Mother and Child

by Annie Murray

  I see them in my mind’s eye, in one of those cramped, cold rooms with the bugs and silverfish and the damp seeping in, our grandmother at the table with a candle or perhaps an oil lamp once the darkness drew in, the kids round her. Sometimes it was sewing buttons or hooks and eyes on cards to go to the shops, or any other outwork she could get from the factories around, though the matchboxes was the thing our mother seemed to remember. Maybe they were easier for small children’s fingers. They’d be there ’til late at night to notch up enough of them to earn a few coppers. That was how the poor made shift in those days.

  But then at the end of the war Alice passed away as well, in 1918, when the scourge of Spanish influenza stalked our neighbourhoods. Our aunt Beattie was left as head of the family, at seventeen, with six others in her charge. The youngest, Lizzie, was three when Grandma Alice died. Poor Auntie Lizzie was to have a tragic life but I must stick to the main story, there are so many byways leading off from it.

  I look up from the page for a moment, surfacing. What is it that Dorrie wants me to know? So far it’s just a rather rambling account of her childhood.

  So many years have passed since those days in our Old Brum, so many of the family drifted off and never came back – especially the four boys, my mom’s brothers. Uncle Charlie was the only one I knew and he suffered badly with his chest which seemed to run in the family somewhere, or was it just the filth of our beloved city that we had to breathe in day after day? They’re all long gone now, those uncles and aunties, on to another and I hope better place now, shadows of the past.

  Aunt Beattie used to say that Ethel, her sister and our mother, was born angry, even before she married my father and her own marriage troubles started. Beatt said even as a child Mom was always discontented and mardy. You’d have thought Beattie would have been the one to have more reason to be angry with life, left like that, a mother to six others. But I remember her as always kindly and of good cheer and she outlived the lot of them. She was the one who helped me later on through all the worst times with Mom, bless her heart.

  One day Beattie took it into her head to have her portrait taken and I’ve still got it somewhere. It’s like a postcard. Her hair was long and thick and she wore it swept back but softly, in a bun. She wasn’t a beauty but she had a round, smiling face and to me it was always one of the loveliest I ever saw. I’ll never forget Beatt. She never married, you might say a shame, but I suppose she had had had her fill of children at a young age and she was an angel to me, always. I wish I’d asked her more about how she managed. I can hardly imagine now in that cramped little hovel with no money coming in. She always said she had good neighbours and she went out and collared hard for all her brothers and sisters. There were plenty of factory jobs if you were prepared to knuckle down. And she did outwork as well – buttons and boxes for a jeweller’s and the others helped as they could.

  Our mom got married to get away from home. Or maybe she thought she’d escape her own unhappy nature, but of course she took that with her in her little bundle of clothes and brewed up an even worse one once she got there.

  Never were two people more mismatched than our parents, Alf and Ethel Parsons. Pa slunk away to the usual hideouts of an unhappy husband – the pub and the bottle. He was never even blessed with a drunkard’s luck. Mom played the role of the miserable nagging wife, turning to the bottle and screaming at her husband. They had us four, me first, closely followed by Eric, then Irene who had terrible asthma, bless her and passed away when she was barely six, then Bert. Apart from that Mom and the Old Man just about managed to ‘cohabit’ as they say these days. That was the best you could say. I wonder now, if our mother and father had met by chance in the street, whether they would have given each other the time of day. All I can say is, easier divorce is one of the best things ever to happen in this country.

  Thank heaven for Aunt Beatt, the one source of real love and light in our lives. I bless her for ever.

  What are my memories of my mother, in our little house in Deritend?

  This sentence ends at the bottom of the page but when I turn to the next it does not seem to continue. I find myself surfacing from the world to which Dorrie has taken me, this old city of cobbled streets and back-to-back houses on yards and factories and workshops at every turn.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I remind myself. ‘I really must go and get the shopping.’ I’m intent on getting to Sheila’s later.

  I have already got through quite a number of the pages. It’s obviously important to Dorrie that I read it. I felt that coming off her, a kind of urgency. And for some reason she wants me to read it, not Ian. Is that just a woman-to-woman thing? It’s hard to tell.

