Mother Knew Best

by Dorothy Scannell

  The great day arrived and we all trooped out eagerly, none so eager or confident as my father. He looked at my mother’s unbelieving countenance and shook his head. ‘Your mother’s never encouraged me,’ he said. ‘She is an obstinate woman who won’t ever move with the times.’ A sniff from Mother. When we were all present and quiet, with the air of centuries of mushroom-growing in his blood, he threw open the lid of the growing-box. We all believed there would be hundreds and hundreds of Mrs Spink’s ‘edgicated’ mushrooms with their dear little white elf’s roofs. Dead silence, for where the mushrooms should have been were mouse-holes, the whole being covered by a ghostly sheet of filmy cobwebs. Mother turned and walked slowly into the house, Father gazing after her with a look of intense hatred. I really believed it was Mother’s fault that the mushrooms had not appeared.

  Then all hell broke loose, we all scattered into the house finding various secret corners where we could let loose our hysterical laughter. Mother was under the table shaking and pretending to dust the floor. Someone else was hanging on to the roller-towel in the scullery, and laughter, albeit choked laughter, came from all parts of the house. It was vital we should get it out of our systems before the raging mushroom farmer fell down the back steps. We could all control ourselves when necessary if we didn’t look at each other; it was when one of us caught sight of another’s eyes that things became dangerous. We all seemed to be reading and engrossed when Father finally appeared, a beaten man. ‘The bloody News of the World.’ he said. ‘It’s a put on, and I’ve a good mind to write to them.’

  His next venture was chinchilla rabbits. Fur coats for all and pelts to sell to the West End. They were such pretty little things and there was so much distress in the family at the time of their death that Father blamed our ‘weak stomachs’ for the failure of this venture. I believe Marjorie did get a muff out of the chinchilla venture but our disgust at the pelts hanging to dry and our warnings to Marjorie of anthrax and other diseases soon relegated this muff to the dustbin.

  A friend of Father’s, having a delicate son, decided he would keep chickens: eggs for his son, and eggs to sell to make the family rich. He spent his hard-earned money and time on these chickens, but was unable to stop them from eating their eggs. He was determined to cure these cannibals and he carefully broke eggs, which he bought, filled these eggs with a mustard solution and placed them among the chickens at dead of night. But as soon as the chickens laid a real egg they gobbled it up. He bought some fertile eggs and sat a broody hen on them, but the eggs became addled, the hen having no maternal feelings whatsoever, having eaten as many as she could. He was not going to be done, the thought of his delicate son spurred him on, and he visited Club Row, near Petticoat Lane, and bought some day-old chicks. He nursed them like a mother but they all began to ail and die. He was frantic and made a little coop for them which he covered with wire netting and placed on top of the garden shed in the warm sunshine. Victory was his, for out of the thirteen baby chicks he had purchased, one survived, and it was healthy and chirpy, and this little chick made up for all the heartbreak and expense of the venture. One day the little chick was able to put his head through the wire netting to view the beautiful world for which he had been so carefully nurtured, and the cat next door bit off his head.

  As our family began to get older, and even when they were still at home, they pursued their various industrious private lives, so mealtimes became an almost continuous running buffet for Mother. My father always seemed to be having his dinner in solitary state, possibly he arranged this from choice for he always said a lot of women together gave him a headache because they were always ‘chewing the bloody fat.’ This uncouth expression, which amused the boys, was treated with the ladylike contempt it deserved by the girls and went right over little Marjorie’s head, for she began to recite all those members of the family who didn’t appreciate fat meat.

