Читать книгу Mama - Marijke Lockwood - Страница 14

The Monday after my birthday I started travelling to the school at the orphanage. Sometimes Aunty Jos allowed me to use her bike. When I had to walk I often waited near the tram stop, which was less than five minutes from home. When passengers alighted, some threw used tickets on the ground. I collected them up and checked if any of them were still valid. Nine times out of ten I was successful and I’d catch the next tram to school. The walk was about half an hour, and in the cold winter months could be quite miserable, especially when the snow was ankle deep.

I never told anyone about looking for tram tickets, as I thought Papa and Aunty Jos would consider it dishonest. Looking back I realise Papa would’ve been proud of me, as he was quite a scrooge himself. He was not averse to taking advantage of systems to gain an advantage, especially relating to money.

Life settled down; we got used to having Aunty Jos around. She spoke quietly, and like Mama, I don’t recall her ever losing her temper. I didn’t make her life easy, nor did some of my brothers and sisters. We resented her fussiness, and the way she’d tell Papa if anything had not been done to her liking. Papa dealt with us after she went home, dishing out punishments like having to do extra chores, being grounded, or the dreaded spanking.

Aunty Jos was also part of a large family; her father had passed away when she was quite young. Her mother, who was still alive, had been unable to cope with raising six children on her own. They’d been placed into a Catholic home, similar to the orphanage we’d been in. She was brought up very strict by the nuns, and when she left the home, she became housekeeper to various families. Because she was fussy and quick, she was hired by wealthy families. I never understood why she’d never married, as she was quite attractive.

Although softly spoken and gentle, she did let you know when she was displeased. She’d shake her head and let out a big sigh. She certainly told us when things were not to her liking or standard. Her standards were high, very high, especially in the areas of cleanliness and hygiene.

If it was my turn to do the dusting, for example, she’d run her index finger over the most inconspicuous place, like the top of a door. If a little dust showed on her finger, I’d have to dust the whole room again, from top to bottom. Similarly with cleaning and clearing the sink, making beds and any other chores. They had to be done perfectly. Of course, these rules applied to all of us, not just me.

If one of us really upset her or made a cruel remark, she’d turn around and walk away. Sometimes I saw tears well up in her eyes. But she never punished us; she left that up to Papa. Mama used to do the same, although she certainly used to tell us what she thought of our behaviour, and sometimes sent us to our rooms.

After Papa arrived home for dinner, one or more of us would be told to join him in the lounge-room. There he passed out whatever punishment he felt was suited to the crime. I dreaded his hands, he smacked hard, very hard, always on the backside, leaving red finger marks.

I found it difficult to bond with Aunty Jos, and her fussiness frustrated me. Sometimes I told her that she couldn’t tell me what to do, or tell her that she was too fussy.

Willie told me years later that she was very angry and hurt after Aunty Jos came. She’d been made responsible for so many things during Mama’s illness and after she died. When Aunty Jos came, she felt she was relegated to being a child again. It was good enough for her to be considered an adult when it had suited Papa.

Ann told me she’d resented Aunty Jos’ role. Ann believed she owed it to Mama to look after Papa and the others in the family. She said she couldn’t understand that, at the age of almost fourteen, she wasn’t considered responsible enough to be in charge. She used to enjoy helping with things, and felt she was denied what she felt should have been her role.

The younger ones took to Aunty Jos quite well and she was extremely patient with them.

Mama used to have a lovely singing voice, and encouraged us all to sing and dance. Mama and Papa met each other whilst both performing in a local amateur musical. Papa also enjoyed singing and could hold a note. Now that Aunty Jos was our housekeeper, we often heard her sing and hum.

Singing was one of the many happy memories I have of my childhood, both before and after Mama died. We sang when doing our chores together, danced around with the tea towel, or grabbed a sibling and just do a jig of some sort. Papa loved having the radio on, and he had a gramophone, but only owned a couple of records. These would be played again and again; we all knew the words of each song backwards.

As a family we made up plays and songs, with Mama’s input and encouragement. Every time an aunt or uncle, Oma or Opa, or of course Mama or Papa celebrated a birthday, you’d think we were the Von Trapp family! All the adults moved their chairs around the room for our performance. We made costumes from newspaper and bits of material. Mama sometimes let us use bed sheets and towels to wrap around each other. She also used to buy crepe paper, and we helped her make our costumes. We’d sing and dance for the family; the adults cheered and clapped, making us feel proud.

For my tenth birthday I’d received a brand new recorder from Mama and Papa. We had a recorder class at school, which I loved. I was able to play a tune from listening to it, and didn’t need sheet music, although we had to learn how to read music as part of this class.

After Aunty Jos came into our family she continued all these family traditions, and actually encouraged them. There was a sense of normality when we practiced together to entertain the family.

