates’ funeral, no flowers were sent, no card of sympathy to Sheila, daughter, niece, sister, half-sister, was written. The hatred that his former wife and other children felt was still as raw as the day he had deserted them decades before.

It did stir Aunty’s memories though. She started letting things slip out. Maybe it was because she was getting older and sometimes forgot the unwritten rules of secrecy, maybe she was being her mischievous self, or maybe she was starting to realise that we all had a right to know about our past. At first there were just occasional comments made when Mum was at the shops or had gone to see Michael.

‘He was a terrible womaniser, yer know,’ she would suddenly announce completely out of the blue. We would sit in silence. We knew that if we tried to pull any information from her she would shut up like a clam, but if we didn’t respond it was almost as if she were talking to herself.

‘She was big with Josie when ’e was messing around; ’e said Josie wasn’t his,’ she continued tutting. ‘Wicked thing to say,’ and then nothing. Margaret looked at me quizzically; we knew a little about our Mum’s marriage to Ron Coates. We had even seen a faded sepia photo of their wedding day, Mum looking beautiful, young and happy, Ron Coates tall and thin and equally youthful, seemingly happy too. Their first three children, Sheila, Michael and Pat, had been born in quick succession with barely a year to eighteen months between them, and then she had got pregnant with Josie when Pat was just over a year old. They were still in their twenties and were soon going to have four children under six years old! Ron Coates left before Josie was born and that was when things for Mum must have started to spiral out of control.

The one thing Aunty would be drawn on was our sister Sheila. If Mum was out we would sometimes dare to broach the subject.

‘Aunty, have you read any of Sheila’s books?’ we would ask, attempting innocence. We knew that she had because we had seen them in her bedroom, and we also knew that she was extremely proud that Sheila was a successful writer.

‘Yes I ’ave,’ she answered. ‘They’re a bit lovey-dovey for me, but she’s a very clever girl, yer know.’

We chanced our luck. ‘Why did she go and live with her dad?’

Aunty sniffed loudly. ‘Make a cup of tea.’

I leapt up; perhaps she was in a talkative mood. I made the tea, and as Margaret and I sat with her in the kitchen we tried a bit more probing.

‘Why don’t Pat and Josie talk about Sheila?’

‘Your mother was very good-looking, you know.’ Aunty carried on sipping her tea. ‘All the boys were after her. She could have had anyone, anyone, but she chose ’im.’

We stayed quiet.

‘She should have ditched him as soon as ’e started mucking around. It was wicked what he did.’ Sip, sip. ‘Your poor sisters and little Michael, all of them crying they were, and hanging on to me and your Granny.’ Sip sip. ‘I still don’t know why he did it.’ Sip sip. ‘Wicked.’ There was a loud sniff and then silence.

We waited with baited breath.

‘It wasn’t her fault; she was only a child. Your mother went mad when she found out.’ Sip, sip, sip.

What was she talking about? Who was only a child? Mum? Sheila?

‘Who do you mean, Aunty?’ I asked.

This was a mistake. Immediately she got up. ‘I’ve got to do me garden,’ she said, putting her tea down and picking up her little spade from the hallway as she went.

‘Yer mother will be ’ome soon,’ Aunty threw over her shoulder.

Margaret looked at me. ‘What was she talking about?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.’

‘Oh yes, and just how are you going to do that?’ Margaret asked.

‘I don’t know yet, but I am.’

I was sick of secrets, sick of mystery and sick of being treated as though I were still a child. I was eighteen now. It was my right to know, wasn’t it?

28

Going to Work

I had been at work for over three years and had been employed in a variety of roles. I had been a receptionist, a telephonist, had worked in a typing pool, been a kind of secretary, and generally had a great time working to live rather than living to work. I had learnt early on that underachieving was a safe option. If you always took on jobs that were easy you could concentrate on the more important things in life like dancing, dating, wearing nice clothes and having fun with your friends. Margaret and I were still very close, and often went out in a foursome with our boyfriends, Tony and Patrick, and sometimes with bigger crowds as well. There always seemed to be someone who was having a party. It was the done thing to have a ‘steady boyfriend’ and it was also the done thing to get engaged and married young, so when Margaret told me that Tony wanted to get married I wasn’t surprised.