  But we are almost out of milk and I really must get something for Ian even if I don’t care all that much about eating – it’s the least I can do, with me not working.

  Reluctantly I slide the papers back into the envelope and take it upstairs. Hardly knowing why I am still being secretive, I lift some of the shirts in my drawer and lay it underneath again.

  Thirteen

  FLAGS

  ‘Hello, love.’ Sheila welcomes me with a kiss, which makes me extraordinarily happy. ‘Come on in, make yourself comfortable – we might have a few extra today as it’s Christmas.’

  Christmas. Something Ian and I have been determinedly trying not to think about. But the shops are jangling and bulging with it and it hits me with a tinsel shock when I walk into Sheila’s house. The tree, with coloured lights, is already visible through the window and there are coloured bulbs taped all round the mantelpiece, candles burning in little holders between the photographs, reflecting in the mirror behind, and a candle centrepiece on the table in a nest of holly and mistletoe. The dog is basking, the cat is on the sofa smirking and all is cosy and lovely.

  So far at home we have managed to deny it is happening and not do anything about it. Ian hasn’t said anything. So, as usual, we are not saying anything about . . . anything.

  Sunita is here already and Liz, who I’ve met once at the first class. I join them at the table, feeling vaguely embarrassed that Liz’s one impression of me will be as a sobbing wreck. As well as the candle decoration there is a pile of white side plates on a red crêpe paper cloth, cups and saucers and red paper napkins.

  ‘Who else is coming? Sunita asks.

  ‘Mary said she might,’ Sheila says, passing through towards the kitchen. ‘Oh – and Kim, of course.’

  ‘Mary?’ Sunita’s brow crinkles. She’s looking especially cuddly today, in a red mohair jumper with a woolly brown reindeer’s head on the front. ‘Oh, yes, Mary,’ she says vaguely. ‘The old lady?’

  Sheila, at the kitchen door, looks at her with some asperity. ‘Not that much older than me, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh –’ Sunita rolls her eyes at Liz and me – ‘I suppose not. Sorry.’

  The bell rings and I’m nearest to the door, so I turn myself into door monitor.

  The first time, I find Kim outside.

  ‘Oh, hello, Jo!’ She gives me a big hug, which immediately starts up tears in my eyes. She releases me but keeps her hands on my shoulders and her brown eyes look into mine. ‘How lovely to see you. Great that you can come to Sheila’s – I wish I could get here more often.’

  As Kim goes inside and I hear sounds of greeting, I see Pat hurrying along the road, so I wait, half closing the door.

  ‘Hello,’ Pat says as I open again, hearing her on the path. She gives her reserved smile, but there is warmth in it.

  ‘I seem to be the door person,’ I say, glad to have something to do. ‘You go on in.’

  Hayley arrives a bit late, looking cute as usual in a fuzzy pink hat and gloves, and gives her gorgeous smile.

  ‘Come on in, Jo,’ Sheila calls, in her semi-commanding way. ‘If Mary was coming she’d be here by now.’

  I’m touched to see they have kept my seat, which is now between Liz and Kim. Everyone looks round and smiles as I come in. Sunita’s hair looks ruffled a
s usual and Hayley has hers up in an immaculate French pleat.

  ‘Now,’ Sheila says, standing over us all. She has lit the candle in the middle of the table and is holding a sheaf of paper under her arm. ‘Before we start filling our faces, I thought we’d do a little icebreaker – just for fun. It’s a way of us all getting to know each other better. So – here, each take a sheet or two of paper . . .’

  ‘Ooh . . .’ Sunita says, pulling her mouth down as if to say, We’d better do as we’re told.

  Oh, no – really? I think, feeling dismayed and trapped. Why can’t we just talk and have tea without all this? We’re not children! I like Sheila, but I find her head-teacher-ish ways a bit difficult. I’ve had enough of this sort of thing at work. Two packets of coloured felt pens appear on the table. We all look at each other, apparently caught between amusement and a reluctance to be bossed about. But we are in Sheila’s house, accepting her hospitality, so we play along.

  ‘Now – what you need to do,’ Sheila instructs us, still standing, ‘is to draw a flag. In fact, the paper is a flag.’ She pauses as we all look up at her, baffled. ‘Not just any flag, but the flag of you. So . . . you draw about four things, more if you want. Three things which say something about you and who you are and one which says something about a dream for the future – you know, if you’ve always wanted to go sky-diving or to – I don’t know – write poetry . . .’

