Secrets My Mother Kept (22 page)

‘It was, but this year they opened it up to boys as well. Great, isn’t it?’ She smiled mischievously. She was small and pretty with tightly curled blonde hair, and was from North London. We soon found that we had things in common. We both had steady boyfriends, and we were both slightly older than most of the other students as we had worked before coming to college. In a college that was predominantly full of affluent middle-class students, Gerry and I stuck out as coming from working-class backgrounds.

‘What’s your main subject?’ she asked. Although we were training to be teachers we had to choose a main subject to study.

‘Art,’ I said confidently; it was the only thing that I felt I was any good at.

‘Oh I’m geography, but we will be in lots of education lectures together.’ So we palled up.

The college had found me approved lodgings in East Sheen, which was a short bus ride or long walk from the college. Most of the students that came from London or the surrounding areas were lodgers, as the campus rooms were reserved for those who came from further afield.

The first six weeks of college were set aside for an ‘approach course’, which was time given over to visiting each of the main subject departments to ensure that we had made the right choice. One of the first departments we went to was the drama department. The leading lecturer was a very old, very posh lady called Mrs Dalgliesh who terrified everyone. When Gerry and I bundled into the drama theatre we sat ourselves down towards the back. Neither of us were planning to do drama as a main subject so we thought we might be able to slide out before the end of the session. Mrs Dalgliesh stood up gracefully and with elegance.

‘Good morning,’ she enunciated perfectly with her rich deep voice. ‘I know that you are all keen to hear about the endless possibilities that choosing drama can bring to you, but
what
 . . . can you bring to drama?’ She paused and looked around her dramatically, scanning our faces with her hooded eyes.

‘You will all be familiar with our old friends Chekhov and Ibsen. The Greeks will no doubt conjure the ancient world for you, and some of you may even know Beckett and Pinter. Ah yes, I can see heads nodding.’

I didn’t have a clue what or who she was talking about, so kept my eyes down. Being small had its advantages, I thought, as I slunk further into my chair.

Another lecturer stood up. He was a tall thin man with a smiling open face and a bright red cravat tied round his neck.

‘Welcome,’ he bellowed at us, throwing his voice at the walls so that it echoed back at us and extending his arms as though to enclose us in an embrace. ‘Welcome my friends!’ He introduced himself as Ted. ‘Be prepared for a morning of exhilaration and creativity, my dear ones.’

He then proceeded to give us a tour of the drama department facilities including the green room, the stage, the lighting and sound box, the dressing rooms, and last but not least the room where the props were made. This was the place that I wanted to be! I was swept away by the electricity in the air, the sheer variety of experiences and the excitement of performance! Then I came back to earth with a bump. Mrs Dalgliesh was now addressing us again.

‘You have tasted the intoxicating nectar that is drama and all that it could be for you but first . . .’ (long pause) ‘first we must see what you can offer the dramatic arts!’

We were handed out a copy of a play I had never heard of, ‘A Doll’s House’ by Ibsen. We were given a few minutes to acquaint ourselves with the play and were then to read from it.

I felt prickles of sweat forming on the back of my neck, and my hands became clammy. Although I used to love reading aloud to Margaret, I hated public speaking. My eyes swam over the words as I desperately tried to make sense of them, and I listened with torment as one after the other we were asked to read Nora or Torvald.

Before long it was my turn. I stood as the others had done and took a deep breath. Pushing aside my nerves, I thought about Nora. Nora the wife, the doll, the caged songbird, the little squirrel. Nora the deceiver, the forger, the desperate and suicidal woman, and all I could think of was Mum and I read like I had never read before, with all of my emotion, all of my passion, and all of my suppressed anger stinging my lips.

When I stopped and looked up from the text all eyes were riveted on me and there was a hushed silence. I saw Liz sitting with her mouth open, and Gerry looking at me as though I were a stranger as Mrs Dalgliesh walked towards me, a look of rapture on her face.