‘What do you think?’ she asked me as we walked to the station, swishing her long black hair. We were both slim and pretty and loved fashionable clothes. We never had any difficulty attracting boys so were quite used to being called out to by any likely young man who fancied his chances.

‘Do you like him?’ I asked. I knew Margaret would listen to me, she always did, and I felt it was quite a responsibility.

‘Yes I do like him; he’s really kind and is always buying me presents.’

‘Well if you want to get engaged, why don’t you? You don’t have to get married for a while.’

She nodded and smiled. I knew I had given her the answer she wanted, but wasn’t sure if I had given her the answer she needed as a sixteen-year-old girl with her head in the clouds. They started saving for the wedding straight away, or rather Tony did. Margaret didn’t earn enough to save and what spare cash she had went on clothes. Mum hadn’t put up any objections to their marriage; in fact she seemed to be all in favour of it. They had saved up about £50, which at that time was quite a lot of money, in order to put a deposit down so that they could rent a flat of their own. Mum thought she might be able to help.

‘I know this friend of Aunty Maggie’s,’ she told them one day. ‘She wants to rent out the top floor of her house but she hasn’t got the money to convert it.’

Tony’s ears pricked up; he always liked the idea of a bargain.

‘If you could give her the £50 she can put it towards having the building work done, and the money will act as your deposit.’

Margaret and Tony agreed and Tony went and withdrew the money and gave it to Mum. Three months later there was still no news of the flat. Tony asked Margaret about it.

‘Has your Mum sorted that flat yet?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No I don’t think so.’

‘Can you ask ’er about it then?’ Tony suggested. After all, that £50 represented all of their savings.

But Margaret shook her head again emphatically. ‘No, just be quiet and stop going on about it will you?’

Of course the flat never materialised and neither did the money. Tony complained to Margaret. ‘I don’t understand; where has the money gone then?’

Mum explained that the builder who was supposed to be doing the conversion had gone broke and had run off with this poor lady’s life savings, including the £50 of theirs. Tony was angry and wanted to go round there to sort it out, but Margaret told him that it couldn’t be helped, and so they started saving for the second time.

Margaret and I had never been short of male attention. One Christmas when I was working on the Thamesview Estate in an office attached to a small factory, I remember going to the local pub, the Volunteer, for an office party. The lads from the factory were all there as well, and by the end of the first hour I had a long row of drinks that had been bought for me lined up waiting for me to drink them. By the end of the afternoon I was so drunk I could hardly find my coat. I went back to the office and found my boss, Mrs Lovell, a kindly lady who was tall and elegant and had a beautiful speaking voice. I can still picture her amused look when I asked in a slurred voice, ‘Ish it okay for me to go home now Mrs Lovel?’ That was probably the sickest I have ever been!

Tony was a very jealous boyfriend, and wasn’t happy that Margaret was also popular at work. She worked quite near to me at that time, and was the receptionist at a local firm. Her boss was considerably older than her, though probably still only about thirty, and was besotted by her. He was always asking her to go out with him, even though she told him she had a boyfriend. She was still only sixteen at the time and didn’t have the sense not to tell Tony. Once she did, he went mad. ‘What?’ he roared. ‘I’ll kill him!’

Margaret realised she should have kept quiet, but it was too late. The next day when she got to work there was a note on her desk. She had been fired. Tony had got there first and had shared a few words with her boss!

Margaret and Tony were married when she was just seventeen and he was twenty-two. It seems insanely young now, but it wasn’t particularly unusual for working-class families at that time. Mum and I went with Margaret to arrange for the registrar to attend the wedding. At that time Catholic priests were not allowed to conduct the legal side of weddings so the registrar had to be booked and would attend the church to complete the formalities in the side room.