  We all laugh politely.

  ‘OK.’ Kim seems hesitant but willing and reaches for a sheet of paper. ‘Come on then, ladies – let’s give it a go.’

  After some muttering and sharing out of pens and paper and Sheila sitting down, we all go quiet. I still feel resentful about being forced into this. For a moment I sit feeling really annoyed and trapped and wonder whether to just get up and leave. For some reason being obliged to share anything in this artificial way feels really threatening. But I don’t want to offend Sheila, or lose the beginnings of the friendships I might make here. Sunita gives a little sigh and sets to work. Hayley is drawing away and Kim, to my right, also sets to and begins to sketch something with a lime-green pen.

  What the hell? I think and pull the lid off the orange one nearest me. It smells pungent – of childhood. I sit thinking for a moment, then start to draw.

  ‘Right . . .’ Sheila, who has been drawing herself, breaks into the unusual quiet. I don’t know how much time has passed, maybe as much as ten minutes. ‘Everyone finished? I’m going to fill the teapot and then we can tell each other about them.’

  Kim gets up to help her and soon we’re scooping the pens out of the way and holding our ‘flags’ on our laps to make room for the tea and milk jug, the plates of stollen and hot mince pies.

  ‘That was fun!’ Hayley says. She seems enlivened by the exercise.

  ‘Are you missing school?’ I tease her.

  Hayley puts her head on one side. ‘D’you know what, in a way, yes. I’m saving up to go to college. One day I just thought, I’m twenty-five, all this time I’ve been doing dead-end jobs, retail and all that sort of thing. And I thought, what was it I wanted to do with my life again?’

  ‘Do you want to go first and tell us about your flag, Hayley?’ Sheila asks. She’s pouring tea and we all offer the plates of cakes round.

  ‘All right!’ She giggles, sitting up straight. She has on a cream polo-neck jumper, fluffy, like most things she wears. Hayley draws the paper from her lap and holds it up.

  ‘Ok –’ she points – ‘so that’s me when I was little, doing ballet.’

  Everyone laughs with recognition. ‘Hey, that’s lovely,’ Pat says. ‘You’re really good at drawing, Hayley!’

  I’m impressed – the little ballerina cartoon with a swinging ponytail is really good.

  ‘Oh, well . . .’ Hayley blushes. ‘I used to do a bit. Anyway –’ she points at a cartoon face with glasses and curly hair – ‘that’s my nan. She’s a star, Nan is, and I’ve always spent a lot of time with her. And this is our cat, Piggles.’

  ‘Piggles?’ Sunita chuckles, bemused. ‘I like Piggles.’

  ‘He’s gorgeous – all big and fluffy, he’s a tabby,’ Hayley says. ‘Anyway, this last one is my dream.’ It just shows a young smiling face, again with the swinging ponytail, and big cartoon glasses. ‘That’s me going to college . . .’

  ‘To do what?’ Sheila asks.

  ‘Oh – I haven’t quite decided. A beauty therapist, maybe? I just want to do something better with my life,’ she finishes earnestly.

  Sheila looks as if she might have things to say on this subject but she seems to decide not to.

  Liz, next to me, goes next. She’s a shy woman, not much of a talker. She has drawn a rough Union Jack – ‘Well, I’m English, so I thought . . .’ A band of dark blue and white stripes – ‘We’re big Birmingham City fans –’ and some flowers because she loves doing her garden. ‘My dream at the moment,’ she concludes, ‘is to get the extension on the house finished.’

  Everyone smiles politely.

  ‘Why don’t you go next, Sheila?’ Kim says.

  ‘Oh, mine won’t take long.’ Sheila seems quite bashful and I realize that though she’s orchestrating this game it’s not because she’s dying to talk about herself. And I’m beginning to see that this is a good idea after all. Already we’re loosening up, learning things about each other. And it dawns on me, with shame after my annoyance at the whole thing, that she might even have thought of doing this to help me.