That I don’t recall either Mama or Aunty Jos losing their temper with me is amazing, as I was definitely no angel, and probably got into more trouble than all my brothers and sisters put together. I told lies when it suited me, and used to steal some lollies or biscuits. As these were luxuries in our family, Mama and Aunty Jos always knew how many they had. I also occasionally took money from Mama’s purse, maybe five or ten cents.

This was quite a lot of money then, as you could buy two salted liquorice lollies for one cent. I’d go to the corner store and buy my lollies, eating them on the way to school, really savouring them. Once I stole a whole guilder, a small fortune, from brother John. He had raised this through his bob-a-job work for scouts.

Looking back on this I have to laugh at my stupidity. I found the guilder on the floor in the upstairs hall; it must have fallen out of John’s pocket. I went outside for a while then ran back inside.

“Mama, Mama, look what I found outside.”

Mama looked at the guilder in my hand, and started to say something, when, at the same time, John came running downstairs from his bedroom.

“I’ve lost the guilder for scouts,” he cried, tears pouring down his cheeks. He’d worked so hard, doing each job for five cents.

Of course, Mama put two and two together, and came up with four. Mama got the truth out of me, and said she was very disappointed in me, and worried about my dishonest streak. Of course Mama told Papa. He told me years later that they’d been so concerned about me, an appointment had been made to take me to a psychiatrist. However, due to Mama’s illness, this was cancelled, and I never made it to the couch.

“You are our naughtiest child,” Papa said on more than one occasion.

I realise now that I was looking for attention, and I continued these bad habits well into my teens. Subconsciously I didn’t receive the attention I craved. I never stole anything outside the home, although I wasn’t averse to tell a lie to anyone if it got me out of trouble. Negative attention was better than no attention at all.

Margaret told me, “I used to see you get into trouble, and I’d be good, because I was too scared to get into trouble with Papa.”

Papa and Aunty Jos continued our family traditions, and we received our little nightly Saint Nicholas gifts, culminating into the feast of Saint Nicholas on the fifth of December. This was always a big celebration day in our family. A Saint Nicholas procession wound itself through Amsterdam. We’d excitedly stand in the cold outside, enjoying the big floats, bands, clowns and all the Black Piets. And then, last of all, there was Saint Nicholas, on his big white stallion, with his beautiful red mitre, and his golden staff.

In the evening we all joined in singing Saint Nicholas songs, and left the door to the lounge-room ajar. All of a sudden lollies flew through the gap in the door, falling on the floor.

We scrambled to pick up as many lollies as we could, helping the little ones get their share. More songs and more lollies flying through the air. Sometimes one of us would run to the door to see if we could catch Black Piet in the hallway, but he must have always been too quick for us. Even after I had learned there was no real Black Piet, I couldn’t work out how those lollies came through the opening of the door. Sometimes there were even one or two lollies on the floor in the hall, which showed someone must have been there!

When I finally found out I could not believe Papa could be so sneaky! He always sat at the back of the room, behind everyone. As we were all concentrating on the door whilst singing, Papa took a handful of lollies from of one of his pockets, and threw them at the corner near the door.

Of course to us they looked like they came through the door opening and it also explained how sometimes one or two lollies got through that opening, falling in the hall. How he enjoyed fooling everyone, acting out his part with relish.

Papa told me a week or so after my birthday that Saint Nicholas and Black Piet were not real. I was devastated. Papa told me, “You’re too old to believe in them now. But I warn you, you must never discuss it, so as not to disillusion your younger siblings.”

I questioned the adults’ integrity when I’d been lied to all this time! How could Papa constantly punish me for telling lies, when he had been telling me these whoppers all these years? But at the same time, I felt proud he thought me mature enough to be told the truth.

After celebrating Saint Nicholas, we celebrated Ann’s fourteenth birthday on the ninth of December, and Papa’s fortieth birthday on the seventeenth of December.

Christmas was next, and as always Papa dragged home a pine Christmas tree, and some loose branches. The tree was lovingly decorated with all of us assisting. My favourite part was the angel hair, which was made of finely spun glass fibre. This was draped gently over the branches, making it look like a sparkling spider web once the candles were lit.

The branches of pine tree were hung on the walls, also decorated, including candles and angel hair. It transformed our lounge-room into a Christmas wonderland. Of course, Christmas was a religious feast day in our household, having received gifts on the day of Saint Nicholas.

Each night, after evening prayers, we gathered around the tree and the nativity set, which also had candles placed in front of it. Papa lit all the candles, and we sang Christmas carols. Oh, how I loved Christmas time in our family.

This year, although Mama was not there, Papa said a special prayer for her before our singing, which gave me the comfort that she was there with us.

