Читать книгу Happily Imperfect - Stacey Solomon - Страница 18

Three words sum up my childhood: Friday. Night. Dinner.

It was always held at Nana’s tiny two-bed Jewish flat in north London. It really was a Jewish flat because the block had been built after the war to help refugees settle in London. It was next to Manor House tube station, and every Friday after school we’d all pile into those small rooms. By ‘all’, I mean my mum and dad and us three siblings, then later my step-mum Karen and her children, my aunties Marilyn and Alison, their children, plus my dad’s brother Sonny and his family. Ten kids at least, assorted adults and the biggest vat of homemade chicken soup you’ve ever seen.

Playing with my cousins was the highlight of each week. I don’t know how we all managed to fit into the flat and play happily together yet we did.

‘Stacey, stop mucking about and help your nana! Matthew, stop chasing Jemma and set a good example …’ My dad’s voice would rise above the melee, but we largely ignored him and carried on playing, safe in our family universe.

‘Bubbe, of course I’ll help you. Would you like me to sing as I lay the table?’ I’d shout above the din. ‘Bubbe’ is the traditional Jewish name for ‘Grandmother’. We’ve never been massively Jewish – we celebrate the Sabbath each week, of course, and Hanukkah, but that’s about it, these days. I wouldn’t dream of denying my family access to Christmas, Easter, Diwali or any festival outside Judaism.

Nana’s eyes would twinkle and she’d shrug in that wholly Jewish way, which was permission enough for me to belt out my favourite chart hit of the moment as she stirred soup and fried dumplings ready for the feast – it went on through the evening due to lack of space.

I had an ulterior motive. If I entertained the adults, made them laugh and sang songs to them, they gave me second or even third helpings. It was a totally primal instinct. If I acted like a performing seal, telling jokes, making everyone laugh, they’d throw me a fish! I really felt I was there for their pleasure, and what I got from it was more food and the feeling I could fit in with the adults.

The first serving of chicken soup with kneidlach had the kids crammed round Nana’s cramped dining-table. Even a whiff of that distinctive smell takes me right back there, slurping the clear soup with its yellow stain from the chicken, the noodles, carrots and unbelievably tasty dumplings – if anyone left one I’d have it. The table was surrounded by random garden chairs, eight in total, though it only really fitted four.

Next, the adults would eat their soup so we’d all swap over, though I’d always go back for more delicious soup – Jewish penicillin, as Nana called it. Then we’d have the main course, a roast chicken with yellow rice. No matter how many times my dad or I have tried to make Nana’s yellow rice, we have always failed to reproduce the warm spiced flavour. Most of the time we wouldn’t have pudding because by then Nana was too exhausted from cooking, but if we were lucky, I mean reeeally lucky, she’d make us meringues. It’s another family mystery as to how she got them so chewy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. I’ve never been able to master her recipe, and I don’t think Dad’s ever managed it either. Most of the time we got a fruit pop – a long stick of iced water and sugar – and were happy with that.

Nana died aged eighty-six. She never got to see either of my boys. Zachary was born a couple of years after she passed, which, even after all this time, still makes me feel sad. Those evenings were legendary. In fact, it was an epic childhood, though by many people’s standards we had very little except each other. Nana never had a spare penny in her life, but if she had, she’d have given it to one of us children. She thought she had everything, though, because she was rich in family and love.

My family has given me a sense of belonging that has carried me through all the hardships and times when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Their love and support have defined and shaped me. I’d be nothing without them. I know how lucky I am to have them. They are my tribe, my clan, my brethren.

Growing up, I never really appreciated how close we all were, and it’s only since I’ve been a mum that I’ve realized how important family has been to me, and how I’d almost taken it for granted. For instance, Jemma and I used to fight loads. We argued so much that Dad built a fake wall out of plasterboard, which cut our shared room in half, including the window, to separate us. I was gutted because it meant that Jemma’s clothes weren’t so accessible for me to steal – that was what lots of our fights were about.

The other part of me was thrilled to have a space of my own even though it was hardly bigger than a cardboard box. It meant I could spend hours on the phone to my friends and Jemma wouldn’t be able to snitch on me – another cause of our arguments. Despite that, as Jemma and I grew up we became the closest of sisters. I call her every day and now we’re best friends.