  ‘So,’ she begins. ‘I was a teacher, middle years and assistant head. That’s a blackboard, by the way, and chalk, in case any of you young things have never seen one! That’s a mushroom and a cross. I’ve been Brown Owl with the Brownies for years and years, then a Guide Leader – now I volunteer with the Red Cross. That odd-looking thing is a mortar board – I did a degree with the Open University eventually, after I retired.’

  ‘Wow – good for you!’ several voices say, including mine.

  ‘And that, believe it or not, is me sitting cross-legged. So, my dream is to carry on doing yoga and to be able to tie my shoelaces and put my own knickers on for the rest of my life.’

  Amid the laughter, Kim reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ll see what we can do, Sheila!’

  Sheila gives her a wry smile and touches Kim’s hand in return. ‘Go on – you go next. After a top-up, maybe? Let me go and make another pot.’

  There’s an intermission of chat and people popping to the loo and I eat a piece of stollen, sweet and delicious.

  ‘OK,’ Kim says, once everyone is back. ‘Well – this is the OM symbol in the Devanagari script. As you know, yoga has been – is – very important to me. It’s helped me through a lot.’ She looks down for a moment, seemingly emotional. ‘Anyway, these are my kids, my lovely Laura and Joe – don’t know what I’d do without them either. Laura’s fourteen and Joe’s twelve.’ She glances at me for a second, as if having a horrible feeling that she’s said the wrong thing, but I smile at her. What is she supposed to say except what is true? I like Kim a lot and I don’t want her to feel bad about the fact that she has two living, healthy children. And I feel surprised and pleased at being able to feel this. ‘Oh, and this is Eddie, of course – he’s my partner!

  ‘These hopeless little wavy bits are supposed to be the sea in Devon – my happy place. We’ve been there lots, with the kids. And this – this is me trying to draw hands reaching out. So this is my dream. I’ve just decided . . .’ She puts the paper down and looks round. ‘The thing is . . .’ And suddenly she’s talking directly to me, as the newest person in the room. ‘I was a midwife until quite recently. Various things happened – mainly because of the pressure of the job. I mean, sad things do happen sometimes, of course, but one of our patients died and it should never have happened and I . . .’ She looks down for a moment. ‘Well, I had a bit of a breakdown, wasn’t coping, so I stopped. I really miss it. I miss helping and I miss the women . . .’

  ‘You help us,’ Pat says i
n her quiet way.

  Kim smiles. ‘That’s sweet, thanks, Pat. And I’m going to carry on with yoga – I love it. But I’ve just decided, I can’t face going back into midwifery, not the way the Health Service is at the moment. I’ve just booked to go on a course to train as a doula.’

  Everyone looks blank except Pat, who says, ‘Oh – fantastic idea!’

  ‘It’s a growing thing,’ Kim says. ‘I mean, it’s a very old thing, actually, but it’s coming back – a doula accompanies a woman through her pregnancy and the birth. As well as the midwife, I mean. You get to know them beforehand and support them, especially emotionally. You sort of go through the journey with them. It’ll be such a privilege – if they’ll have me.’

  ‘Of course they’ll have you!’ Sunita and Hayley both say.

  ‘Will you get paid?’ Sheila asks.

  ‘Yes – a bit, I think.’ Kim beams at us, her lovely dark-eyed face all lit up. ‘I’m really excited about it.’

  ‘You’ll be really good,’ I say, before thinking, How would I know? But she will, I can just tell. Kim is exactly the sort of person you’d want alongside you when you were giving birth.

  ‘Thanks, Jo, that means a lot.’ She puts her hand on my back for a moment. ‘Would you like to go next?’

  My heart starts to thud really fast and my breathing goes shallow. Why is this so hard?

  ‘OK.’ Get it over. Feeling shy I hold up my paper. ‘I’m not much of a drawer either. So this is me in my old job.’ I have done a little cartoon of myself from the back, looking into a small group of faces. ‘I’m – or I was – a teacher too. Primary. This is –’ I seem to be gabbling – ‘me and Ian, my husband, and our son Paul.’ Between Ian and myself and Paul, I have drawn a jagged line. But I know I have to talk about it. They know already that something happened, this new group of people, in this new life I’m trying to make. I must, must . . . ‘That’s how it feels – like a broken window.’