A Tale of Two Lives

MY CHILDHOOD

A s I try to remember my childhood, it is truly a mixture of churning memories and feelings experienced.

We lived in an old, converted three level house in Lambeth, London, England. We lived on the top floor, with my father's aunt, Auntie Doll and her husband Charlie (who was a miserable old coot) on the second floor and Nellie and Charlie on the ground floor. We all had old, black grates that burned coal, and the rooms had gas lighting and one of the worst experiences of my young life, was having to go downstairs to the cellar and bring up a bucket of coal for the fire. There was no light in the cellar, it was dirty and worst of all there were spiders in it, and we had to go and get the coal by the light of a torch. There were no lights on the stairs either, so my child's imagination knew all about the boogie men, etc., who lurked on the landings on the way back upstairs to our living room. Jack Frost was another danger on those stairs. He was always a threat to nipping at my toes when I went out on to the landing between our living room and my bedroom. He was especially active during the Winter months!

Initially I was in a cot, then bed in my parents' bedroom but ultimately they moved into the big front bedroom (which was really cold in Winter) and their original bedroom became mine. I had a stimulating view of a brick wall from my bedroom window so consequently from a very young age I was always changing round my room and putting my bed in different places to get a different perspective. It was always so exciting to go to bed that night, when I had spent most of the preceding day changing my room around, each corner of the room felt totally different.

Up to the age of 10, I think I had a fairly normal upbringing in London, in a loving home with a not so loving, older brother - Peter! Fleeting memories pass through my mind of sitting in my pram outside our front door on a warm, sunny day and another of being in my cot, one night, crying because I wanted my mother and this large lady, who would have been my grandmother, coming in and telling me my parents had gone out for a short while and to hush ma weesht. We must have gone to visit her in Scotland.

At the age of 3 I began dancing classes and our dance school gave an annual concert for parents and friends. I was blessed with a fairly tuneful voice as a child so was often singled out to sing solos or do small dance sequences. I have vivid memories of singing my heart out on stage with not a vestige of nerves (probably not a lot of tune either). The weeks running up to these performances were a whirl of rehearsals, costume fittings and excitement! Many years later when I watched my own child on stage, the memories returned of how it felt being up there, and the terror of knowing that you could not remember the next move in the dance routine, but also the fun of performing.

When I was 5 Peter and I went on a day trip being run by the church Sunday school where our downstairs neighbours went to church. I know my mother had misgivings about my going and told me afterwards she was worried about me all day. We went to the boating pond in Hyde Park. At one time my brother got hold of a boat and told me to get in, however when I had one foot in the boat and the other on dry land the boat pulled away (whether by accident or design I will never know) from the side of the pond and inevitably I fell into the water. I don't remember how deep it was, only that it was cold! I was, of course, soaked through and as it was a cool, autumn day, the ladies in charge were frantically trying to find towels and blankets to wrap me in. We had gone to the park in a coach and no one thought to get me sent home by taxi, so I spent the rest of the day looking like a third world refugee. The rest of the day is a blur, but as we arrived back to all the parents waiting for us that evening, my mother was frantically looking for me as she had heard one of the alighting children tell their parents that a little girl had fallen into the water and she knew instinctively that the little girl was me. She was furious with our neighbour because no one had arranged to get me home and she threatened physical violence if I suffered any ill effects from the day out! (Mum had an awesome temper when it came to protecting her young). A further dominant memory of that day, however, is that Mum had bought me some new flannelette pyjamas and after warming me in front of the fire in the big black grate, she dressed me in these and I felt warm, cosy and loved.

Mum would pay into a Christmas Club at the toy shop at the top of our street for the year preceding each Christmas. We always got a main toy, a secondary toy, the latest annual (book) and they had the most tremendous lolly novelties. They were works of art. One year my lolly novelty was a castle! It was beautiful; pink and silver with little doors that opened to reveal incredible (lolly) goodies! They were played with as much as our main toys. In my early years we would go downstairs to Auntie Nellie and Uncle Charlie's living room for a Christmas party sometime over the Christmas break and there would be singsongs around the piano and as I grew and learned more dance steps I would be called upon to do a little dance for everyone. Christmas really was a fun time when I was young.

