When We Danced at the End of the Pier

by Sandy Taylor

  I thought my Uncle Fred looked like an under-ripe tomato, sort of yellow and red and patchy. I decided that even when Uncle Fred died, hopefully of something awful and painful and lingering, I would never light a candle for him in the church and I made Brenda promise she wouldn’t either. Even though I always lit a candle for two-doors down’s dog who got stood on by the milkman’s horse. I always lit a candle for that poor dog even though we weren’t that well acquainted, because I’d laughed when I was told he’d got stood on by the milkman’s horse and I’d been filled with guilt ever since. I mean, whichever way you look at it, it’s not a great way to end your days, is it?

  Aunty Marge was Mum’s other sister. She was married to Uncle John and I loved them both very much. They didn’t have any children of their own so they spoiled me and Brenda something rotten. Aunty Vera said that Aunty Marge was barren, whatever that meant. Mum said better to be barren than to produce the fat lump of humanity that Vera had managed to push out. I guessed she was talking about my cousin Malcolm, who was a horrible boy and best avoided at all costs. Mum said it amazed her that Malcolm had been the best swimmer, which amazed me because I knew for a fact that he couldn’t swim. Someone pushed him into the canal at Shoreham once and a passing boat had to fish him out and Aunty Vera had kept him in bed for a week.

  Aunty Marge and Uncle John ran a fruit stall near Brighton station and sometimes when they were busy, like Easter and Christmas, Daddy would help out and Uncle John would give him some money and a pouch of baccy. Every Sunday evening they would bring round a wooden crate filled with the fruit and veg that was about to go off. Mum said we would likely all starve to death if it wasn’t for Marge and John. Dad had said, ‘I would never let that happen, Maureen,’ and Mum had slammed the larder door.

  One day, when Mum was crashing and banging round the kitchen she said, ‘You’ve got three fathers, Maureen, and none of ’em bloody work.’

  I didn’t ask her to explain because when my mum was crashing and banging around the kitchen it was better to keep your trap shut. But if I had three fathers, where were the other two? I didn’t know anyone who had three fathers.

  I used to think about it when I was in bed and try to figure out who they might be. I liked the coalman who always pinched my cheek and left a black smudge on my face. Sometimes he gave me a Fisherman’s Friend that tasted rotten, but it was kind of him to give it to me. He said it helped to get the phlegm off his chest. I didn’t fancy having a father with phlegm on his chest. The other possibility was Mr Chu the tallyman but I think my skin would have a more Oriental sheen to it. I discounted the rag and bone man who smelled something awful and the milkman who had sticky-out ears.

  I worried about it a lot but I didn’t share my worries with anyone, not even Brenda, because if I had three fathers, God only knew how many Brenda might have had and I didn’t want her to have to worry about it. And then I realised that my mum had been telling me the truth: I really did have three fathers.

  There was the one who was gentle and kind and wise and took me and Brenda to the park. Who held our hands at the water’s edge and showed us how to skim stones over the water, who made up stories at bedtime, who played silly games with us and let us ride on his back. Then there was the daddy who shut himself in the bedroom and wouldn’t come out. The one we heard screaming out in the night, making me and Brenda cling to each other under the covers. Then there was the one who scared me. The one who laughed too loud and walked too fast so that we couldn’t keep up with him. The one who threw Brenda up in the air and caught her but didn’t realise how frightened she was and wouldn’t stop throwing her even though I was yelling at him. The one whose laughter turned to tears and who hugged us too tight and cried like a baby and kept saying, ‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’

  I had three fathers and none of ’em bloody worked.

