Dolly's Mixture (12 page)

Chas, too, became very attached to the shop cats. He would talk away to them in the tone a mother uses to a young baby as he prepared their food and I was forever taken back in my mind to the days of our feathered friends at Forest Gate and my father's quizzical and sceptical look as Chas talked to his birds. If my father doubted my husband's manliness because of his bird talk, I wondered what he would think of Chas's cat chats. Chas would make very sure that all the cats were safely in at night and his falsetto wailing for Min and Maudie was something to hear – or not to hear, depending upon one's mood and activities at the time. I was sure his cat-calls could be heard streets away – indeed, one man said it was like the commencement of a ‘screaming' opera.

Chas was broken-hearted, therefore, when tiny Min died out of doors one cold winter's night many years later. He had searched fruitlessly for her; it was the first time she had not appeared at his call and in the morning he found her lying beside the bush where one of her sons had been buried. It was difficult for me to express my sorrow. If I'd tried to cheer him up by saying, ‘Don't upset yourself, it was only a cat,' he would have accused me of not liking animals. Min was just a cat, but we all missed her.

My father, Walter Chegwidden, the Poplar plumber, would have thought that Chas's love for the shop cats denoted a soft, unmanly streak in my husband's character. He might even have opined, ‘Like father, like son,' not really approving of my pa-in-law's absence of male friends and his gentle devotion to his wife and family; except that on the subject of cats my father was unusually silent, fearing that his mention of these feline creatures would bring forth from mother reminiscences of the time when my father was callously cruel to one of these, God's creatures. Remembering that day, however, I was inclined to blame my mother, for it was she, on that occasion, who drove my father to the point of no return.

My mother's passion and pride in life was her window-box, always bright with plants and flowers. It wasn't in the normal position, on a window-sill, but ran the whole length of the top of the area wall, bordering the basement steps of our house in Poplar. Father had made this box for Mother; not that he had a yearning for an oasis of beauty in that East London district. He seemed never to notice the drabness of the surroundings, although our house did contain one specimen of Father's contribution to the world of art. An old army colleague of my father's had painted a picture for him. My father was proud of this and it had pride of place on the wall in our parlour. When we children puzzled as to what the picture depicted, my father would say proudly, ‘It's futuristic,' but, once having hung it, I never remember seeing him gaze at it in admiration at any time. With its hanging, it seemed to me, his stake in the world of colour and beauty was publicly announced and his conscience appeased. I couldn't understand anyone wanting such a picture, for it was nothing like the pictures I was used to and which I could understand, such as ‘The Stag at Bay', ‘The Reapers', ‘When did you last see your father?' etc. Father's soul-mate had squeezed all the tubes of oil paint he possessed on to the background, allowed them to run together, and had then varnished the object. I thought of it as ‘The Splurge'. Father said beauty was in the eye of the beholder and each person would see in the mosaic what he
wanted
to see. The Chegwiddens, including Father, all stopped looking.

But we all loved Mother's window-box flowers, for they were a curtain between us and the outside, flowerless world. In a nearby street of terraced houses lived the Gibbs family, friends of the Chegwidden children. Jackie Gibbs was my brother Cecil's bosom pal. Jackie possessed a beloved pet, a male cat. This cat, too, loved Mother's flowers and every day without fail took a constitutional from his house to ours for the sole purpose of ‘watering' Mother's flowers and plants in the window-box. These daily visits infuriated Mother. When she was in the kitchen her eyes constantly strayed upwards to gaze on the objects of her pride and joy. Father and Dolly always left the world when reading, and as Mother sighted the arrival of Jackie's cat her sudden and loud yells made Father and me nearly jump out of our skins. Perhaps Father was riding possee and about to come upon the wicked sharp-shooter, or he was the sheriff, legs astride, hand on gun, facing the deadly enemy, or I was on the school platform just about to be decorated by the Important Personage for a deed out of this world, ‘Dolly, heroine of the fourth', when our worlds were shattered by Mother's shouts and dash to the basement door to stop the unwelcome visitor commencing, or completing, the dirty deed he had come so far to achieve. Mother's interruptions also stirred in Father and me feelings of guilt that we were happy idling while she was working non-stop. It was like being woken up from a lovely dream too soon and I found it extremely difficult to get back into the world of books and fantasy.