My mother had a cat called Dinkie of whom I was very jealous because she was older than me and she would jump on to my mother's lap and stand with her paws around mum's neck, for all the world like a child. Mum thought the world of Dinkie. As we lived in the top flat of our house, Dinkie could not go out at ground floor level so she used to jump from our living room window out on to the roof every day. I have no idea where she went from there but she never dirtied inside the house ever! I remember when Dinkie died. Mum was heartbroken. Apparently Dinkie had jumped through the window in her normal way, then seemed to suffer a stroke, dying the following day. Mum cried so hard, and it is only now, after losing several much loved cats of my own through the years that I understand the extent of her grief at losing an old friend in Dinkie.

Following Dinkie's demise Peter and I were allowed to get a kitten each. As we were upstairs we had to provide a litter tray for their use. This came in the form of an old bath at the back of our scullery (kitchen). Kitty litter was not heard of then, we used sawdust which I used to go and collect, a bag at a time, from the saw mill which backed on to the back of our house. It was my job to clean the litter tray -- as usual my brother never did anything to help. Peter's cat was a beautiful black and white female, he named Whiskey. My cat was a tortoiseshell Manx cat which we called Gill (sounded better than Gin). The first night we got our kittens home we took them to bed with us, (or rather I put Gill in my doll's pram, just like a baby) and tended to their needs all night. Peter was found in the morning lying on his bedding on the floor next to Whiskey and when asked why he said Well, she wouldn't come up to my bed so I went down to sleep with her. Sounded logical to me!

Whiskey and Gill were true character cats. Gill would jump on to my shoulder and drape herself around my neck like a scarf. She followed me everywhere and I loved her very much. When she spoke her little stump of a tail would move up and down in time with her little noises. Whiskey was such a beautiful cat and terribly vain. The pair of them reminded me of sisters, one the beauty of the family and the other the tomboy. They would sit, side by side, at the end of the dresser each evening, to welcome each family member home. We always knew when someone was coming upstairs because they would both move from where they were sitting and go (as a pair of bookends) and sit looking at the door until our visitor arrived.

Peter was five years older than me so we didn't interact very much. It appeared he was always in trouble though, judging by the number of times my mum would belt him. She had an old army belt (I think belonging to my father) that used to send Peter scurrying to his room. He also had fights with some of the boys in the neighbourhood, one in particular, Johnny, was his mortal enemy and conversely my mother was often on the Baker doorstep threatening blood and violence to Johnny's mother if she didn't keep her bully-boy son away from my brother! Peter was most often out playing and I was kept pretty busy with my dancing lessons and when not going to those, I enjoyed reading. I had a voracious appetite for books, and still enjoy a good book.

Mum and Dad appeared to my young eyes to be a devoted couple and up until the age of 10/11, I do not remember them having a cross-word. Dad was a very quiet man and admittedly let my mother do what she wanted. As it was in those days, he did not interact much with us children; he was the man who woke me in the morning for school then disappeared to the city to work, then would appear again at night.

When I was 5 years old the Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen following the death of her father George VI. The whole of London was treated to street parties, with all the local councils funding drinks and cakes spread out on trestle tables adorned with red, white and blue tablecloths, for the enjoyment of their ratepayers. Television was not particularly widespread at that time, so the few neighbours who had these wonderful inventions opened their living rooms to welcome as many of their neighbours as the room would hold, to view the spectacle of the young princess being crowned. The sun felt warm on my head as I twirled around in my beautiful new white dress, with red, white and blue sash, bought especially for the occasion, impatiently waiting to go and join the street party in progress.

Not far away from where I lived there was a market -- Wandsworth Road Markets -- where mum used to find a wide variety of (pre-loved) dresses and clothes for me. She loved buying me pretty dresses; I was indeed the envy of quite a few of my friends because of the number of dresses I owned. There was also a copious supply of baby clothes for my dolls, rendering my dolls better dressed than a lot of babies in my district!

