Читать книгу Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal - Toni Maguire - Страница 6

Chapter Three

Three thin wooden tea chests and one suitcase stood on our sitting-room floor, containing the accumulated chattels of a marriage. Over the next ten years I saw them packed and unpacked many times until they became a symbol to me of defeated optimism. At five and a half, however, I saw them as the start of an exciting adventure. My mother had triumphantly nailed the third one shut the preceding night and once a van arrived to collect them our journey was to begin.

My father, who had already been in Northern Ireland for several weeks looking for suitable accommodation, had finally sent for us. His longed-for letter had arrived a week earlier and my mother had read parts out to me. He had, she told me enthusiastically, found a house for us in the country. First, however, we were to visit his family, who were eagerly awaiting our arrival. We would stay with them for a fortnight until our chests and furniture arrived, at which time we would move to our new home.

My mother told me time and again how much I would love Ireland, how it would be a good life and how I would enjoy meeting all my new relatives. She talked excitedly of her future plans; we were going to live in the country, start a poultry farm and grow our own vegetables. Envisioning Easter-card yellow fluffy chicks my enthusiasm grew to match hers. I listened to the extracts of my father’s letter that she read out to me about my cousins, about the house in the country and about how much he was missing us. Her happiness was infectious as she described a future idyllic life.

When the van had left with our chests and furniture I looked at our bare rooms with a mixture of emotions: nervous at leaving everything that was familiar, but excited at going to a new country.

My mother picked up our hand luggage and I took a firm hold of Judy’s lead as we started our twenty-four-hour journey. What to me seemed like an adventure, to my mother must have felt like a gruelling ordeal. Not only did she have our bags and me to look after, but also Judy, who by now had grown from a puppy into a small, bright-eyed, mischievous terrier.

A bus took us to the railway station, with its tubs of flowers and friendly porters. We caught a train to the Midlands, then the connecting train to Crewe. I sat in the compartment watching the steam floating in smoky clouds back from the engine, listening to the wheels making their clickety-clack clickety-clack noise, which sounded to me like ‘we’re going to Northern Ireland, we’re going to Northern Ireland’.

I could hardly sit still, but the excitement did not curb my appetite. Mindful of our budget, my mother had packed a picnic for us. Unwrapping the brown-tinged greaseproof paper I found a round of corned beef sandwiches, then a hard-boiled egg, which I peeled and ate as I stared out the window. A crisp apple followed, while my mother poured herself tea from a flask. There was a separate packet containing scraps for Judy, a bottle of water and a small plastic bowl. She ate every crumb, licked my fingers gratefully, and then fell asleep curled at my feet. After we’d finished my mother took a damp cloth from another small bag, wiped my face and hands before taking out a gilt powder compact and swiftly puffing powder onto her nose and chin. Pursing her lips, she painted them the dark red she always favoured.

Crewe station seemed a vast, noisy cavern of a place, dirty and poorly lit, completely unlike the pretty freshly painted stations of Kent. My mother bundled me up in my wool coat, placed Judy’s lead in my hand, then organized our bags.

The boat train from Crewe to Liverpool was packed with happy passengers in a holiday mood, many of them servicemen going home on leave. There was no shortage of helping hands to lift our bags onto the rack above our heads. Judy received many pats and compliments, which pleased me. My pretty mother, with her shoulder-length dark hair and trim figure, had to explain to more than one hopeful serviceman that her husband was waiting for us both in Belfast.

With my colouring books and crayons out, not wishing to miss a moment, I desperately tried to keep my eyes open, but to no avail. Within an hour sleep overcame me.

When I awoke we had arrived at Liverpool. Through the swirls of steam I saw the boat for the first time, a huge grey forbidding mass that towered above our heads. It cast a shadow over the scores of people who, carrying an assortment of luggage, were rushing to queue at the base of the gangplank. The weak yellow beams of the streetlights shone dimly on the oily water beneath the gently swaying boat. Having only ever seen the small fishing fleets of Ramsgate, I felt overawed that we were going to travel on something so huge. Holding Judy’s lead tightly I moved closer to my mother for comfort as we shuffled forward to join the queue.