  Four

  My dad pretty much brought me and Brenda up, on account of the fact that he couldn’t work and Mum had to go cleaning for the rich ladies. The three of us did everything together. When Brenda was very little we’d push her all the way along the seafront to the lagoon. Uncle John had found a pushchair up the council tip and cleaned it up. It worked pretty well except for the squeak but we got used to that. Sometimes, if I was tired on the way home, I would sit in the pushchair with Brenda on my lap. We spent a lot of time down the lagoon because it had a sandpit and some swings and a slide. If Daddy had any money he would let us ride on the little railway and ring the bell. There were two lakes, a big one and a little one, and running between them was a path. Me and Brenda and Daddy would lie flat on our stomachs and stare into the water at the crabs. Some boys caught the crabs by dangling string with bits of bacon on the end. We preferred watching them swimming about. Brenda used to whisper into the water, ‘Don’t touch the bacon.’

  Behind the lagoon was our favourite beach. To get to it you had to slide down a stone wall then jump onto the pebbles. I loved it best when the tide was out – I loved the way the sun shone on the shiny sand and the way the water trickled its way back to the sea. We would take off our shoes and socks and giggle as the wet sand squelched between our toes.

  Daddy would often tell us stories about his childhood in Ireland. He came from a small town called Youghal, which he pronounced as Yawl. He had nine brothers and sisters but only two of his sisters remained in Ireland. His elder sister, Mary, would write to Daddy and Daddy would read the letters out to us.

  ‘The rest of them are scattered to the four corners of the earth,’ he said. ‘But I stayed as long as I could because, to me, there was no finer place in the world.’

  ‘I wish me and Brenda could go there,’ I said.

  ‘I wish you could too. We would climb the hill together.’

  ‘What hill?’

  ‘There’s a grand big hill beyond the town that I used to climb when I was a boy. I’d stand on the top as if I was the King of the Castle and look down over the River Blackwater below me. I never tired of climbing that hill and looking down on that river.’

  ‘Couldn’t you go back?’ I asked.

  ‘Now where would your daddy get the money to be going across the Irish Sea? And why would I want to leave you and your sister and your mammy?’

  I remembered wishing that I could get some money so that Daddy could climb the hill again and look down on the river.

  Those were the long summer days by the sea when the sun warmed our skin and the blue sky went on forever.

  Come autumn, we would play in the park. Daddy would gather the fallen leaves into piles and we’d jump into them, making them fly all over the place. Then Daddy would jump in and throw great handfuls of leaves up in the air so that they tumbled round our heads. Reds and oranges and browns, clinging to our clothes and tangling our hair. We’d walk home through the park and listen to the crinkly leaves crunching beneath the wheels of the pushchair.

  In the winter we’d wait for the bad weather, the wind and the rain. Then we’d put on our raincoats and head for the seafront. This was the best game. The three of us would stand by the railings holding hands and we’d wait for the tide to bash against the sea wall, then run backwards, screaming, as the foamy white water sprayed onto the promenade.

  In the springtime we would walk for miles across the Downs, picking the wild flowers and chasing the dirty sheep. The pushchair was useless on the grass so Daddy would carry Brenda on his back. We would walk to the top of the Devil’s Dyke and look down over the valley to the little villages below us. Daddy would lie down on the grass, smoking his Senior Service fags and then he would go to sleep while Brenda and me made daisy chains that we put on our heads. When Daddy woke up, he would say, ‘What has happened to my two little girls? Someone has replaced them with two princesses.’ Then we’d jump on him and roll around on the grass.

  Those were the seasons of our life, just me and Daddy and Brenda. Most of the time it was lovely and we were happy together. Brenda was a good little girl. She rarely cried or got upset, she didn�
��t get a pain in her stomach at some of the things that Daddy did; she loved him and trusted him. Brenda was nicer than me, she was better for Daddy than I was. My little sister just accepted him. She was too young to judge him or to be embarrassed by him but sometimes I think he saw himself through my eyes and that wasn’t any good for either of us. Like the time we were on the top deck of a tram going along the seafront. Sometimes when Daddy had worked for Uncle John he would take us on the open-top tram for a treat. We always ran up the stairs to the top deck, we didn’t care a bit what the weather was like. We’d hang over the side and let our hair blow around our faces. There were lots of posh houses along the seafront and Daddy would make up stories about the people that lived there.

