Читать книгу Mama - Marijke Lockwood - Страница 15

After some time, my sobbing subsided. The pillow was drenched, and my eyes swollen. I lay there for a while longer, not knowing what to do. Should I go down and tell Papa he can’t get married to Aunty Jos, and more importantly, that I won’t be able to call Aunty Jos Mama?

I knew I’d like to do that, but also that I wouldn’t. Papa didn’t take kindly to having his decisions questioned, and it had sounded like a fait-accompli. I was sure that this was not a debatable topic, and nothing I said or did would change Papa’s mind.

I don’t care Papa, I am NOT calling that woman Mama. My Mama is in heaven, she’s only been dead six months.

I sat up on the bed and hugged my dolly, surprised no-one had come looking for me yet.

They don’t even care that I’m up here. Papa’s down there, smiling and grinning, happy he’s getting married again. He can’t love Aunty Jos, he loves Mama. We still pray for Mama every day. What would she think about all this?

Mama, please help me to understand. I don’t want Papa to marry Aunty Jos. Why can’t we just go on like we are? That’s working. It’s not like when you were alive, but we are a family again. Why do things have to keep changing all the time?

“Marijke.” Papa spoke quietly. I hadn’t heard him come upstairs. “Are you coming downstairs to join us for dinner?”

He must have noticed my swollen eyes, but didn’t say anything.

“I’m not feeling well, can I stay up here and go to bed?” I didn’t look him in the eyes, I couldn’t look him in the eyes. Right then I hated him.

“Okay, can I get you anything?” His voice did sound concerned. Go away, that’s what you can do. Don’t marry that woman, that’s what you can do.

“No, thank you,” I said, rather rudely and abruptly. If he noticed, he didn’t comment.

He left the room, and I threw my head down on the pillow again, but this time my tears wouldn’t come. I felt an anger, no, a rage, well up and take over my whole body. I began to shake, and I clutched dolly so hard, I almost broke her.

I hate you Papa, and I hate Aunty Jos. How can you forget about Mama so quickly?

I finally got up, undressed, washed and cleaned my teeth. I had to go downstairs to go to the toilet, so I tip-toed down, hoping no-one would hear me.

“Are you okay?” Ann asked as I came down the stairs. She walked over to me and hugged me. “Are you all right?” she asked again.

I nodded, knowing if I spoke, I’d cry again. Ann didn’t look like she had cried. Why aren’t you upset? Do you want Papa to marry Aunty Jos? I thought.

“I need to go to the toilet, and I’m feeling sick, so I’m going to bed,” I said, opening the toilet door to escape.

After washing my hands, I crawled into bed, and hugged my dolly to my chest as if my life depended on her. My mind was spinning; confused, angry, hurt. Every emotion washed over me. I wanted to scream, yell, and throw things. Anything to get rid of this anger and the fear of more changes in my life.

I must have drifted off from emotional exhaustion. I woke up when Margaret climbed into bed next to me. I rolled over to hug her. I was in desperate need to feel another human being.

“Isn’t it exciting, Marijke? Papa and Aunty Jos are getting married. Papa said we can all go to the wedding, and we will all have new dresses and new shoes, and everything.” Her young voice was full of awe and excitement.

I pretended to be asleep, and didn’t answer her. Am I the mean one? Am I being selfish? Why doesn’t anyone care Papa has forgotten about Mama?

I rolled over again to the other side, so as not to let Margaret see the tears well up again.

I woke up early the next morning, feeling sad. I’d dreamt about Mama, and the time she had gotten really angry when I was about four or five years old. Not angry with me, but with a man walking down the street. I had been so proud of my Mama that day. When it came to her children, she had always been protective and loving. Nobody dared say anything against us, and her motherly instinct, as well as her temper, could flare quite quickly.

It had been a cold winter’s day, snow on the ground. Mama was wrapped up in her grey and well worn woollen coat, the only one I ever remember her in. She also had a scarf tied around her head, to keep out the wind. I always thought Mama looked so pretty with the colourful scarf around her head.

The older children had gone to school, and we were on our way to get some groceries. Trudy was a baby in the pram, and Arnold sat on a little seat on the front of the pram. I walked with Mama, tightly holding her hand, whilst she pushed the pram with the other hand.

Suddenly, a man came running down the street towards us, obviously in a hurry. The footpath was quite narrow, and with the pram, there was not a lot of room for him to get past. As he approached he tried to sidestep us, and slipped in the snow, almost landing on top of me.

“Get out of my way, you little piece of human being!” he yelled at me, as he tried to balance himself.

This statement made Mama really angry. I didn’t recall ever having seen her angry like that before. “Don’t you DARE call my daughter a piece of human being! She is a complete human being. She may be small, she’s only a child. But she is a complete human being!” Mama’s voice could be heard all the way down the street.

The man had gathered himself by then, and just stared at the angry looking woman with her little brood. He looked terrified, as if he thought Mama might attack him. He took one look at her angry face and blazing eyes, and decided to retreat.

Oh, how proud I was of my Mama; that she’d stood up to the man, but more, because it had made me feel important. I was a whole human being, not a piece of one.

I lay in bed, remembering that event, and the dream which had brought it back to me; feeling Mama’s presence.