When I was about eight years old I was happily out riding on my new roller skates when I lost my footing and fell very heavily on the base of my spine. There I sat on the kerbing incapable of either speech or movement for several seconds (I cannot recall just how long), before cautiously heaving myself up and making my way slowly and painfully, home. I believe I told mum I had a fall today but nothing else was said. However, in retrospect I realise that I badly damaged my spine on that day, the upshot of which was not entirely evident until some 20 years on! From that time onwards, however, I did experience an excruciating headache after performing acrobatics, etc., at dancing and could not understand why other children could enjoy handstands, cartwheels, etc., when it caused such pain. I did not know, of course, that they did not experience pain, only I did and it was not normal as I thought it was.

Every year my mum and dad would take us for a holiday to the seaside. The place we most seemed to frequent was Folkstone where we normally booked a caravan for the two weeks we were there. It was always so exciting the night before. Mum would pack our clothes into two huge suitcases, which my poor father had to heft down the three flights of stairs into a waiting taxi. The night before it was always difficult to sleep, we were so excited. Mum would make egg or egg and tomato sandwiches for the train trip and there would be the inevitable flask of tea for them and a bottle of Tizer or Lemonade for us children to drink on the train. There would be the mad, exciting ride to the railway station -- usually Euston -- in the taxi then all of us carrying our various bags of precious belongings, (buckets and spades, favourite dolls, cars, etc) on to the train. We would then watch as the dreary environs of London flashed by to be replaced by the green of fields of the country, dotted here and there with black and white cattle grazing lazily on the grass. Then we would eventually arrive at Folkstone, and get another taxi to our caravan site. Even now I can hear the sound of the seagulls as they circled around our caravan site, and smell the ozone of the sea, so alien to us, living as we did in the heart of London.

My brother would be up at the crack of dawn everyday we were away, and take himself down to the local fishing wharves and spend most of his day with the fishermen down there, returning in the evening with a fish one of them had given him or he had caught. Mum, dad and I would spend hours on the beach, with me building sandcastles and paddling in the water. Then we would wander into the townsite and get some afternoon tea and cakes. In the evening mum and dad would go down to the local pub and under the fairy lights outside sit and listen to the music playing and sometimes dance to it, while Peter and I would watch, happily munching on our packets of crisps and drinking our lemonade. Wonderful, wonderful memories.

Near where we lived there was a green belt full of bushes, shrubs and small trees with a carpet of soft grass. The small trees and shrubs formed various natural cubbies and hidey holes just meant for children to play witches and fairies, victims and kidnappers, cops and robbers, etc. Many a weekend hour and early evening during the Summer months were spent playing around there. One day, however, we were playing and we noticed a funny looking woman coming out of a house nearby. I went home and told my parents this woman looked like a man but was dressed as a woman. They told me not to worry about it, but she intrigued us kids, so we started to watch for her. I have to admit we made life hell for that person, as of course kids being kids we followed and heckled and generally were awful to what was, of course, a cross-dressing man. There was also a young man who intrigued me as he had a swathe of grey hair all across one side of his head. I could not understand why a young man would have grey hair and I would find myself staring unashamedly at him whenever he came into sight.

When I reflect on my early childhood I see how simple life was when I was growing up. Dad worked and kept us and Mum mainly stayed home but sometimes had a little job such as cleaning or worked in a café, etc. Food was the real thing, by that I mean we ate butter, brown or white bread, drank full cream milk, tea, coffee and the staple was a roast -- with vegies, sometimes grown from your own vegie patch but mostly bought from your friendly local greengrocer.

Shopping consisted of taking a list round to your local grocer, handing it to him and he collected the items, put them in a brown paper bag or a box, you either paid cash or had credit -- which was usually in place from pay day to pay day and sometimes -- if he was a friendly grocer -- he would pop in a free lollipop for the courier -- me.

On the corner near my home was a baker and one of my fondest memories is taking my threepence or sixpence to this shop and even before I made my choice from the delicious array of cakes, buns, doughnuts and tarts, I could savour the anticipated taste by experiencing the aroma of freshly baked bread and cakes pouring out of the front door and reaching me 20 yards away. School holidays, particularly, were the best because Mum would leave me a few pence when she left for her early morning cleaning job and I would go to the baker and get a freshly made iced bun packed with dried fruit, so fresh it collapsed in your fingers on its way to your mouth. Or there were the fresh cream doughnuts, which left a moustache of sugar long after the last delectable bite had been taken.