  It is true he began to enjoy his meals in private, but he couldn’t have everything and he often found he was the focal-point for pairs and pairs of intensely staring eyes, for at tea-time, being a working man and the goose which laid the golden eggs (somewhat tarnished eggs, I thought), he was treated to some delicacy which the rest of us had not received. He was fascinating to watch for he ate so differently from Mother. She was never meant by nature to be the poor mother of ten, and the wife of my father, for in everything she did was an inborn deftness and refinement. To see her cut a tomato or peel an apple, or make pastry was a delight, and she ate her meals as I always imagined a queen would eat them, but Father, well… The first thing he did when a lovely meal was placed in front of him was to reach for his knife, and like a builder mixing cement he would mix and churn it all up so that it was unrecognisable from the original dish. Stewed cherries and custard would soon become a pink nothingness, and we could never take our eyes off this gourmand. Sometimes he would rub the top of his head uncomfortably and say to Mother, ‘Haven’t the children had their dinner? Have you given them enough to eat? They are looking at me as though I have robbed them.’ But we still continued to gaze at him until he had devoured the last morsel, when he would suck in his moustache and wipe it on the napkin Mother provided for him.

  He had two favourite dishes. One was the enormous Cornish pasty Mother would make for him to take to work, and this he called Man Friday’s Footprint. He used to say it was the envy of all his mates. The other was curry, and however hot Mother made this curry he always said it wasn’t hot enough. He really made this remark from force of habit, like the farmer who once a year closes his footpath to the public. Father had to stress that all was not perfect with Mother or else she might get ideas above her station as a wife, I always thought.

  One Saturday we were all at home to dinner together— with the exception of Father. The others had curry. I detested it, and, to Amy’s annoyance, I had something different. Mother said to Amy, ‘Well, it’s no good giving curry to Dolly, she won’t eat it,’ but I knew from Amy’s look that had she been my mother I would have. Amy loved curry so I thought she might like my share. One and all, without exception, complained that the curry was too hot, and Mother remarked that she was sorry but that it was an ill wind which blew nobody any good and for once Dad would be pleased with the curry. When he finally appeared and sat down to his meal, we all, being sufficiently repleted, began our staring act at our bringer of fertility, waiting for his applause and compliments to the hot curry, knowing this would please Mother. He performed his cement-mixing act. Whether it was the girls’ silent disapproval of this I don’t know, but after the first mouthful he announced in moaning and irritable tones, ‘Just the same as ever, why can’t you do as I ask, Mother, and make curry hot; hot, that’s what curry is supposed to be.’ Our stares turned into looks of amazement as he kept on grumbling.

  In the end little Marjorie got up and brought back from the scullery the tin of Eastern Promise, the foreign hot curry powder Mother obtained especially for Father. ‘Shake a little bit of this on, Dad, it will mix in, I’m sure.’ Father looked at Mother and she looked at him and between them passed one of those looks which only husband and wife can exchange. She was gently smiling her Mona Lisa smile and he knew that she knew he was just being awkward and wouldn’t admit that the curry was really hot and really perfect. How could he give in, one against so many? He shook a little of the curry-powder on his dinner and started the cement-mixer in motion again. He had to taste it, and to ‘make his own case good’ (one of his expressions), he had to shake on a little more to prove Mother wrong. As he shook the tin of curry-powder for the third time, he tapped the bottom of the tin gently (it was nearly full but curry sometimes clings together in a damp sort of way), and the whole contents of the tin poured on to his plate.

  A gasp went round the kitchen. Father looked at Mother like a naughty defiant boy and she looked at him with a sweet distant smile, but in that smile was ‘and it jolly well serves you right, now eat it if you dare.’ Father did dare, and to the horror and admiration
of his audience he began to eat ‘hot’ curry for once. He ate it with great relish as though he had been starving and the delight of delights had been placed before him. Shock spread to the onlookers’ surprised faces, for on Father’s nose, forehead, cheeks and chin, and even over his bald crown, beads of perspiration began to appear like diamonds. He couldn’t mop his brow, for that would have told Mother the curry was too hot, and he slowly finished his meal. With great aplomb or finesse, I thought, he took a piece of bread, gave Mother one pregnant look, and wiped his plate clean, eating this bread very slowly and somewhat painfully. Mother I know was on the point of giggling and we all held our breaths not daring to look at her.