In desperation Father obtained a catapult, intending to curtail once and for all the cat's unwelcome visits. Mother remonstrated about this because she thought her yells and fist-waving quite sufficient a deterrent. Secretly, she also thought that Father and I wasted too much time reading, it was a sort of laziness, an opting out of life. So she was pleased that her untimely interruptions worried creatures other than the marauding animal. However, the great day came when Father, who now read with the dreaded weapon by his side, was able to dismiss the cat from our lives and Mother's window-box for ever. Mother was preparing lunch one Saturday; other members of the family were due at any moment. As usual Father and Dolly were reading. It was a warm summer's day and the basement door was open. A shadow fell across the room. The cat had arrived to attend to the flowers. It gazed into the room and saw Dolly and Dad there.
They
never shouted at him, there was nothing to fear here. He actually stared at my father as my father took aim, slowly and professionally, with the catapult and small, round stone. I wanted to get up and shoo the cat away, although I thought my father just wanted to hit the window-box. Except for his wonderful batting average I had not heard he had any other sporting prowess. Suddenly, wham! The missile shot through the open door, hitting the cat between the eyes. Its blood-curdling scream turned my blood to water as Mother came tearing into the room, crying, ‘Oh Walter, what have you done?' The cat shot up into the air and disappeared. We assumed he was lying dead on the other side of the window-box.

Mother and I ran up the basement steps. There was no cat to be seen. What had happened to it? Mother imparted the news to Father, who first looked relieved, then, suddenly, was all bravado. ‘Well, he'll not come visiting again, I'll wager.' The family were sitting down to lunch when down the steps fell a frantic Cecil. He was so distraught and excited that his words seem to choke him, but at last he shouted, ‘Someone's shot Jackie Gibbs' cat and it's gone cross-eyed.' Silence from Father, Mother and Dolly, the three participants in the drama. Laughter from the rest of the family, unbelieving of Cecil. Cecil, annoyed and disappointed at the reception of his world-shattering announcement, went on, ‘If Jackie Gibbs' father ever finds out who did it to his cat, that person will know what for, that person will never live to shoot another cat.' This news seemed to please Mother in some way, while Father's collar seemed to have become rather tight, and as Cecil, now having possession of the floor, continued sadly, ‘Oh, mum,' whoever could do such a wicked thing to a little cat? Why, he must be a murderer!' Father pushed his meal away, saying to Mother, ‘I'm not really hungry, warm it up for my tea,' and left the room.

For the next few weeks my father made a detour, avoiding Jackie's house, when he went to his club, and when a little kitten took refuge in our kitchen at the height of a storm he suggested we take it in permanently and give it a home. He placed a regular order with the cat's-meat man and perhaps in this way assuaged his conscience.

The downward trend in my life's graph began slowly, when easier times were just around the corner. Susan had decided to leave school now that she was sixteen, much to the disappointment of her teachers and more than much to my distress. For her, university entrance would be a simple matter, according to the powers that be, and I felt a radiant excitement thinking of my daughter in the halls of learning. She was outstanding in Latin and English having been awarded the special memorial prize for the latter. Susan gave her reason for leaving as, ‘Exams terrify me and make me physically ill.' I dismissed this reason as nonsense, for she did so well in examinations. I knew I was fighting a losing battle to try to persuade her to change her mind; for one thing, Chas was not an ally for me. He held the view that our daughter was old enough and wise enough to choose her own way in life.

As usual I thought that Dolly knew best, and I battled on, each day trying to find new and persuasive arguments. All this amused William and he became the recipient of the whole family's annoyance, for he was the only happy member of the family at that time. At last Susan, at the end of her tether, said, ‘Oh, mum, do shut up,' and it was at this point I knew I had lost the battle. With dignity I said, ‘Very well then, Susan, I will say no more, except that, unless you take yourself to task, you will lose all you value.' Susan, relieved that the matter was settled, walked away. Then I realised I hadn't presented her with
all
the excellent reasons as to why she should go on, and I followed her with a fresh onslaught. At this William became helpless with laughter, and poor Susan, frantic that it was all going to begin again, gave him a mighty thump. Anyway, I realised I was a bad loser. Susan began work in a City office and seemed happy with her lot. For my part I wished there were no such things as written examinations.