Helping hands assisted us aboard where a white-coated steward showed us to our small second-class cabin, furnished with a wooden chair, a single bunk and a small sink.

‘What, two of us are going to sleep in there?’ I exclaimed in disbelief.

The steward ruffled my hair and laughed. ‘Sure, you’re not very big!’

That night I cuddled up to my mother as the swell of the sea rocked me to sleep for most of the twelve-hour crossing. I never had the feeling of seasickness that, according to the purser when he brought us our morning tea and toast, so many of our fellow passengers had.

We arrived in Belfast before the sun had fully risen, and queued once more to alight. Passengers were waving as they leant over the side but, being too small, I had to contain my eagerness. As the boat made its final lurch the gangplank was lowered and my first sight of Belfast came into view.

The dawn light shone on damp cobbles, where small ponies pulled wooden traps back and forth. People with freezing breath milled around the gangplank, broad smiles of greeting on their faces. My ears were assailed by the harsh Northern Irish accent as relatives and friends found one another.

Everything looked and sounded so different as we searched for my father. We saw him simultaneously, coming towards us with a huge smile. He hugged my mother tightly as he kissed her, picked me up, swung me into his arms and kissed me loudly on each cheek. Judy sniffed around his feet suspiciously, and for once her tail didn’t wag.

He said how much he’d missed us, how pleased he was we were there and how everyone was looking forward to seeing us. Picking up our suitcases, he led the way to a car.

He’d borrowed it, he told us with a wink, for the last stage of our journey. My mother glowed with delight when she heard how he didn’t want her to travel to Coleraine by train, wasting precious moments when he could be with us.

With me wrapped up warmly in a tartan rug on the back seat we started the final lap. He held her hand and I heard him say, ‘Everything’s going to be different, you’ll see, we’re going to be happy here. It’ll be good for Antoinette too, all the country air.’ My mother leant her dark head against his shoulder and he rested his auburn one briefly against it. That day their happiness was tangible. Young as I was, I could feel it.

For the first time I felt excluded. My father kept his attention focused on my mother. I saw her smiles, which today were not for me, and knew they were absorbed in one another. A feeling of apprehension, as if I’d been given a warning of changes to come, settled on me as I watched the unfolding landscape.

I saw the indigo Irish mountains, their peaks still shrouded in early morning mist. Across a rugged landscape squat, grey square houses, so unlike the pretty black and white thatched cottages of Kent, broke up the acres of green. I spotted clusters of sheep huddled together for warmth in fields separated by low flint walls. We passed tiny hamlets where one small house, turned into a general shop, serviced the local community. Pigs with scrawny chickens pecking round their feet snuffled contently in the muddy yards of single-storey smallholdings. Children waved at our passing car and, waving back, I held Judy up to the window to see them.

Deciding I liked the look of Ireland, my thoughts turned to my Irish family. Although I loved the maternal grandmother we’d left behind in England, I was looking forward to meeting new relatives. My mother had tried to describe my family to me but I couldn’t visualize them. They, I knew, had seen me as a baby, but I had no recollection of them.

The fields were replaced by wide roads with large houses standing in landscaped grounds, which gave way to roads of compact bow-windowed semi-detached homes with their oblong gardens boxed in by neatly clipped hedges. Following them came rows of terraced houses with their flowerless shrubs protected by low walls.

My father told us that we would soon be at his mother’s house where lunch would be waiting for us, which reminded me I was hungry. The breakfast of weak tea and toast had been hours before.

A few minutes later all greenery vanished as the streets grew narrower and the houses darker, until we turned into a road of tiny red-brick houses, their front doors opening straight onto the pavements. This, my father told me, was the area where he’d grown up, and where members of my Irish family, including my grandparents, lived. I craned my neck and saw a street completely unlike anything I’d seen before.

Women with headscarves tied over their curlers lent over the tops of their stable front doors, calling across to their neighbours while they watched snotty-nosed toddlers playing in the gutters. Others, bare-legged, feet pushed into carpet slippers, leant against walls inhaling cigarettes through pale lips. Children in ragged clothes played cricket against wickets drawn on walls. Dogs of questionable parentage barked furiously, leaping in the air as they tried to catch balls. Men with braces over their collarless shirts walked aimlessly with their hands in their pockets and caps on their heads, while a few of them standing in a group were having what looked like an intense conversation.