  Father got up very slowly and left the room, closing the door behind him; we heard him dash to the scullery sink and turn the tap on and we knew he was drinking pints of water. We then heard him go upstairs, and as we saw him leave the house by the front door, dressed for his club (there was a spy watching for his departure, always) the whole family exploded with a giant burst of laughter. We were all in pain from holding back our laughter in front of Father and two of the boys were rocking on the floor. When the laughter ceased, Mother said sadly, ‘I don’t suppose Dad will ever ask me to make him curry again, and it’s his favourite meal.’ The tone of her voice sent us all off again.

  Chapter 11

  Christmas with the Cheggies

  There is something very satisfying about being a big frog in a small pond, and my twelfth year was one of my happiest. I convinced myself it was fortunate I had failed the scholarship, for life would have been learning and homework. I would have been one of the masses, whereas now I need do no schoolwork, but just lord it around the school with my little P badge; why, I was as good as a mistress. And in this year, 1923, I had the Christmas of my life, enough joy, I felt, to last me for ever.

  Christmas was always a magic time for us, there was a smell in the air quite different from any other season. I had grown out of putting my sock at the end of the bed. After all, what was the point, the fruit we used to find in our socks would be in bowls in the front room now. This special Christmas I had stocked up with books from the library and Mother was busy on Christmas Eve with the usual mince-pie making and goosestuffing. I was glad we had a goose again. The last Christmas we had sat down to an enormous baked rabbit, when it dawned on us all that it was the rabbit from the hutch in the back yard. Father had murdered it and none of us would eat it. I couldn’t possibly eat a pet, a friend, and Father had grumbled and sworn that we should all know what it was like to be starving. Mother said he lost his temper because he had a guilty conscience. We never kept a pet rabbit again.

  Agnes and Arthur were married, Charlie was a sailor, Winifred was at the bank, Leonard a sailor, Amy in a local office, David at Sir John Cass School, Cecil in an office in Bow, Marjorie and I were at school. This Christmas we would all be together.

  The family were all up when lazy Marjorie and I came down to a surprise which made us both speechless. We had never had presents at Christmas and our two places at the table were piled high. Shiny pencil-boxes with flowers on them, pens, pencils, books, red woollen gloves, sweets, a new frock. The whole family gazed and laughed at our faces, and Mother wiped her eyes. She always seemed to me to shed a few tears at the wrong things. I had such a lot of books: What Katy Did, What Katy Did Next, What Katy Did at School (I thought perhaps someone thought ‘for the want of a nail’ might mean something to me). I think Marjorie burst into tears as well.

  We spent the afternoon after Christmas dinner going over our presents. I kept wrapping mine up, putting them away in a safe place, then getting them all out again. ‘Now, Dolly,’ said Mother, ‘use them, enjoy them, don’t put them away and never have the wear out of them.’

  Father was always affable at Christmas-time; I loved the smell of his cigar and the way he winked at Mother and me. Meals were never late in our house. My friends had to wait until their fathers came home from the public houses, but my father never went to a public house, he went to his club where they played snooker, skittles, darts, etc., and he always came home for dinner at one o’clock. Tea was at 4.30 and supper at 7.30. I suppose this sticking to routine made my friends sure we were different. But it was lovely for us, especially at Christmastime; we seemed to have hours and hours more time for festivities than my friends, for theirs was a ‘hanging-about’ time waiting for their fathers. When their mothers were washing up after dinner we had even had Christmas tea and were beginning our fun.

  After tea we turned on the gramophone. It was a square mahogany box with a large green horn, and we had records of ‘The Laughing Policeman,’ Nellie Wallace, George Robey and Dame Clara Butt. As the sailor boys came home from sea more were added to our collection.

  It was after tea that the fun started, for my eldest brothers and sisters had invited friends home. We played the writing games first, consequences, and of course, my favourite, towns, countries, rivers. There was always much argument as to which letter we would use each time, and usually Winnie settled this by taking the first letter on the page from a book she would open at random. Great cries if she hit on the same letter twice in a row. The game went on for some time, usually ending when the arguments got too fierce and the answers could not be checked in the huge dictionary Winnie had won at George Green’s School.