  ‘See that little girl playing in the garden, girls?’

  We both stared at the little girl.

  ‘Yes, Dada?’

  ‘Well, she’s a poor little orphan girl sent to live with her rich aunt and uncle.’

  ‘Are they kind to her, Daddy?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, for they had no children of their own. They cherished her.’

  ‘Cherished,’ said Brenda softly. Brenda liked new words and once she heard one she would use it for weeks, even when it didn’t make sense.

  As the tram pulled away, I twisted round in my seat to look back at the little girl.

  We were looking down into the posh people’s gardens when Daddy rang the bell to make the tram stop. We had never got off at that stop before, but I helped Brenda down the stairs while Daddy got the pushchair.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I said.

  ‘Wait and see,’ said Daddy, winking at me.

  We walked back along the road until we came to a large white house. Daddy opened the gate and started to push Brenda and the pushchair up to the front door. I hung back.

  ‘What are you doing, Daddy?’ I hissed. ‘Come back.’ I felt sick to my stomach because I hadn’t noticed anything odd about my daddy that day. I thought he was my normal daddy but there he was, pushing Brenda up the path of the posh white house.

  Oh my God, he was ringing the bloody doorbell.

  Nobody answered. ‘Come on, Daddy,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Then the door opened and a man stood there, glaring at us. He had a big fat belly that flopped over the top of his trousers and he kept licking his lips as if he still had some dinner left on them.

  Daddy tipped his forehead as if he was wearing a hat, which he wasn’t, and said, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I was wondering if—’

  The man looked at my daddy as if he’d just crawled out from under a stone.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s about the dolls’ pram, sir,’ said Daddy.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the man. ‘What are you doing in my garden?’

  Just then a woman called from inside the house. ‘Who is it, Peter?’

  ‘Some tinker feller,’ said the man. ‘Going on about a dolls’ pram.’

  ‘Tinker,’ whispered Brenda.

  I felt so angry I wanted to punch the man in his big fat belly. My daddy wasn’t a tinker, my daddy was a person just like he was – no, he was better. I pulled at my daddy’s coat. ‘Let’s go, Daddy. Let’s just go.’

  A lady came to the door and the horrible man went back inside. She smiled at us, she looked nice. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked kindly.

  Daddy touched his forehead again and I wished he wouldn’t, she wasn’t royalty.

  ‘I noticed that you have a dolls’ pram in the bushes, missus.’

  Why did he have to call her ‘missus’? ‘And I wondered if you wanted it because, if you don’t, my girls would love a dolls’ pram.’

  I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. I didn’t want a dolls’ pram. Brenda’s eyes were like two saucers. ‘Dolls’ pram?’ she said, grinning.

  The lady knelt down beside the pushchair. ‘What’s your name?’ she said, touching Brenda’s cheek.

  ‘Dolls’ pram?’ said Brenda softly.

  The lady stood up and smiled at my daddy. ‘Well, if you don’t mind pulling it out of the hedge you are very welcome to it. I was going to get rid of it anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, missus.’

  ‘I hope your girls enjoy it as much as my nieces did. It’s nice to know that it will be played with again.’

  Me and daddy hauled the pram out of the brambles. It was covered in weeds and twigs and one of the wheels was wonky.

  ‘There now, isn’t that lovely?’ said Daddy.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Brenda.

  Bloody wonderful, I thought.

  We had no more money for the tram. We started the long walk back home, with Daddy squeaking along with the pushchair and me pushing the pram with the wonky wheel.

  Five

  We thought that those days would go on forever, until the day Mum said, ‘Pat, you need to buy shoes for Maureen, she starts school next week.’

  Daddy was heartbroken and spent most of the next week shut in the bedroom. Aunty Marge had to take me to get the new shoes. But on the following Monday morning Daddy came out of the bedroom washed and dressed and announced that he would be taking me to school.