I climbed over Trudy’s still sleeping body, and crept downstairs, trying not to wake anyone else. As I arrived downstairs, Papa met me in the hallway.

“Good morning, Marijke,” he said, as he gave me his usual morning kiss and hug.

“Good morning, Papa.” I pecked him on the cheek, and got into the toilet to escape. I didn’t feel like talking to him. I was afraid I might get into an argument about last night.

But as per usual, the decisions had been made, and there were no further discussions. When Aunty Jos arrived, Papa wished her a good morning, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. This was the first time I’d seen any show of affection between the two of them. I turned around and stormed off into the dining room. By now the other children were up, and arrived downstairs for breakfast.

When saying Grace, Papa asked God to give peace to Mama, and then said, “Dear Lord, bless our new Mama, and thank you for making her part of our family, Amen.”

“Amen.” Everybody else responded, before crossing themselves. My mouth closed tightly. I did not say Amen, because I did not want Jesus to bless a new Mama. I crossed myself and left the table, getting ready for school.

As the days and weeks progressed, everyone started calling Aunty Jos ‘Mama’, and she smiled sweetly at the name, obviously pleased that she seemed to have been accepted. I had no choice but to do the same. The first few times were very difficult, but eventually it became the norm. But when I called her Mama, it didn’t have the same meaning it had for my real Mama. This title had now become a name to me, not an endearment.

Although I sensed something was missing, I enjoyed going to school at the orphanage, and was doing well. I was in grade five and was equal dux of the class. I did well in all subjects, picked things up quickly, and got on with the other girls in class and the teachers. I enjoyed the rivalry between myself and another girl, also called Marijke, for gaining the highest marks in almost all subjects. We usually ended up getting equal top marks, or coming in first and second.

Except for history. I loathed history with a passion. Actually, not the lessons, as I enjoyed learning about the past. It was the emphasis on specific dates and times when major world or local events had occurred. I couldn’t see any sense in knowing these dates, they were not important to me. Who cared if it was the 7^th of May of a certain year, or the 17^th? Well, the teacher did. Come test time, my details of events were always spot on. But when it came to the questions on dates, I did not do well, bringing my marks down dramatically.

I recall receiving one test paper back, where the teacher had written in big red letters: “When are you going to learn your dates, Marijke?” I never did, but I still got reasonable marks for this subject. The other Marijke loved history and always beat me in this subject. I excelled at maths and Dutch, and usually pipped her on these subjects. So all in all, we had a healthy rivalry, which kept us both working hard.

It was also at this time I noticed my body starting to change, although I was extremely naïve in this area. As Mama had been sick for so long we had never had a mother to daughter chat about these things. I knew nothing about sex, or the bodily functions relating to this.

My breasts were developing, and little tufts of hair appeared in places they hadn’t grown before. I did accept these changes without question, as my older sisters had developed in front of my eyes, so obviously it was part of growing up.

We used to have religious instructions every day at school. Right from when we started kindergarten, this was an important part of the curriculum in all Catholic schools.

All my teachers had always been nuns. Up to that stage of life, I believed that teachers were all nuns, or brothers in the boys’ schools.

One day, our teacher introduced the topic for the day as ‘personal hygiene’. I thought it a funny topic for religious instructions.

“Now, girls, most of you, or at least some of you, will have noticed that your bodies are changing. This is a special gift from God. Your bodies will change over the next few years, until you become fully grown young women. God has been good to us, and has made sure that when you grow up, your bodies will be able to have children. To do that, your bodies need to develop the way God has planned.”

Her voice was very serious, and she looked around the classroom as she spoke, from one to the other. You could have heard a pin drop. As all the other students were orphans, I assumed they were in the same situation as me. They’d never been told about these things.

“There’s one thing I really MUST impress upon you. You will be young ladies soon, no longer children. And with that comes the need for hygiene and self respect. You must ensure you always keep those parts of your bodies clean and covered. But you must also make sure that, as God’s children, and as future mothers of his children, your body stays pure. You must not sin, girls. You must not let good feelings override your chastity.” She paused after this statement, again looking around the class slowly and seriously.

“One of the first things you have to remember as you develop into women, you do NOT touch those sacred parts. You keep them clean, make sure they are washed, but NEVER touch them.”

What is she talking about? What parts of my body are sacred? And how can I wash these parts, and not touch them?

“Okay, girls, let us get on with our regular lesson now,” she said.

I guess that was the end of my lesson on the facts of life and the birds and bees. I didn’t have a clue, I wasn’t going to ask a nun to explain and show my confusion. I hated not understanding, and didn’t want to show the rest of the class how dumb I was, as that might damage my reputation as a top student.

But, this worried me for years to come. I certainly did not have a close enough relationship with my new Mama to ask her. Besides, she was very prim and proper, and I didn’t think she knew anything about such things. It must be something God had told the nuns, as His special messengers, to pass on to us. I didn’t even discuss this with my older sisters.

Whenever I had my shower, I would wash myself, and look at my developing body with confusion. Now which part is sacred? I think it must be my breasts, they are the only things I can see are really changing, apart from the hairy bits. But how can I wash them, but at the same time not touch them? And why not?