My organization slows as new discoveries cause me to pause and take a closer look at each of the items I find. There are very old books, dark in color and bound with fabric. There are loose pieces of paper, yellowed with age, together with records from my dad’s navy days, and dozens of old tools from a time before they were electric or cordless. I find a theater program for April 1935, for the Orient Kinema on Sword Street in Glasgow, announcing the showing of a Shirley Temple film and the next week a film with Laurel and Hardy. I reverently turn the program over to find an information sheet of the time: countries and their capitals, including Ceylon, which later becomes Sri Lanka, and China with its capital city of Nanking. It lists the census figures of 1931. There were less than five million people in Scotland, and England and Wales had just under forty million. This is a brief memorandum of the time. I stare at it intently, wondering how it came into my dad’s possession, particularly as he would have been only about four years old in 1935, and I wonder why he had kept it for more than seventy years. Had it some correlation to his birth year— 1931? I can wonder all I want; chances are I will never find out. Chagrined, I recognize the blunt fact is that it is too late to ask my father about this, or any of the other items I find here in the attic.
I move to another box, kneeling on the floor beside it, ignoring the aged dust wiping itself against my clothes. I find many notebooks, or exercise books as they are called in England, each with a different and faded colored cover. As I thumb through them, I see each is filled with notes on a different subject, written in a meticulous hand, and with carefully crafted colored diagrams and drawings. The drawings appear to relate to engines, or something mechanical. I think perhaps they have something to do with Dad’s career as a marine engineer mechanic with the Royal Navy. Were these notes created as part of his training, during a class? Was he required to have notes of this kind at hand to help with his work in the engine room onboard ship? Or did my father make these notes of his own volition, deciding to diligently make and maintain his own record of the key information on the engines he was working with and servicing? No matter the motivation behind these carefully crafted drawings, they are now a memorial of something central to his life. I run my fingers across the faded red cover of a notebook, thinking of the book in my father’s hands, the pages carefully turned, each new page becoming a tangible expression of some task or project he was working on. I hold the book to my chest and close my eyes. I deeply inhale the aged air around me. For a moment I am transported back in time and remember when my father was a young man, lean, eager, full of vigor and motivation. I exhale and open my eyes now moist with the memories. I miss him.
I continue with my inspection of another box in front of me, finding inside some old books and a large wooden cigar box still with colorful, exotic labels attached to it. Inside the cigar box there are hundreds of photographs—all sizes, and ages. Most are black and white, and all collected during the lifetime of my parents. I set the photographs aside. I will visit them later.
I pick up the old books. I hold them reverently, turning them over in my hand and scanning the black leather-bound covers for more information. They are apprenticeship books from my dad’s days as an apprentice carpenter. I look inside the cover at the copyright notice for the publication date, and also see my father’s name and the year written in pencil: Ian Denny, 1944. Dad had left school at around thirteen or fourteen years of age and was sent to learn a trade: carpentry. Throughout my life Dad had made most of the furniture in the house—the bedroom sets, wardrobes, tables. Older English houses did not have walk-in closets, so wardrobes had to be bought, or built. I scan through the carpentry books and imagine my father as a young lad leafing through the pages, reading, learning his trade all those decades ago.
I put the trade books to one side, then one by one I pick up and scan through some exercise books stacked neatly at the bottom of the box. I carefully turn the yellowed pages, looking with wonderment at my dad’s beautiful handwriting. My finger traces the curves and loops of the inked letters. The penmanship would have been extraordinary for a woman, but for a man with little education it is a form of artwork. The meticulous notes show how hard my father must have worked even as a young man to not only improve his writing, but also make sure his work was as good as he could make it. He had held himself to high standards, wanting to improve himself and his lot in life. He had imposed his high standards on me during my years as a young student; he was often relentless with his discipline of me, but I know now that he did not impose on me any more expectation and discipline than he had placed on himself.
I sit back on my heels as my analytical mind begins to connect the dots between events from the past and the items I am now discovering in the attic. Since my father’s death I had felt as though I have been wearing a heavy cloak of guilt because during my adult life I had only thought about myself, did what I wanted to do, giving little thought to my dad, my mum, or even my sister. But now my mind goes back to my own childhood and to the books, dictionaries, maps, science manuals, and math books, all of the educational materials my dad had incessantly bought for me. He was strict about me doing my homework, and goodness help me if I didn’t get good grades in school. In junior school I was Head Girl and Head Prefect. I was head of my student house. At sixteen I was awarded a full scholarship to the Royal Academy and, at that time, was one of the youngest students to ever attend the Royal Academy. I analyze my thoughts, my education, my father’s strictness and firm impetus. As children we think our parents are mean, they don’t understand us, they are too strict; they make up unnecessary rules. They make our lives unnecessarily difficult. My father had wanted me to be well educated, to get the education that he never had. He had wanted me to do well in life. I had complained and grumbled at the unfairness of my dad and his always pushing me, punishing me. Nothing was ever good enough; it could always be better. And if I didn’t get it right, or if I spoke back and complained, there was the belt or his hand putting me back in my place, or hours spent in the dreaded corner. Actions which by today’s standard would seem abusive were many decades ago the signs of a caring parent.