‘Oh my dear,’ she whispered, ‘that was wonderful,’ and she reached over to hug me. I signed up for drama as my main subject there and then, leaving the safety of the art department to others.

Throughout my first year, every Friday afternoon I would leave college and my new life behind, get the 72 bus to Hammersmith station and travel back to Dagenham. It was a strange kind of dual existence. Patrick and I were engaged and planning a wedding while I was in Dagenham, and in Roehampton I was the young education and drama student, seduced by the theatre in all its guises. I loved it all, acting, producing, make-up, choreography, set design, lighting and sound, everything! I was also fascinated to be learning about learning, how children’s minds and bodies develop, and what I as a teacher could do to help them. I walked around in a bright haze while I was away, only to return to the grim reality of 1970s Dagenham on my return. Mum was still desperately in debt despite Josie and Pat repeatedly giving her money to pay her ‘callers’ off. Within a few months more new things would surreptitiously appear and have to be paid for.

It was towards the end of my first year at college that things came to a head.

31

A Clean Slate

Josie made a decision. She wanted to help Mum, but first she needed to know how much was owed. She took a morning off work to try to get to the bottom of it.

‘Mum, we have got to sort out this money,’ she started. ‘I’m going to pay off your callers. I’m sick of this constant worry and pressure.’

Mum turned to her and a nervous look swept across her face as though she knew what was coming next.

‘But I need to know exactly how much you owe and who to.’

Mum looked away. ‘Well, I’m not sure really,’ she mumbled, busying herself by tidying around. ‘Not much now.’

‘Okay, if you give me all of your cards I’ll work it out,’ Josie offered.

‘No no, that’s okay. I think it’s about £100.’

Although that was a considerable amount of money Josie wasn’t stupid and wasn’t going to be fobbed off. She knew Mum well and also knew not to believe her where money was concerned.

‘I’m going to do this, Mum,’ she insisted, ‘and I’m going to do it once and for all, so you might as well hand over the cards to me now.’

Mum looked at her for a moment or two and then turned to me. ‘You go and tidy upstairs while I talk to your sister.’

I did as I was asked and left them to it. There were no raised voices, and so I guessed that Mum had acquiesced. Josie was as stubborn as Mum was, and almost as scary when she wanted to be! She never told us how much she had to pay, but I know it took her over a year, using every spare penny she had, to finish them all completely. The relief when the last payment was handed over was enormous. Josie sent me over to the bakers to get half a dozen Belgian buns that day, delicious doughy concoctions filled with dried fruit and topped with a snowy white swirl of icing.

‘Here’s to the end of the tally men!’ she said, raising her cup of tea and smiling. It was a celebration of determined endeavour, and Josie was justifiably proud of herself! As we ate the buns with steaming mugs of tea, there was a sense of a new era beginning.

Shortly after that momentous day, Mum got a letter from Marge and Ron who were now living in Australia close to Mary and Dave. ‘Oh Marge is going to have another baby,’ she read out to us. ‘It’s due in September.’ Mum got a wistful look on her face. It was many years now since Mary had emigrated, and now that Marge had joined her it must have been sad for Mum, losing them both like that. Josie had joined Mum up to a special club for families of people who had emigrated as ‘£10 Poms’, designed to help them save enough money to plan a visit. The cost seemed prohibitive to us, but we knew that Mum still dreamed about going to see her Australian grandchildren.

‘I think I’ll send her something for the baby,’ Mum said, starting to smile. I didn’t really give it much thought, but shortly after a large parcel appeared wrapped in brown paper.

‘Oh. What’s this?’ I asked Mum. It had been pushed into my side of the dressing table in the bedroom she and I still shared when I was home from college.

‘It’s just something for Marge’s new baby,’ Mum answered casually, not meeting my eyes.

A niggling thought crept into my head. ‘Mum, where did you get it from?’

She bustled out of the room. ‘Oh I got it in Ilford. In Bodgers, I think it was.’