On Christmas Eve we stayed up late and attended midnight Mass. We walked to church arm in arm, all sat together in church, enjoyed the formal Mass and sang along with the choir. The scent of incense and Mir again gave me a sense that Mama was there with me. She had not forsaken me, she was there with me.

After Mass, parishioners wished each other a Holy Christmas. We walked home together again in the cold. It had snowed whilst we were at Mass, and the joy of a white Christmas had become a reality.

Once home, the first thing Papa did was lay the baby Jesus in the little crib of our nativity set. After that we enjoyed a cup of hot chocolate, and Dutch rusks sprinkled with little sugar balls, coloured white and pink. This was our Midnight Christmas Mass breakfast.

We slept in the next morning, and when we got up, Papa and Aunty Jos, who’d arrived before we woke, had prepared a formal breakfast table. A bowl full of highly polished red apples, built into a pyramid, had been placed on the table. Each apple had a lit candle on it, creating a beautiful centre piece. As Mama had always done, strips of red and green crepe paper were laid from side to side across the white table cloth, which was actually a sheet.

When we were dressed, we had a full Christmas breakfast. This consisted of fresh bread rolls, boiled eggs, thinly cut ham, cheese, and tea. I loved Christmas, the smells, the sounds, everything about Christmas. Thank God, Christmas this year still had that same feeling, emotion, and most of all faith and love in our family. Mama was with me in spirit, because her Christmas traditions had not changed.

Winter that year was very cold, with the canals frozen over, giving us the opportunity to take shortcuts across the ice when going to school or church.

New Year’s Eve was also a celebration; the decorations were still up. We sang Christmas carols, and enjoyed the special Dutch treats which Papa cooked in oil, then sprinkled with icing sugar, called Olie Bollen (Oily Balls). These were similar to doughnuts, but with fruit in them, and sprinkled with icing sugar. We only ever had these on New Year’s eve. Aunty Jos had made the traditional salmon, potato and red beet salad, with lots of mayonnaise. I always looked forward to these once a year treats. Aunty Jos’ version of the salad was the same as Mama’s, delicately decorated with sliced egg, gherkins and thin strips of red beet.

The Christmas season for us ended with the feast of the Three Kings, which was celebrated on the sixth of January each year.

Mama used to make a special fruit cake for the feast of the Three Kings. She placed a bean into the cake, and whoever got the bean in their piece of cake was King or Queen for the day.

No chores, giving commands within reason, to the rest of the clan, and choosing the evening’s menu. I’m sure Mama knew exactly where the bean was, because as I got older I realised we all seemed to be King or Queen in turn.

On the seventh of January, we pulled down our Christmas tree and decorations. We helped Papa drag the tree and branches to a square in the local area. All others in the neighbourhood did the same. After dark, everybody gathered around this huge pile of pine trees. It was ceremoniously lit, and created a huge bonfire, with branches exploding and sending pine needles, glowing from the fire, high into the air. We’d stand around ooohing and aaahing, and the warmth from this huge bonfire was lovely on a cold winter’s night.

When we arrived back home, Mama used to have a large pot of hot chocolate already on top of the stove, and we wrapped our gloved hands around the steaming mugs, warming us inside and out.

Aunty Jos and Papa continued with these family and neighbourhood traditions, creating as few changes to our lives as possible.

The cold winter of 1958 continued into 1959, and things settled down. Aunty Jos took sick in early March and then she contracted pneumonia. She ended up in hospital for about a week. One of Papa’s sisters and her husband came to help out until Aunty Jos was better again.

It was while she was in hospital that Papa called us in for a family meeting after dinner.

“I have some good news to share with you,” Papa said. “Aunty Jos and I have decided to get married. When she gets home from hospital, you can start calling her Mama.”

No, no, no. Papa, this cannot happen. No. I have a Mama; I don’t want a new Mama. No, this can’t be true!

I looked at Papa with tears welling up in my eyes. He had a big grin on his face, beaming from one ear to the other. A couple of the little ones were laughing and clapping, but I saw the pain and confusion in some of my brothers and sisters’ eyes. If Papa noticed, he did not let on.

“We’ll be married on the thirtieth of April, the Queen’s birthday holiday. You can all attend the wedding, and Aunty Jos will then come to live with us as your new Mama”

I got up from the table before Papa could see my hurt and my anger. I ran upstairs and threw myself on the bed. How could he think of marrying another woman? He loved Mama; she had only been dead six months. How could he now want to marry Aunty Jos? Papa, I can’t call Aunty Jos Mama. Aunty Jos is NOT my Mama. I can’t do it, I WON’T!

Tears streamed down my face, my sobs stifled by the pillow. I thumped the now wet pillow with my fists. Mama, how could Papa have forgotten about you so soon? I don’t want a new Mama. Why did you die and leave me?