  The school was called St Mary Magdalene and it wasn’t far from where we lived in Carlton Hill. Daddy was very quiet as we wheeled Brenda along the seafront. I was quiet too, but it wasn’t because I was nervous, it was because I was excited. My new shoes were very shiny; I kept looking down at them. I was happy to go to school, I wanted to learn new things and meet new friends. I loved my daddy and my sister but I wanted to stop feeling sad and worried and I wanted to stop feeling guilty about feeling that way.

  There were lots of children and mothers and fathers in the playground. Some of the children were crying and clinging to their parents. Get a life, kids, you’re not about to be hung!

  I wanted to go to school, I really did, but I was worried about Brenda. What was going to happen if Daddy had a sad day and shut himself in the bedroom? Who would look after my little sister? Even worse were those other days when Daddy was laughing one minute and crying the next. Maybe Mum would have to take Brenda with her when she cleaned for the rich ladies. I got the feeling that they wouldn’t be that thrilled to have Brenda and the pushchair in their front garden. I knelt down beside her. ‘I’m going to school today, Brenda,’ I said. ‘But I will be home later and we’ll have our tea together, OK?’

  ‘School,’ said Brenda.

  Just then a lady came into the playground and started ringing a bell. ‘Line up,’ she shouted. ‘Boys one side, girls the other.’

  I kissed Brenda and put my arms around my daddy.

  ‘You don’t have to go, love,’ he said.

  ‘I do, Daddy. I have to go to school.’

  ‘School,’ said Brenda again.

  He was hugging me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. All the other children were lining up now and I wanted to join them – I didn’t want to be different. I pulled away from him; he had a desperate look on his face that made me want to run for the lavvy.

  ‘You have to look after Brenda, Daddy. Take her down the lagoon.’

  The children had started to file into the school. I wanted to scream at him, ‘Let me go, please let me go.’

  The lady with the bell was shouting again. ‘Will all parents please leave the playground. You can pick your children up at four o’clock.’

  ‘Take Brenda to the park,’ I hissed. ‘Go on.’

  Daddy hugged me again and I watched as he wheeled Brenda away. I could hardly see for the tears in my eyes.

  All the children had gone into the building and the playground was empty except for the bell lady, who strode across to me like a sergeant major.

  ‘Come on now, child,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  I wanted to yell at her, It’s not me that’s afraid, it’s my dad!

  Now she would think that I was one of the snivelling kids and I didn’t want her to think that.
She took hold of my hand and we walked together into the school. She showed me where to hang my coat up and then took me into my classroom. I was feeling cross and my tummy didn’t feel right. Why couldn’t my daddy just say, ‘Have a lovely time, Maureen.’ Why couldn’t he have said that?

  ‘We have a little reluctant one here,’ said the bell lady and left me standing at the front of the class. As I fixed my eyes on the floor, I could feel the eyes of all the kids gawping at me. Thanks a lot, Dad, just how I wanted to start the day.

  Then a voice said, ‘I’m your teacher.’

  I looked up. The lady standing in front of me was lovely. She had golden hair and blue eyes. ‘I’m Miss Phillips, dear,’ she said, smiling. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Maureen O’Connell,’ I said shyly.

  ‘Well, Maureen O’Connell, you have nothing to worry about here.’

  She pointed to an empty desk. ‘Would you like to sit there?’

  I nodded.

  My classroom was lovely. The walls were painted yellow and sunlight was streaming in through the long windows. There were pictures of the saints all over the walls and a wooden Noah’s Ark on a shelf with all the animals lined up, two by two. On my desk was a brand-new pencil and a book for writing in. The girl I was to sit next to had bright red hair in two long plaits. She grinned at me and said, ‘I’m Monica Maltby.’

  ‘Maureen O’Connell,’ I said and grinned back.

  ‘Shall we be friends?’