Then Chas became ill. He had a heavy cold which needed a few days in bed, but we were so busy he struggled on. The cold worsened, he had a bad bout of 'flu, and I coped, somehow, in the shop. Unfortunately Chas seemed unable to shake off his illness and one day had a slight haemorrhage which frightened him. He went to hospital for tests and I was alarmed to hear from a customer, who was in the same hospital queue with Chas, that my husband had been selected for attention out of turn because of his ghastly appearance. Therefore I was delighted when the tests proved negative. It was assumed he would gradually recover from his severe bout of 'flu. Probably he would have done, given an ordinary job and a wife able to nurse him but, worried about me, he struggled downstairs to take over again, finally retiring upstairs looking much worse. It was obvious he would need care and attention and Susan decided, or perhaps I did, that she should leave her job and look after Chas. I thought she did very well, but it was difficult for both of them. She, only a girl, had no experience of post-'flu depression and her taking care of her dad meant to her getting him dainty meals, making the flat look nice; it didn't include ‘tea and sympathy', which Chas needed to take his mind off his wife downstairs. He was frantic with worry and guilt about me, so that each day there was no improvement in his health.

Then we had an unexpected visit from sister Winifred and her husband. My mother lived with them in Berkshire, where they ran a village post office and stores – well, Win did, for her husband had a job as well. They had heard of Chas's indisposition and thought that, if he could convalesce in the quiet of the country, he would recover more quickly with his worries out of sight and out of mind. It was typical of Win to offer a helping hand and I knew my mother would be pleased to help to look after ‘Dolly's Chas'. Chas said Winifred was absolutely wonderful, not only in her caring of him but also in the way of her caring. She did not pressure him in any way but quietly saw that he had the nourishing food and the drinks he needed. Mother, on the other hand, amused Chas for, although just as solicitous, she tried to help his recovery along with little helpful remarks and advice. ‘Don't worry about Dolly, Charlie,' she would say as she brought him his morning Horlicks, ‘she will always muddle through'; ‘muddle', of course, being the very word which would alarm an invalid like mine.

I know Chas would have recovered eventually in Berkshire if he hadn't been so concerned for me, but he was too conscientious where I was involved and he returned to the shop. After a few days he was back to his pre-Berkshire condition and he was admitted to hospital. All my life I have had faith in hospitals and I was certain Chas would soon be on the road to recovery, but the weeks went by and he appeared to become more ill. He had always been thin, now he became thinner and I began to feel desperate. Yet he worried about the elderly patients in his ward. Always a compassionate man, Chas beseeched me to buy some bedsocks for one old man, and asked me to spend some of my visiting time with the old patients who had no visitors while I was there. At one visiting time Chas was almost in tears when one of his old gentlemen friends went down to the theatre for a major operation. Chas's bed was just inside the ward, next to the wash basin, and it was here during the night that the doctors would wash their hands and discuss their patients; problems which were only worried over by an eavesdropping and sleepless Chas.

At last, because there seemed nothing else they could do for him, Chas was dispatched under his own steam to a seaside nursing home to convalesce. The air would give him an appetite. Recovery was round the corner. How he got to the nursing home on his own I'll never know, particularly as he left hospital in a state of shock. In the bed opposite to Chas was a young patient, a man with a marvellous physique. Chas was sitting, slowly getting dressed, gathering strength for his departure when, as if in a dream, he saw the young man jump out of bed, climb on to a locker, smash a window, and start to climb out. They were on the third floor of the hospital. Chas threw himself across the ward and hung on to the man's legs until help was brought. I did not say so at the time, for he was too ill to appreciate my black humour, but I did think he was mad to attempt such bravery. He was so thin I thought he had been lucky not to go out of the window on the heels of the suicidal patient. Hardly a pleasant
‘Bon voyage'
for my darling (his departure to the convalescent home I am referring to, naturally).