More dogs ran around the car as we parked and climbed wearily out. Not knowing if they were friendly or not I clutched Judy protectively in my arms. She repaid my concern by wagging her tail and wriggling to get down. Waiting to greet us was a short, plump white-haired woman who stood with her hands on her hips and a wide smile on her face.

She seized my father in a fierce hug and then pushed open the door. We stepped past the steep uncarpeted staircase, straight from the pavement into the minute sitting-room of my grandparents’ house.

The room was hot with a coal fire blazing brightly and crowded with the immediate members of my father’s family. My grandfather looked like a smaller, older version of him. He was a short, stocky man who, like my father, had thick wavy hair swept back from his face. But where my father’s waves glinted with dark red lights, Grandfather’s had faded into a pale yellowy grey. Like my father he had thickly fringed hazel-grey eyes but when he smiled it was to reveal yellow stained teeth, not the brilliant white gleam of my father’s mouth.

My grandmother, an animated little ball of a woman dressed all in black, had white hair done up in a bun and apple-red cheeks beneath twinkling blue eyes. She fussed happily around us and I instantly liked her.

‘Antoinette,’ she exclaimed, ‘I haven’t seen you since you were a wee baby, and look at you now, a grown-up girl.’

She pulled forward a young woman, whom she told me was my Aunt Nellie. Petite, with dark hair and brown eyes, she was my father’s only sister.

Two more men, whom my father told me were his younger brothers, my uncles Teddy and Sammy, were next to be introduced. They obviously looked up to their big brother. Teddy, a whippet-thin, red-haired teenager with an infectious grin, was a young man impossible to dislike, whilst black-haired Sammy was several years older and more serious looking. Although seeming pleased to see us, Sammy was more restrained in his greeting.

Teddy volunteered to take Judy for a much-needed walk and gratefully I handed over her lead. Feeling shy of my new surroundings, I did not wish to venture out just yet.

My grandmother and Nellie bustled around us, putting food onto the table and pouring boiling water into an aluminium teapot.

‘Sit you down, now,’ Grandmother said. ‘Sure you must be hungry.’

Chairs were hastily pulled up to a laden table and the relatives watched as my grandmother piled my plate high. There was an assortment of sandwiches, some filled with spam or corned beef, others with fish paste. There was brown soda bread and small, thick Irish pancakes spread liberally with butter and strawberry jam. A fruitcake followed, which must have used the whole family’s ration budget. I needed no encouragement to eat as I tucked in with gusto, surrounded by the friendly buzz of the adults’ conversation as they plied my parents with questions.

When I could eat no more my eyes started closing as the heat of the room, the long journey and the food took their toll. I heard laughing adult voices exclaim that I had fallen asleep, then felt the strong arms of my father as he picked me up and carried me to a bedroom upstairs.

The four o’clock twilight had fallen when my mother woke me. Sleepily, I allowed her to wash and dress me for another visit. It appeared that my entire father’s family wanted to see us, and I, used to my mother’s small family of one grandmother and a few rarely seen cousins, felt overwhelmed by trying to remember all the names I was hearing. Supper was to be served at my great-uncle’s house in the same road. Uncle Eddy and Aunt Lilly, as I was told to call them, and their two teenage daughters, Mattie and Jean, had laid out a special meal for us which, I was to learn, was typical Irish fare: thick slices of chicken, boiled ham coated in the sweet sheen of honey and mustard, hard-boiled eggs, bright red tomatoes and potatoes boiled in their skins. Home-made trifle and numerous cups of tea followed and again I felt the warmth of my father’s family wash over me.

They asked about our life in England, how our journey had been and what my parents’ plans were now. Where were we going to live? Where was I going to school? I noticed their surprise when my mother informed them I was to be sent to a private school, as that was what I’d been used to. When I was older I realized that only scholarship pupils from Park Street, one of the poorest areas in Coleraine, would have attended the school my mother had chosen for me.

They seldom gave us time to answer their questions before they relayed to us all the family gossip. Even then I could sense my mother was uninterested. I’d come to recognize the polite smile she wore when with company that bored her. In contrast, a cheerful smile rarely left my father’s face as he, the centre of attention, laughed at every new item of gossip.