Strong women run in my family. Nana, who was the daughter of Polish immigrants, brought up her four children single-handed and alone after my grandfather died when Dad was young. Nana Toby, as she called herself – she hated her real name ‘Mathilda’ – was progressive in her views. She let my dad build a darkroom in her cupboard when he became interested in photography, which later became his profession. Later, she looked after us three when Mum had to leave early in the morning for work. I was still at primary school before Mum and Dad divorced. Mum worked for the Department of Social Security while Dad was setting up his photography business, which meant that neither parent could be there in the mornings to get us ready for school.

When my mum left quietly for the office, so I wouldn’t be upset, I always found her out, ran to a top window and cried, ‘Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’ I was never one for understatement.

I was eight years old when my parents sat us down one day and told us they were separating.

‘Jemma, Stace, Matt, we’ve got something to tell you,’ Dad began.

‘Move over,’ Jemma hissed at me, wiggling her bum into the space where I was trying to sit.

‘No, you move. Muuum, Jemma’s sitting on me!’ I wailed.

All three of us were crammed into the tiniest, ugliest brown leather sofa you can possibly imagine.

‘Listen, you three. This is important,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to divorce because me and your dad love each other but we’re not in love any more.’

There was silence, broken by Jemma bursting into tears.

‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say. Jemma was very upset, and I assumed I should be too, but our parents made it so easy and friendly that I wasn’t sad for long. Matthew took it hardest. He was only seven when they split up, so he found it really confusing.

I’d had no clue that Mum and Dad’s relationship was ending. They were so amicable, though we always knew when Mum was having a little cry about it: she’d hoover downstairs and we knew not to disturb her.

I think Mum had been feeling neglected because Dad worked so hard setting up his photographic company, but the reasons for their separation were never discussed. I always felt it was their business, not ours. Dad moved out, and not long afterwards he bought the house in our road. Each week, Mum had us from Sunday to Wednesday, Dad would pick us up from school on Wednesday and we’d stay with him for the rest of the week. They made it so smooth. They did the most selfless thing by putting us first.

A few years later, in 2000, when I was at the end of primary school, Dad met Karen. He introduced us to her that summer. Instantly, we loved her and she loved us. All credit to my mum, she made a huge effort to be nice to Karen and they got on really well. If Mum hadn’t liked her, we’d have struggled.

As an adult, I look back at that time and can see how difficult it must have been for Karen, fitting into a close family. She and her children, Aaron, Samantha and Ray, came on holiday to Turkey with us, and it must have been strange being there with all of us, including my mum, while she was starting a new relationship. Dad was so happy, and she was such a lovely lady, that the holiday didn’t feel awkward at all. I’ll never forget that Karen bought me a book for the plane, The Prince of Egypt. It was the first time our new extended family had had a holiday together. To me, it was exciting, different and lovely. Dad was happy. Karen was happy – and so were we.

Once Dad and Karen had moved in together, half of our week was spent with our bigger family. The first time my new step-siblings stayed overnight with us, I insisted my new sister Sam slept in my bunk with me. When it came to bedtime, we lay there silently for what seemed like ages. It was really awkward. I didn’t know her or she me. All of a sudden Sam put her foot out and caught the white sheet, which made me exclaim that her foot looked like Julius Caesar because it was wrapped in a toga.

‘It’s Julius Cheeser!’ one of us yelled, and then we were laughing. We laughed so loudly and for so long that Dad had to come and tell us to stop. After that, whenever we stayed over, there’d be silence, then one of us would shout, ‘Julius Cheeser!’ We still do it today –though we’ve given up sharing a bunk bed!

I don’t know how Dad and Karen could afford to feed us. We’d walk in from school and all six of us would head straight to the fridge. Most of the time Dad cooked.

One evening we’d all sat down at the table. ‘Oi, budge up, Stace,’ Matt said, elbowing me in the ribs.

‘Hey, watch it! I’m bigger than you,’ I retorted, giving my little brother a mock-grimace.

