Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal

A long time later my mother told me it was because of my father’s drinking and gambling. I knew nothing of the causes; I just knew the result made me uncomfortable. Upon leaving the army with his severance pay he had not returned home until every penny of it had been lost on a poker table and my mother’s hopes of buying a house that she could turn into a home for us were dashed. It was clear to me, as she talked in one of the rare intimate moments we had, that it was only the first of many disappointments to come.

My mother realized that with a growing child and no lump sum to fall back on, if she was ever going to achieve her ambition of owning her home, she would have to work. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Not only was there no equal pay for women in the decade after the war, there was very little work. Victorious servicemen who had remained in the army to help rebuild a devastated Germany had returned to face massive unemployment, substandard accommodation and rationing. With a grim determination that was an integral part of her character, my mother was never going to admit defeat and eventually her persistence was rewarded. She found employment at a garage several miles away as a night-shift cashier, where a small, dark, rent-free family flat made up part of her wages.

My father also found obtaining work difficult. Although he was a trained mechanic the only position he could find was in a factory, also on night shifts. With no alternative on offer he took it.

Our lives then settled into a different pattern, with him returning home each morning grumbling about tiredness and going straight to bed, whilst my mother, who had a home to run and a small child to look after, snatched sleep whenever she could.

Although my grandmother sometimes arranged to collect me for an outing, she seldom visited us and the days of spending time with my mother alone also came to an end. I would wake up in the little flat, clutch Jumbo for support and go in search of her. Finding the flat empty I would wander down to the garage in my nightclothes, still half asleep, seeking her company. In those early days she never got angry with me, just picked my still sleepy body up, laughed, took me upstairs and tucked me back into bed.

A few months before my fifth birthday we moved again, this time to a small terraced house with a garden. My father had just received a promotion that meant permanent work with more pay and better hours. Night work was tiring for my mother, and now for the first time since her husband’s return she felt she could become a full-time housewife.

The night before my birthday I lay awake, wondering what present I would be given. All through the previous week I’d nagged my mother to tell me. Immune to my pleas she laughed and told me I would have to curb my curiosity and wait until the day to find out.

Waking early I rushed downstairs, remembering the arrival of Jumbo a year before, and scanned the sitting room. I couldn’t see anything. Seeing the look of disappointment on my face, my mother told me we were going to visit someone, and I would be given my present there.

As soon as I had excitedly gulped my breakfast down I was buttoned into my coat and I skipped along, holding my mother’s hand as we made our way to the bus stop. A red double-decker bus took us several miles to the next village. Alighting, we walked a short distance to a house I’d never seen before. I was puzzled. I had no idea what my present could possibly be. Presents, I knew, were bought in shops.

On my mother’s knock I heard the shrill barking of several dogs. My excitement mounted. Jumbo, though still much loved, was beginning to lose her attraction for me. What I now wanted more than anything was a puppy of my own. Was this, I wondered, the day my wish was to be granted?

A small, plump, grey-haired woman opened the door. Scampering around her feet were several black-and-tan wirehaired terriers, wagging their tails as they jumped up to welcome us. Trying to quieten their boisterous greeting, she ushered us quickly into a large kitchen. My excitement grew when I saw in front of the stove a basket filled with several sleeping puppies. Just outside it a fluffy little creature, with the black-and-tan markings of the adult dogs and bright mischievous eyes, stumbled around on legs still shaky, sniffing the air with her black button of a nose.

Before my mother had time to ask the lady to show me the others, I’d rushed to the adventurous one and knelt down. I knew instantly she wanted me as her owner. Picking her up, breathing in that warm puppy smell, feeling small quick licks from her rough pink tongue on my face as she wriggled in my arms, the bond was formed; she became the greatest friend of my childhood.

‘Is that the one you like the most?’ my mother asked.

My radiant face was all the answer she needed.

‘Then she’s yours. She’s your birthday present.’

I gasped with pure pleasure as I realized my greatest wish had just been granted. I kissed the little dog on top of her fluffy black and tan head, and with that display of five-year-old maternal love I showed her she was mine.

‘What are you going to call her?’ my mother asked.

The memory of another small, determined figure came into my head, a figure I’d seen when I’d spent a magical day at the beach earlier that year. My grandmother had taken me by train to the seaside town of Ramsgate on the Kent coast. Clutching a large ice-cream cone I’d seen a circle of laughing children sitting transfixed in the warm sun, their eyes fixed on something out of my vision. Tugging impatiently at my grandmother’s hand to pull her forward, looking in the same direction as the other children, the two figures of Punch and Judy came into view. My forgotten ice cream melted and trickled down my hand as I stood rooted to the spot, enthralled by their antics. I booed when Punch attacked Judy and cheered with the other children when Judy lambasted him back. Even when the puppeteer came round with his collection box the mystery of the two miniature figures remained unexplained and my ever-patient grandmother was subjected to a stream of questions about the fighting dolls.

‘I’m going to call her Judy,’ I replied.

That birthday was to remain the happiest memory of my childhood.

My mother had enrolled me at a small private school. Each morning she would take me and every afternoon she would be waiting at the school gates with a warm smile. I felt very grown up wearing my uniform, with my pencils, eraser and first learning books carefully placed in a canvas satchel that hung over my shoulder. Even though I liked those early days of learning, I spent most of each day with bated breath, visualizing Judy in my mind, longing for the final bell. I would hurriedly swallow the milk and sandwiches, which would be given to me after I’d changed out of my navy-blue gym tunic. Only when I’d finished both would I be allowed outside to play ball with Judy for an hour. When my mother thought enough energy had been burnt up for us both to settle down quietly she would open the kitchen door and call us in. A reading book, where new words were learnt every day, or a counting one where I was learning to tell the time, would be removed from my satchel.

I would work at the table while my mother made supper and Judy lay exhausted at my feet.

For Christmas, when she was turning from puppy to small dog, I used my saved-up pocket money to buy a smart red lead with matching collar. Now, proudly buttoned up in my warm navy winter coat, with Judy prancing beside me impervious to the cold in her natural fur, I would take her for walks, beaming with pleasure every time someone stopped to admire her. My happiness was completed when my grandmother started to visit again. No explanation had ever been given as to why she had stopped. Years later she admitted to me she had been appalled at us living above the garage, had never liked my father and had never thought him good enough for my mother. Whilst by then I more than agreed with her, it was too late to comment.

She, like me, adored Judy, who always greeted her rapturously. My grandmother would pick her up, tickle her stomach and be rewarded by licks that removed her perfumed face powder.

With my grandmother’s visits would come presents, mainly of books which, when my mother was busy, my grandmother would always find time to read to me.

When my parents informed me in February that we were going to move to Northern Ireland, where my father came from, my pleasure was only spoilt by the thought of not being able to see so much of my grandmother. Her many reassurances of numerous visits, however, made my fears disappear.

In fact, six years were to pass before I saw her again.

We sent regular letters, which hid the truth of our family life. She never forgot birthdays and Christmases, but the hoped-for letter announcing a visit never arrived. Unaware then of the many excuses my mother was making to her, my grandmother gradually faded in my life to become someone who had once loved me.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.