There was also a fish and chip shop not far from my home and sometimes I would go there and get sixpen'orth of chips and go and sit in the park to eat them and drink from my bottle of Tizer or Lemonade and contemplate in my childish way, the simple joys of life.

I loved books and in the early days of television there was plenty of time to read a good book because TV transmission was limited so there were long periods when we actually had to amuse ourselves. Living in London the long Summery evenings were filled with playing at the park, riding a bike or simply sitting in the fading light and warmth reading a book. Occasionally, after tea, all the children in the street would get together and play a game of rounders -- a kind of neighbourhood baseball, or run-outs where we would form teams -- one to run and hide, the other to seek out. The idea was that the team hiding had to get back to a designated base camp before the seeking team could tag us. We would get so engrossed in our game, our parents would have to come and get us to go inside for bed.

Mum was usually home when I got home from school, ready for me to spill out the day's trials and tribulations. There was usually a food treat to go with the cup of tea we would enjoy together, then I either had dancing class to prepare for, which I went to on my own -- we did not have a car -- or I would play out with friends or read until it was time to wash for tea as we called it. Evenings were spent colouring in, playing a card game or two with my brother and later, watching the early TV programmes, before we were packed off to bed at about 8.00/8.30.

Picnics were another joyous occupation of my childhood. Our little group of girls would all agree to go home and make up something to bring back for a communal picnic, i.e. jam sandwiches, biscuits, and lollies! a bottle of drink, etc., then we would all meet up again and go round to the local park for a play and eat our picnic. Sometimes we would all take a doll and pram, and at other times we would concentrate on the swings and roundabouts. Food never tasted so good as when we ate it together at the park.

When we had a caller to our house, they would ring the bell three times, to signify they wanted the occupants on the third floor. We would look out of the top window and call who is it and whoever was on our doorstep would step out, look up and announce themselves. Every so often that caller would be my mother's sister, Auntie Mina, from Coventry -- who would arrive totally unannounced for a visit. She was always a source of excitement to us children as she always brought with her some little gift for each of us and the evenings would be spent in the three of them sitting talking about old times and current happenings. Her son, also named Peter -- and my cousin, was in the navy. He was considerably older than me and we would love hearing about his current whereabouts and activities. He and a friend, Bill, would also come and stay when their ship was in port and I have to admit to having a crush on Bill when I was 8!

One year, around 1957, my mother's other sister, Auntie Cissy, wrote and asked if she and mum (and me) could go away for a holiday together instead of the usual holiday with mum and dad. I remember mum wanted to go but dad was a little hurt that his holiday this year was not going to happen, however, as with everything to do with mum, dad did not stop her. When Mum saw her she was horrified at the weight which Auntie Cissy had lost and remarked on it to her. It turned out that Auntie Cissy had been told she had throat cancer and did not have long to live, how short that time was, we just did not realise. The time with Auntie Cissy, on holiday, was fun in spite of the awful cough I remember her having and the shortness of breath she experienced. She died not long after returning from that holiday and I know my father was eternally grateful that he had not stood in the way of my mother spending that time with her sister -- my mother, whilst being a loving person, was sometimes an unforgiving one!

With electricity now widespread (I feel so old knowing I actually lived in a house lit by gaslight!) the wonderful new invention of television began spreading through all homes. At first they were big and cumbersome and it was normal to rent them rather than own them. When they first transmitted they used to shut down between 6.00 and 7.30pm and of course were not on during the day as they are now. Saturday evenings were a crushing bore to me as dad's soccer pools results would go on and on for ages. He played the pools every week, always chasing that dream of winning the 8 draws games and amassing a fortune. Much like we play lotto these days. I hated the black and white minstrel show, which mum used to love watching! The Sunday afternoon movies, however, were a different story. We would all be replete from a delicious Sunday lunch and would settle down to watch the afternoon matinee until about 5.00pm breaking up the viewing with a cup of tea and cake about 3.30.