Tired out from the day’s excitement, feeling happy that I was part of such a big family, I contentedly slept in a put-you-up bed placed at the foot of my parents’ bed.

Daylight filtering through the thin curtains that covered the small window wakened me the following morning. Going in search of my mother I was told my parents had gone out for the day and that I was to stay with my grandmother.

My mother had never left me without telling me first and again I experienced a slight twinge of apprehension and loss. Looking into my new grandmother’s kind face, however, I was able to push my doubts aside.

While she made me an ‘Ulster fry up’, as she called it, of fried pancake, black pudding and egg, I washed myself at the kitchen sink. Going to the outside lavatory I was dismayed to find neatly cut up pieces of newspaper in the place of toilet rolls. When I pointed this out to my grandmother she looked embarrassed and told me they’d just run out and would get some after breakfast. It was not until several months later I realized that poverty gave newspaper several uses and that toilet paper was considered an unnecessary luxury.

Once the breakfast dishes were washed up she boiled more saucepans of water and told me I could help her with the washing. Into the minuscule back yard we went, where a large metal bowl was filled with steaming soapy water. She placed a ridged board into it and proceeded to wash towels and shirts by rubbing them briskly up and down its grooves with hands that were red and chapped, quite unlike my mother’s white ones with their carefully applied scarlet nail varnish.

I helped her wring the sodden items through the mangle by holding one end while she fed the other one through, a procedure we repeated several times. When every last drop of water had been wrung out we pegged the washing with fingers already growing numb with cold onto a line suspended between the back door and the lavatory. Finally we hoisted it as high as it could go with the wooden pole that held it in place, letting it float above our heads in the chill air.

Every evening except Sunday the still damp washing would be placed on a wooden clotheshorse in front of the fire, filling the room with the smell of steaming clothes and blocking the heat.

Midday brought my grandfather back, not from work as I thought but from the bookies or, if he’d been lucky on the horses, the pub. I was given the task of laying the table, which was covered with clean newspaper, before the meal of soup and soda bread was laid out.

That weekend most of my time was spent with my grandparents while my parents disappeared, not returning until I was already in bed asleep. On Sunday morning my mother saw my woebegone face when I realized she and my father were going out again and promised we would spend the following day together.

‘First I’m taking you to be enrolled at your new school,’ she said. ‘Then, if you’re good and stay to help your grandmother today, I’ll take you out for lunch as a special treat.’

Placated, I beamed back at her, happy again, and she gave me a quick hug, leaving the smell of her perfume lingering in the air.

Monday brought a weak winter sun that brightened but failed to warm the cold morning. However, anticipation of a whole day with my mother took the chill off it.

‘It’s only a half hour’s walk,’ she reassured me.

After breakfast we walked hand in hand out of the narrow streets around Park Street, across the town square and into tree-lined avenues, where tall red-brick houses stood back from the roads. On reaching one that was only distinguished from the nearby houses as a school by its several grey prefab buildings and fenced-in tennis courts, we entered its large wooden-floored hall and introduced ourselves to the school secretary.

Within a few minutes we were shown to the headmistress’s rooms. She was an imposing woman; her white hair tinged slightly blue, dressed in a tailored grey suit, which was almost covered by a black gown.

‘Hello, I’m Dr Johnston,’ she said, touching my shoulder briefly. ‘You must be Antoinette.’

After talking to my mother for a few minutes she set me a simple reading test, which I read straight through without stumbling once, despite my nerves. When I’d finished she smiled at me warmly.

‘Antoinette, you read very well, even though you’ve only been at school a few months. Did your mother teach you?’

‘No, Nanny taught me,’ I replied. ‘We used to read Flook cartoons together in the Daily Mail.’ She laughed and asked what else my grandmother had taught me. She seemed amused when I said that I’d learnt to count by playing cards.

‘Well, she’s certainly up to standard,’ she reassured my mother. ‘I think she will fit in well here.’

My mother looked pleased and I was content with her pleasure. After various formalities Dr Johnston gave us a tour around the school. Looking at the groups of children dressed in their green uniforms, playing in their break, I thought I was going to be happy there.