‘Yes, yes, Stace, you look terrifying.’ Dad grinned. ‘Now, everyone, sit still and let me put this down.’ He was carrying a large baking dish, which he put in the centre of the table with a flourish. There was a brief moment of silence while we registered the food, then the babble started up again, with laughing, fighting, teasing and squabbling.

I looked around me, knowing my life was messy but utterly complete. My new step-mum, Karen, was laughing at one end of the table, while Dad served up huge portions of his homemade shepherd’s pie. My sister Jemma, my polar opposite in character, was chatting to our stepsister Sam, while stepbrothers Aaron and Ray (and later half-brother Josh) mucked about with Matt. It was a glorious mish-mash of children and adults, our blended family in action.

‘Arrgh, Dad! You’ve put loads of chilli in it again!’ I shouted, feeling the sudden burn.

‘It’s meant to be shepherd’s pie!’ Matt gulped down a glass of water.

Dad beamed, as happy as anything with his latest creation, while we coughed and went bright red in the face. I’d never seen so much water drunk so quickly by a group of children! Other times, we’d be sweating from the heat of the spices he’d jazzed up our dinner with, and he’d never relent.

‘If you don’t eat it, there’s nothing at all,’ Dad would say, and I’m the same with my boys, except I don’t lace everything with chilli. I leave that to my father.

Afterwards we bickered as usual over who would wash, dry or put away the dishes. No one ever wanted to dry them. The job everyone wanted was putting away and we fought fiercely over it.

My family has given me the strongest moral compass. They taught me always to try to do the right thing, and to know how important people are. They taught me to have compassion and empathy: you never know what someone is struggling with. They may seem grumpy but they could be going through a very bad patch. Living with so many family members taught me to have consideration for others, and patience, especially when they’re enduring difficult emotions. When I complained about my sisters or brothers, one or other of my parents would say, ‘Hang on, Stace, don’t just think about yourself. Look at why they’re acting the way they are.’

That message has stayed with me, and I’m so grateful to them for that perspective. My family showed me that we could stand together and help one another, even during a divorce, and that we can have so much fun together. Just having each other was enough.

This became the blueprint for my parenting. I hope I’m able to be a smidgen of the parent to my kids that my mum and dad, and stepmother Karen, were to me. I really hope that with my boys I can bring joy into the simple things, without lots of stuff, the way I was brought up.

I want the values that were instilled in me – kindness, consideration for others, tolerance for people around me, togetherness and love – to be passed down to my children. I work really hard to achieve that. I’m just so grateful for everything my family did for me, and everything they still do today.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today without my family. I have a huge amount of respect and admiration for everyone in it. I can’t imagine what it’s like not to have a family unit as close and loving as mine. Meeting Karen made me realize that family doesn’t have to be blood-related. Anyone we love can be a surrogate parent, sibling, aunt or uncle to us. Family can be anyone – friends, pets, partners: it doesn’t have to be biological to be real.

My family set-up isn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination. My parents divorced, and we blended two families together. I have two children by different partners, and now I’m not with either of them. Yet, despite that, we have thrived and loved, and I feel so fortunate we have each other. Why do we worry about being a perfect family? There’s no such thing, only the love we have for those closest to us.

My parents’ behaviour was a huge influence on the way we dealt with the divorce. It was their positivity that made our lives carry on so smoothly. There are lots of circumstances in which it is impossible to have that kind of break-up – I’ve discovered that in my own relationship history. It is also worth noting that it is completely out of any child’s hands as to how their parents deal with separation or divorce. It’s wholly up to them, and many may be unable to move on without conflict or difficulty. We all try to do the best we can.

It’s important to recognize also that the breakdown of relationships doesn’t necessarily define our parenting. We can make mistakes, or find we can’t deal with our exes as easily as perhaps we’d like. That doesn’t mean we’ve failed. It just means that real life is challenging and complex – and family relationships most of all.

I believe that my children can become whoever they want to become, despite our immediate family circumstances. I have to strive to be the parent I want to be, providing a happy and steady home for my boys that is full of love. It’s all I can do.

I try to stay positive and kind about all the people involved in raising my children, which, although it can be tough at times, it is of the utmost importance to me as being a single mum isn’t easy. That would be my main piece of advice to anyone who is reassessing their tribe right now.

My family is my backbone. Every day I give thanks for each and every one of them.