I was distracted at that moment by the phone ringing. It was my school friend Anne. She was off this weekend and wanted to know if Patrick and I would like to come over for a meal at her flat at Gants Hill. Like Margaret, Anne had just finished her nurse training at Barking Hospital. She had been going out with Tony V for a while now. He was such a sunny person, and seemed to suit Anne perfectly. He had been a merchant sailor when they first met, but Anne had encouraged him to become a fireman and that was what he did now. He was a handsome lad and had a great sense of humour. We always had fun when we went out in a foursome, so I readily agreed. By the time Pat and Josie got home that evening from work I had completely forgotten about the parcel.

At 5.25 p.m. exactly Mum put the kettle on, with the usual words, ‘Oh nearly time for the girls to come home,’ and bustled around in the scullery, preparing dinner. Aunty was sitting in the opposite corner to Mum where she always sat, and was reading
Bleak House
. She loved Dickens, and had a full set upstairs in her room, and would read them in rotation. I couldn’t tell you how many times she’d read each book.

‘Ask your aunt if she wants peas,’ Mum called into the kitchen where we sat. Aunty was quite deaf now and hadn’t heard, so I went and stood in front of her.

‘Aunty, do you want peas?’ I asked.

She looked up. ‘What?’

‘Do you want peas?’ I tried again, louder this time.

‘Aye? Peas? Oh yes, I’ll ’ave a few.’

As I went to tell Mum Aunty’s reply, I heard Pat and Josie arrive at the front door. Mum seemed agitated; it was quite warm in the scullery, and she seemed flustered, spilling some gravy.

‘Oh damn!’ she muttered crossly.

The girls took off their coats and made their way into the kitchen and Mum asked me to take the tea in.

There was a loud knock at the door.

Mum hurried to answer it, shouting out, ‘It’s just the man for the football money.’ She still did the pools every week and a man collected the money every fortnight.

Pat and Josie were drinking their tea when Aunty put her book down and sniffed. ‘It ain’t football week; ’e came last Monday.’

Pat and Josie exchanged looks, and Josie got up and went towards the door. Mum was still talking to the man who stood there. We heard raised voices, the loudest of which was Josie’s. I moved nearer the door so that I could hear what was going on and heard Mum saying, ‘But it isn’t much, only 10 shillings a week, and I can easily afford that,’ and then Josie’s reply, deep, clear, firm and menacing.

‘I am telling you now, once and for all, that if you sell my mother one more thing you will never be paid for it. I have spent the last year clearing her debts and I don’t intend to do it again. How much does she owe for it?’

A man’s voice mumbled a reply and I jumped out of the way as Josie barged into the room, went to her handbag and took out a cheque book. She went back out into the hallway and shortly after we heard the door slam shut with a bang. Josie came back into the kitchen, her face red with anger and Mum turned back to the dinner. No one mentioned the incident, but Mum never got into debt again.

32

Mum’s Job

I was luckier than many of my fellow students because I had office skills and experience that enabled me to get a holiday job in the city. This was a stroke of luck as despite having a full grant, money was still tight. Pat and Jo gave me £5 a month between them, which helped tremendously, but there always seemed to be another book to buy or play to see. Patrick always paid for me to go out when I was home, and even occasionally came up to East Sheen and took me out there, but my fare back to Dagenham every weekend made a hole in my finances, as did the teaching resources we needed to buy.

I managed to get temping work through an agency and was earning a reasonable amount of money. At the end of my first week I offered Mum some ‘keep’ money.

‘No, I don’t need it now,’ she said proudly.

I was puzzled. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Definitely – I’m going to get a job.’

I thought I had misheard. ‘Pardon? You’re getting a job?’ Mum hadn’t worked outside the home since I was born, to my knowledge.

‘Yes, I’ve applied for a job as a cook,’ she offered settling herself down in her chair and lighting her cigarette. She inhaled deeply.

‘Mum, no one is going to give you a job as a cook. You’ve never had a job before.’ Mum was going to be sixty at the end of July but I didn’t mention that.