  Having got the guests appreciably settled, Father would disappear downstairs to his barrel and his Zane Grey or Jack London book, and now the celebrations really began. The whole family, except myself, did a turn. Agnes told a sad story, Arthur sang ‘The Cornish Floral Dance’ in a sort of quavering baritone (I felt shy and wouldn’t look at him). Charlie played the mandoline, Amy frightened us all with the ‘Green Eye of the Little Yellow God,’ and at the applause, which was exceptional and meant, to Amy, an encore, she began ‘Lascar’ by Alfred Noyes. But whoever was master of ceremonies cut this encore short as there were many more performers yet. Not like me, Amy thought. I think she was right, and I was always jealous of her dramatic bent and lovely voice. David told a few jokes at which the boys screamed and Mother tutted. Cecil sang a song, for he had been in the church choir.

  I did nothing and no one pressed me about this. By tacit consent there was really nothing Dolly could do, and little Marjorie, who had left the room, now returned dressed in a sort of pale green rag. She was to do her nymph’s dance, of which she was the sole proud performer and choreographer. Mother always gazed very fondly and proudly at Marjorie as she cavorted round the room in bare feet, gazing into the woods and ferns of nymphland, and we all clapped Marjorie very loudly. I admired her for her bravery and was also jealous of her achievement. She was very pretty and always chosen for the princess or heroine in the school plays when I was the old wicked king, or Scrooge. Amy said I should take that as a compliment, but I would much rather have been the beautiful heroine.

  None of the guests performed. ‘We would rather enjoy watching,’ they all said politely. Then we had games. Snap-apple: with such a crowd of people the apples had constantly to be restrung, but Mother had set aside the round ones with strong stalks before Christmas. Snap-apple was taken in turns by seniority so I came after Cecil, which was not nice in one way for, always so vicious to the apple and determined to split it, he usually split his lip instead, so the apple had little flecks of Cecil’s blood on it when it came to my turn, but of course through Cecil’s vigour I achieved a bit, then I received my applause of the evening.

  We played Family Coach, where Arthur told such a wonderful tale that most of us were caught, so engrossed were we with his story. We put the Tail on the Donkey, Mother loved that game. We played All Birds Fly, and laughed when one of the guests raised his hand at ‘elephants fly.’ It took ages for everybody to do their forfeits. And there were the super games where you can catch people who haven’t played the game, and so it was lovely to have guests, for sometimes they knew games we didn’t and vice versa.

  This Christmas we played Confessions. Arthur dress
ed up as a clergyman and in his flat country vicar’s hat he balanced a large amount of water. As each person entered the room he had to kneel in front of the priest and confess his sins, and when the priest bent to give him absolution so of course he would be soaked with water. Mother insisted each sinner wear a thick towel round his shoulders, for this game worried her. Arthur told the absolution-seekers the towel was the confessional surplice. Cecil’s friend brought the house down because, not knowing the game, he confessed he had been extra sinful and had stolen Aldgate Pump.

  We played silent charades, acting charades; Amy and I got together on charades, for it was our favourite game of the evening. I had the good ideas and she could act so perfectly.

  In one way Christmas was marred for Winnie, but she never let it rankle. She had wanted a pair of brown boots all her life. Mother had said, when Winifred was little, and pleaded for these brown boots, ‘When you grow up and go out to work you will be able to buy a pair of brown boots, but you will never be able to buy another stomach.’ Mother couldn’t manage two pairs of boots for Winnie and she had to wear black for school. Well, Winifred had now bought these brown boots, the best quality obtainable, but she had got them soaking wet in the rain, and Mother suggested she place them in the oven by the side of the kitchen fire at night when she went to bed; the warmth remaining in the oven after the fire was out would gently dry the boots.