Читать книгу Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal - Toni Maguire - Страница 10

Chapter Seven

My eighth birthday arrived, bringing with it an early autumn quickly followed by the chill of winter. A diet of dark-brown peat was constantly supplied to the stove, producing a red glow, but however much we fed it the warm pool of heat never seemed to spread more than a few feet. I would huddle as close to it as possible as my permanently damp coat, shoes and woollen tights steamed on the wooden clothes horse. Since I only had one of each they had to be ready for the following day.

My mother’s voice would float up the still uncarpeted stairs to wake me in the darkness of every early morning, and a chill would nip the tip of my nose as it ventured outside the cocoon of blankets. Automatically my arm would stretch out to the wooden chair, which doubled up as table and wardrobe, as I fumbled for clothes, which I would draw in under the blankets. First my school knickers, followed by woollen tights, brought from the kitchen the night before, were wriggled into. Then, with chattering teeth, my unbuttoned pyjama top would be hastily pulled over my head to be replaced by a woollen vest. Only then would I swing my legs out of bed, leaving my warm nest behind and venturing into the cold of the unheated house. Hastily I would boil the kettle on the range, which would eventually, with some prodding from the poker and some small pieces of peat, come slowly to life.

I would wash quickly at the kitchen sink while my breakfast egg was cooked, then scramble into the rest of my clothes. Breakfast would be consumed hurriedly, then, pulling on my still damp coat, I would pick up my satchel and leave for school.

At the weekends, dressed in an old sweater, mittens and wellington boots, I would help my mother collect eggs, both from the deep litter outhouses and from the scattered hiding places of the free-range chickens. Hoping for brown eggs, she gave them cocoa every morning at eleven o’clock. Whether it increased the ratio of brown eggs to white we were never sure, but the chickens would come running when she called. Greedily, their beaks would dip into the warm sweet liquid time and again. Lifting their heads from the bowls they would shake them, their little beady eyes gleaming as the liquid trickled down their throats.

Frogs would be rescued from the well’s bucket and twigs collected for kindling. But my favourite time was when my mother baked. Scones and soda bread were removed from the griddle and, once cooled, placed into tin containers, because food had to be protected from the army of mice that took shelter with us during the winter months.

Sugary-smelling cakes and biscuits were placed onto racks and, if my mother was in a good mood, I would be rewarded with the bowl to lick out, my fingers sliding around its cream and white sides, scrupulously gathering up the last drop of the buttery mixture. I would suck them clean, under the gaze of Judy’s and Sally’s bright and hopeful eyes.

Those were the days when flashes of the old warmth that kept my love fuelled sprung up between my mother and me. For if her mind was firmly locked on the memory of the handsome auburn-haired Irishman in that dance hall, the man who waited for her at the docks, a man generous with his hugs and unfulfilled promises, mine was for ever locked on the smiling loving mother from my early childhood.

From the money that I’d stolen, I bought myself a torch and batteries. These I hid in my room and at night I would smuggle up a book. Tucked up in bed with the blankets pulled high I would strain my eyes every night as I shone the weak light of the torch onto the print. The rustling and scurrying sounds of the insects and small animals that lived in the thatch receded once I lost myself in the pages. Then for a short time I was able to forget the days when my father took me for the ‘drives’.

Each time he picked up his car keys and announced that it was time for my treat I silently implored my mother to say no, to tell him she needed me for an errand, to collect the eggs, fish the frogs out of the well water, even bringing in the water for washing from the rain butts, but she never did.