My father was born poor and one would think without prospects. He never complained about his circumstances. He had simply done what he could to educate himself, and to do well in life and provide for his family. He had pushed me as his daughter to take that vision even further and I had. I am well educated. I am well traveled. I have learned much from living with diverse cultures, and through my life experiences. I admit that I am where I am today less because of my own efforts but more because of my father’s discipline and impetus. Perhaps my life travels and education were exactly what my dad had wanted for me. Perhaps my dad was proud of what I had accomplished. My cloak of guilt becomes a little lighter, as the burdens I carried are now lifted from my shoulders.
With a renewed vigor I sort through lamps, Christmas decorations, bits and pieces of Dad’s navy uniforms. I am astounded at the number of items that I find that I have never seen before but which obviously exist, and have been in my parents’ possession for many decades. But then, sorting among all these objects, I find a true treasure. At the bottom of a box and wrapped in greaseproof paper and then again a plastic bag, I find a very old book. I gingerly unwrap the book from the paper. It is a book on household management for running a household at the early part of the twentieth century. It appears to have a wealth of information on what women were expected to know and do during this time in history. The book appears to have belonged to my Granny Denny, who as a young girl had been in service, but the book was passed on to my father at the woman’s death. I gingerly turned the pages, but they are crisp, fragile with age, and are falling apart in my hands. The first pages are missing, so there is no copyright notice or indication of a publication date on the book. I have never seen this book before. It has obviously been in the family for decades, possibly for more than a hundred years judging by its content, yet I hadn’t even known it existed. I would l
ove to know more about it, ask about its provenance. I realize that there is so much about my family, my heritage that I don’t know. Time is running out to get that family history from those elders who can tell it best. I carefully wrap the book back in its paper and plastic bag. This needs to be preserved. I put it to one side, taking stewardship of this piece of family history.
“Laraine! Are you all right up there?” Mum’s distant call interrupts my inventory taking.
“I’m fine, Mum. Did you need anything?” I shout down through the two floors of the house.
“No. I’m just checking. You’re awfully quiet up there.”
“It’s all good. I’ll be down shortly.”
Before calling it quits for the day, I look back through the dusty dimness and take stock of the items I have seen. I look around at Dad’s treasures, each memorializing a particular part of his life and the people he encountered. Obscure objects but of such importance to him, he had kept them, some as long as seventy years: each giving a sense of what had been important to Dad.
I smile to myself, now knowing what I can do for my father. I will give his eulogy and here is its theme. I can’t speak knowledgeably about my dad per se, because I had spent so little time with him, but I can speak about these treasures he had kept and link them to the timeline of his life. Through these objects I will tell his story and ensure his memory lives on.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I am twenty-one and pregnant, alone, unprepared, unsure of where my own life is going, let alone knowing how to take responsibility for another life.
I return to England from Cairo a few days before my twenty-first birthday, pretending this important milestone is the reason I returned home to be with my family. In cooler England, I am able to hide behind the more casual and bulky clothing I can wear, knowing within time I would not have been able to fit into the tight, revealing show costumes. Better to leave based on my own decision than wait for the embarrassing telltale signs to emerge, which inevitably would create ugly gossip and my firing from the group. The group is contracted to work around the Middle East. Local societies do not tolerate a girl in my condition.
At first, my lean dancer’s body does not put on too much weight, and I have been able to laugh with my family and friends that my weight gain is the result of my currently inactive lifestyle. I can’t tell my parents what the weight really is. They would be shocked, angry, among other emotions, but happiness would not be one of them.
My naïve mind is convinced that Mimis, the Greek agent, will come through for me, take care of me. My parents will see that everything will be all right, that I have my life organized. After all he loves me, doesn’t he? That’s what he has told me over and over again. He bought me presents, earrings, a gold ring. We spent every moment we could together in Cairo. When I told Mimis I was pregnant, it was he who suggested I return home to England, to get the best medical care for the baby and me. He said he would make arrangements for us all. His suggestion made sense to me. He is concerned about the baby and me.
For a couple of weeks after I return home, Mimis telephones from wherever he is in Europe to see how I am doing. To me, the calls all the way from Europe are proof that the man loves me, will be there for me. I trust him. The phone is in the hallway by the front door, and each time he calls, I sit on the lower stairs quietly talking to him, keeping my conversation as private as I can, not wanting my parents to hear. Mimis tells me he loves me. I whisper into the phone that I love him too. I become more elated with each call, imaging the life the three of us will live together. Will it be in Spain, in Greece?
But then one day like a shocking splash of ice water on my face, I realize that the calls have stopped. They simply cease to come. During the last call, Mimis told me that he would call me again in a couple of days. I wait and wait, but the call never comes. For weeks afterward, each time the phone rings, I tense, my senses tuning into the shrill ringing in the hallway, hoping, praying, that it is him. It never is.