We did not have a bathroom in our flat -- I always envied my friends in their modern flats, which had a bathroom! Our bathroom consisted of a tin bath filled up from the copper in the corner of the scullery on a Sunday evening, in which we would all take turns having a bath. Dad was usually last and would empty out some of the (by now) disgustingly grubby water and replace it with some fresh. Then, freshly scrubbed and cleaned we would settle down to a delicious tea, sometimes of beans on toast, or spaghetti or soup -- as we had had a large (main) meal in the middle of the day. Happily anticipating the evening's entertainment on the television.

Sometimes mum and dad would decide that they wanted to go to see a film, so we would either walk down to the local cinema or jump on a bus and go to a cinema in the near vicinity. When we went to the local cinema we would stop at the local fish and chip shop on the way home, usually about 10.30/11.00pm and buy a bag of chips each, wrapped on the outside with newspaper and on a cold evening wander home munching our chips, thoroughly happy with our lot in life.

One evening my dad arrived home and was exceptionally quiet. He eventually told my mother that he had been laid off from his job because the company, was going into liquidation. Dad had worked there, man and boy for 20 years. He was a ship's estimator. He was handed a letter thanking him for his years' service and an ashtray! My mother was livid on his behalf. That was one of the reasons dad had not wanted to tell her but of course, had no choice when there was no job. She went down to his ex works and pushed her way into my father's former boss's office and was only just restrained by others present, from hitting him over the head with his cursed ashtray (spoken in the deepest Glaswegian accent!) She was escorted off the premises! Dad managed to get himself a job with another construction company and it turned out to be the best career move he could have made, unfortunately, it was not to be a long career move as he was dead 14 months later.

In the Christmas of 1958, New Year 1959, we all went to visit my Auntie Mina in Coventry. The Coventry Cathedral had been heavily bombed during the war and it had only recently been completely rebuilt complete with the 360-odd steps up to the top of the cathedral tower. We all decided to walk up the steps to the top. It was a heart bursting exercise, but the view was superb.

When we returned to London, however, dad's heart was beating so hard that if he stood on one side of the room you could see the beat of his heart against his shirt -- something was not right! Mum, of course, marched him off to the doctor and he was informed that he had a leaking valve in the heart. They maintained he must have had Rheumatic Fever as a boy and this leaking valve problem was a direct result of this illness. He could not remember having Rheumatic Fever, but then he had been a fairly sickly boy he said so he most probably could have had it and not known. The news was bad, however, as in those days they did not have heart/lung machines to work on one's behalf whilst work is done on one's heart and he was not strong enough to undergo the operation. He was told to go home and rest and see if the condition improved. The doctors, of course, knew his condition was not going to improve, but there was nothing they could do.

Dad spent a couple of weeks in hospital on a salt free diet, on complete bed rest. He was then allowed home, again on the proviso that he rest. It was during this time that I heard my parents actually argue for the first time in my life. Mum had asked him if he wanted anything to eat and he had said no he was not hungry. However, after mum had started cooking he had decided he was hungry after all but when he told mum she was annoyed because she had not started cooking enough for him as well. I realised that they were both terribly, terribly worried and upset about dad being so gravely ill, and they were bickering. The impact on me then, however, was immense and unsettling.

Dad tried to go back to work but the effort to get to work and then get home again became harder and harder for him. One Friday mum insisted he go to the hospital to see his heart specialist. She took him in a taxi. When they got there his specialist was not on duty and there was no one prepared to see him. He was positively grey, he was so ill, but they told mum to take him home and make another appointment next week. Mum pleaded, yelled and begged someone to see him, all to no avail. So she took dad home again, this time by bus, as they did not have enough money for another taxi. The journey home was a nightmare for them both. Dad could hardly get his breath and he still had to walk the length of our street -- and up our stairs -- before he could rest. He walked so slowly it took them five hours to get him eventually home and into bed. That night he had his first heart attack. Mum rang the doctor but there was no one there. In those days you could not ring an ambulance without the permission of a doctor, so she could not ring for help. There followed three more heart attacks before the next day. She frantically, managed to contact our doctor on the Saturday morning who was livid when he heard that they had actually had my father in the hospital the previous day and had let him go home! He arranged for an ambulance to get him and I did not see Dad again, as he died the following morning, peacefully in his sleep, at 8.30am on 15 February 1959.