Armed with lists of what was required, my mother and I walked the short distance into town. First we bought my uniform, green gym tunic, three white shirts and a black and green tie. The last purchase, which my mother told me was a present from my English grandmother, was a smart green blazer with its distinctive white badge on the breast pocket. The next stop was the bookshop.

Weighed down by all our parcels, we made our way to a nearby tearoom for the promised treat of lunch.

‘I think you’re going to like your new school,’ my mother said as soon as our food had arrived. With my mouth full of toasted, buttery crumpet I nodded happily in reply.

The morning I was due to start I jumped eagerly out of bed and rushed downstairs to wash and eat the breakfast my grandmother had already cooked for me. My father had left for work and my mother had laid out all my new clothes on their bed. I could smell the newness of them. I dressed myself from my green school knickers to my gym tunic, asking my mother for help with my tie. My hair was brushed, a slide clipped in to hold it into place, then, with my satchel containing all my new books slung across my shoulder, I gave myself a glance in the mirror. A happy child with just a residue of puppy fat smiled confidently back at me. I preened for a moment and then descended the stairs to be hugged by my grandmother before my mother and I left for the walk to school.

My teacher introduced me to my classmates and sat me beside a friendly blonde-haired girl, whom I was told was named Jenny. The morning passed quickly and I gave thanks for my English grandmother’s extra tuition. I found the reading and arithmetic easy and was rewarded by a smile and words of praise from my teacher.

At the sound of the bell our class rushed from the schoolroom to the play area where Jenny took me under her wing. Finding my name difficult to pronounce, the children, with peals of laughter, called me ‘Annie-net’. Knowing their laughter was friendly I was happy to feel part of this group and laughed with them. By the end of the day Jenny and I had become best friends. She seemed to like the kudos of looking after a little girl with a strange accent and proudly introduced me to my fellow classmates. Basking in her attention I felt the warmth that sudden friendship brings. The need for a best friend that starts when babyhood ends and childhood begins was fulfilled.

Two more weeks passed at my grandparents’ house until the day of our moving came. This time I had mixed feelings; I loved being part of such a big family, especially being the youngest member and the centre of attention. I was constantly fussed and petted by them all. Even my taciturn grandfather would chat to me, send me on errands to the tiny local shop to buy cigarettes for him and sweets for me. When nobody was looking he would even make a fuss of Judy. I knew I was going to miss them, but my adventurous side looked forward to living in the countryside and helping my mother with her poultry farm.

A compromise had been reached to appease both my grandparents and me. It was common then in the rural areas for the buses to run only twice a day, once in the morning to take the workers into town and then in the evening to return them. It was arranged that every school day I would go to my grandparents’ house for tea, then they would take me to my bus and my mother would meet me at the other end. Knowing she was not going to see me until after the Easter holidays, my grandmother prepared a food parcel full of my favourite Irish soda breads and pancakes, which we packed into the car along with saucepans, packets of groceries and fuel.

Saying tearful goodbyes to my grandmother, we loaded up the car with our suitcases. Then, with Judy and I tightly squeezed into the back, we started our journey to our new house. Behind us followed a van containing our meagre furniture from England, none of which my mother could bear to part with.

Main roads became country ones, then we drove down a lane where the hedgerows were wilder and gravel replaced the tarmac, until we came to a dirt track leading to double wooden gates.

My father jumped triumphantly from the car, threw open the gates with a flourish and we saw the thatched house for the first time. It was not what I had expected.

Back in the hospice cold touched my skin as the memories churned in my head, and I felt incapable of movement. The hardness of the chair prodded me awake; Antoinette was gone and Toni, my adult self, was back in charge.

I poured myself a vodka from my flask, lit a cigarette and rested my head against the back of the chair to reflect on the happiness of those early years. Why, I wondered, did I feel overcome with feelings of impending doom? There was nothing in this place to scare me.

‘Yes there is, Toni,’ came the whisper. ‘You’re scared of me.’

‘I’m not,’ I retorted. ‘You’re my past and the past is dealt with.’

But the denial was hollow. As I looked into the corners of the empty room through my cloud of smoke I felt the power of Antoinette drawing me back through the gates to the thatched house.