I am now four months pregnant. I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I won’t let my mind formulate the obvious. Finding clothes big enough to accommodate the extra bulk is becoming difficult. Hiding my condition from my parents is becoming virtually impossible. My mum has started asking questions about my weight, the tone of the questions suspicious. I laugh off the concern, but in reality I am becoming physically and mentally desperate. Each day that passes without a call is another slap in the face, that I am stupid, that I have it all wrong.
Within time I become resigned to the fact that I have been abandoned. My baby’s father conveniently and cowardly taking the “easy way out,” disappearing from our lives, leaving me alone to cope with my pregnancy and without coping mechanisms, other than my tears. I don’t know what to do. I have no resources. I tell no one.
My life becomes a routine of misery. As soon as my parents leave the house for work in the morning, I release the smiles and easygoing banter I share with them, and walk into the living room, where I take my position on the couch and begin to cry, wailing to myself, my arms wrapped around my body, rocking back and forth, my mind unable to comprehend this awful position that I find myself in.
How did this happen? Why have I been abandoned? What have I done to deserve this? What am I going to do?
I am numb, unable to answer my own questions. I stay there on the couch all day, sitting, doing nothing. I don’t eat, don’t drink. Penance for my sins. I am oblivious to my surroundings, oblivious to the changing light and shadows in the room as the sun rises throughout the morning and then descends in the afternoon. I don’t move, my active mind focusing only on my inner thoughts, reliving the events of the past few months, trying to analyze what went wrong. What did I do wrong? What had I done for this man to discard me like an inconsequential piece of lint?
Just before my parents come home in the evening, I finally get up and go to the tap and bathe my red, swollen eyes with the cold water, touching up my face with makeup if needed, trying to hide the shock of my day. By the time my parents arrive home, I have reattached my smile, and the consummate actress in me pretends everything is fine, that I have had a good day.
The weeks pass. It is May and the weather is warmer. I can no longer hide my body behind winter sweaters. The winter sweaters can no longer be used to hide the fact that I keep my pants unzipped at the waist. I know I must eventually go to the doctor. Now seven months pregnant, that time has come. I wait for a day when both my parents are at work. I don’t need an appointment. I know the surgery hours and simply just have to show up and sign in. Mustering the little courage that I have, I go to see the doctor.
I sit on a wooden chair in the waiting room, feeling as if all eyes are on me, as if my shame stands out like a neon light, drawing attention, announcing, “Look at this shameful person!” I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I stare at the notices on the wall, listening as names are called and aware of the movements around me as people go back to see the doctor.
I sit motionless, but my mind is running wildly. What am I going to say to the doctor? How am I going to tell my parents? What am I doing here? How did it come to this? My name is called, and as my mind snaps to the present, my nerves take control. I stand up feeling obvious, as if my condition is on display to the world. I am wearing my loosest jeans and largest top, yet know they look too small for me. I slowly follow the nurse through the door to the back rooms and enter the doctor’s office as directed. My mind is unfocused; I am in a daze. I see Dr. Brown, an older man, sitting behind his desk. I take a deep breath, but it shudders in my chest, my nerves controlling my entire body.
The doctor doesn’t look at me. His gray-haired head is bowed, looking at the notes he is writing on the last patient. I stand in the uncomfortable silence. Staring at the top of the doctor’s head, unaware of the makeup of my surroundings, I wait for the doctor’s acknowledgement, wondering how to explain my predicament, petrified of the outcome. But, Doctor Brown takes his time, ignoring me. He
moves at his own pace, leaving my nerves to grow and take control, shaking me as they rattle around my body.
Finally, the doctor puts his pen down, puts the notes in a tray, takes off his glasses, and looks up at me. Before the doctor even speaks to me, I stammer, “I . . . I . . . I think I’m pregnant.”
Doctor Brown takes one look at my belly and immediately says, “I think you are!”
I feel stupid. To the experienced eye my pregnancy is obvious. I wonder who else has realized my condition but has not said anything to me. I momentarily wonder about what might have been said behind my back, but then I quickly push the question aside. It doesn’t matter now. My pregnancy is something that can no longer be hidden. I am here to face the consequences.
After examining me, and asking about my circumstances, the doctor dispassionately advises me to put the baby up for adoption. It is clear he doesn’t think too much of me, a reckless young woman with no morals. I am told it will be better to give the child up for adoption so I can get on with my life and allow the child to be raised by people who can offer him more than I ever could. I feel cheapened by his words. He clearly assumes I am not going to do much with my life, and that I am more interested in getting on with enjoying my life and that I don’t want to be distracted by a baby. But as I sit in the doctor’s office, listening to his cold chastisement and assessment of my morality, I think back to my time in Egypt, to the Lebanese palm reader and the three things he had told me: I was going to be famous; I was going to make my future husband unhappy; I was only ever going to have one child, a son.
It does not matter whether the palm reader’s predictions are true or not. What does matter is that he told me I was only going to have one child and that thought stayed with me long after I left Egypt and returned to England. It had germinated in my mind over the months. Now listening to the doctor telling me to give my child up for adoption, I wonder, But what if this is the only child I will ever have? How can I ever give him away? It is the 1970s, but there is still a stigma attached to being an unwed mother. Can I live with that stigma? I have two months to decide.
Our Grand Finale Page 14