I GROW UP VERY FAST!

F ollowing the death of my father, I grew up very fast. My mother was heartbroken and totally incapable of being a mother to me or my brother from then on. Indeed, all she wanted to do was die and join him.

The day of the funeral dawned grey and cold as my Auntie Nell took me separately to the cemetery so as to avoid the church service. I am not sure why I was not allowed to go to the service, presumably my mother felt it was too sad an occasion for me to experience, which was bizarre really because I was taken to the cemetery later for his burial. I was wearing a new pale blue coat which Mum had bought especially for the funeral and stood in stark contrast beside Mum who was dressed entirely in black as were most of the mourners at the graveside.

I had been to see dad at the funeral parlour, but hadn't touched him, so looking at him he appeared to be just asleep. Because I had not had a great deal of interaction with dad I could not really mourn him or miss him, I remember more being concerned about what was happening to my mother. She was my mainstay now and was decidedly unstable at that! I did not know what to feel. In fact on the Monday following my father's death I was at school and said in a very matter-of-fact voice, My father died yesterday and was acutely hurt as one of my friends said well, you don't look very upset about it!

My brother, who had been getting into trouble (with petty crime and theft) tried to be the man of the family but I think he was tied in knots of guilt because not long before dad's death he and dad had had an awful fight which nearly came to blows and I think he secretly, wrongly blamed himself for hastening dad's death. He did try to take an overdose of Aspirin but all he got for his trouble was very sick and was left permanently slightly deaf in the one ear.

I had always hated confrontation. I was very much my father's daughter in that way and found it difficult to say what was on my mind. One day my brother was standing in the kitchen talking about being no good to mum and me, that it would be better to bugger off and leave us be. I desperately wanted to say how much we needed -- mum needed -- him but the words would not come to my 10 year old lips. He continued to get into trouble and finished up being sent down to a borstal for a while.

Before he was sent down, however, he had an awful accident. Peter used to clean windows on a Saturday morning to earn some extra money. Prior to one Saturday morning he hurt his wrist and it was strapped up. Mum was not happy with him going out doing his window cleaning as he cleaned 4 and 5 storey flat windows. He insisted he was okay and off he went.

At about 11.00am that day there was a knock at the door and once again a policeman was standing there. This time the police were calling to let us know that my brother had had an accident. He had been cleaning the windows of a third floor flat when he had lost his grip on the side on which he had his weak wrist and had fallen the three storeys to the ground. The flats in London at that time were very often surrounded by spiked railings and this was the case here. He told us later he could see he would land on his head so somehow managed to twist in mid air and push himself away from the railing with his feet as he landed -- full blast on his feet. He broke every bone in both his feet. They were such a mess!

He was taken to the nearest emergency hospital where my mother and I rushed off to straight away. The doctors at the hospital could do nothing for his feet at this point as they were so badly smashed up. They could only wait and see what healing took place by itself concerning the smaller bones of the foot and then try and work on the larger bones later. He was in hospital for weeks and had several operations and of course was in dreadful pain.

My mother was working on the day he was released from hospital so I had to go and escort him home, on crutches, that day. It was an horrendous journey. Peter was in desperate pain and having to get on and off buses, followed by the long walk down our avenue he was in agony by the time we got home and I just did not know what to do to help him. He had been given some painkillers by the hospital, but they barely touched the pain he was in. It was a terrible time.

If my brother could have directed his will power into positive activities he would have been a very rich man. He was determined to walk again, despite the fact that the doctors told him he would need to walk with crutches and would ultimately end up in a wheelchair because of the injuries to his feet. But walk he did and even managed to ride a motorbike a year or so later. He was and still is in constant pain from his ankles and through the years has had so many operations to put pins in his anklebones, etc., that when he travels he has to let the airport staff know about it before he goes through the detectors, because the metal sets off the alarms!

The ensuing 18 months to two years following my father's death were really awful for me. Mum was terribly depressed, to