Jacky Daydream (9 page)

I know I cried over my school dinners. I didn’t like meat very much and I hated fat. In those days school dinners were mostly fatty mince, stew with large yellow chunks of fat still on the meat, boiled beef and carrots, the fat tinged pink this time, and occasionally stringy roasts with long slender strips of gristle and fat. Fat fat fat. I tried chewing. I tried swallowing whole. I tried spitting it out into my handkerchief.

‘Come along, Jacqueline, eat up your dinner and stop being naughty!’

The world where children could choose their own school dinners was far in the future. I tried hard to eat the fat, tears pouring down my face, and then I’d throw up in the smelly lavatories.

The school dinners made their greasy mark upon each day, but I started to learn to read ‘cat’ and ‘hat’ and ‘mat’ and recite the two times table. I
chalked
pictures – three round blobs with stick arms and legs and smiles across their stomachs and wobbly printing underneath.
Mummy. Daddy. Me
.

I sang ‘
Daisies are our silver, buttercups our gold
’ and ‘
Jesus bids us shine with a pure clear light
’. I skipped in the school hall in my vest and knickers. I listened avidly at story time, sitting cross-legged, hands on knees, the way we were taught. I made friends with a little girl who had the two things I wanted most in the world: a baby sister and a tiny Yorkshire terrier. I can’t remember my friend’s name, or her cute sister’s, but the dog was called Rags and I loved him, even though he yapped hysterically when I tried to pat him.

I was making good progress at school, but then I got ill. I had measles badly, and then bronchitis, and then, unbelievably, whooping cough, all in the space of six weeks. I can remember those long hot days, coughing until I was sick, and the even longer nights, wide awake and staring into the darkness. I did my best to
stay
awake too, stretching my eyelids wide open, biting my lip, digging my nails into my fingers so that I’d make long ragged hangnails.

I was too scared to sleep because then the nightmares would start. Men would climb right through my bedroom wall and grab at me. They’d pursue me through the streets and chase me on
dodgems
at the fair. They’d jump out at me as I ran down long corridors. They’d shove me down stairs, throw me out of windows, topple me off towers. I’d fall and fall and fall and then wake up, heart thudding, head pounding, my nightie rucked up round my waist. I’d pull it down and tuck my legs right up inside and wrap my arms round myself and huddle under the covers.

Biddy had told me to say to myself, ‘It’s only a silly dream’ – but the men weren’t running after her, they were out to get
me
. I knew they were real, lurking in the wardrobe. Catch me ever tunnelling through to Narnia. I wouldn’t dare so much as open the door.

If it was really late and Biddy and Harry had gone to bed, I could clamber in with them. They’d sleepily protest but mostly put up with me. It was much worse if they were in the other room and I was on my own. I’d wait and wait, trying to count my newly learned numbers, and then I’d call out.

I’d always ask for a glass of water. Biddy came a few times and that was wonderful. She’d tell me off, but not seriously. She’d give me my water, turn my pillow over and settle me down again firmly, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. But nearly always it was Harry. He could be lovely too, gentle and kind and funny. Or he could be cold and impatient and tell me he was sick of this lark. Or
he
could yell ferociously for no reason. It was so scary not knowing which mood he’d be in. Other little girls could charm their fathers. They could laugh and tease and joke and their fathers would smile at them fondly. I didn’t have a clue how to
do
that. I smiled too anxiously, I begged too cravenly, I froze rigid with my thumb forever in my mouth.

However, Harry was very patient with me during the measles-bronchitis-whooping-cough episode. Maybe he should have gone into nursing, though I don’t think that was a career option for a man in those days. He rubbed my back, he held my sick bowl, he gave me drinks of water, and if I was awake when he came home from work, he’d read to me.

He read me ‘Tuppenny and Squibbit’, a cartoon strip in the
Evening Star
, a London newspaper. Tuppenny was a little girl and Squibbit was half a squirrel and half a rabbit. I longed for a pet like Squibbit. When he was in a very good mood, Harry would pretend to be Squibbit and I’d be Tuppenny and feed him nuts. Then Harry would read
my
little cartoon book about Mary Mouse who lived in a doll’s house with a dolly family.

I could read the easy Enid Blyton words myself now. I could stagger through my first Noddy book too, though even at five I found the little nodding
man
and his big-eared buddy highly irritating. Harry introduced me to the Blyton Faraway Tree books. I found these magical in all senses of the word. I was no longer lying hot and itchy and coughing in my narrow little bed. I was wandering through the Enchanted Wood with Jo, Bessie and Fanny, climbing the Faraway Tree, sliding down Moon-Face’s slippery-slip slide, sharing toffee-shock sweets with Silky the fairy and her funny walking clock, climbing the little ladder to the land above. I had a snowball fight with snowmen, I battled red goblins, I tumbled over in Rocking Land, and best of all, I went to the Land of Birthdays and ate wishing cake. I was tempted to wish for a fairy outfit like Bessie with real flying wings, but I always plumped for Fanny’s wish, a walking talking doll with her own suitcase of clothes.

It can’t have been much fun for my father but he read his way through all three Faraway Tree books – and then went on to read me the first few chapters of
David Copperfield
, a mighty literary leap upwards for both of us. I don’t know
why
he chose Dickens. He wasn’t a man who read the classics himself – he liked Hammond Innes and Ian Fleming. I listened, enthralled. I expect a lot of it went over my head but I still loved this story of young Davey. I was delighted to discover that children in adult novels were much more complex
characters
than Jo, Bessie and Fanny, with rich inner lives and fears and fancies. I smiled when Davey was with his mother and dear Peggotty, I nibbled my lips raw when his hateful new stepfather was treating him so cruelly, I breathed great sighs of relief, stretching out under the covers, when they went to Yarmouth.
I
got to know all the Peggotty relations and played with Little Emily. I made up further adventures just for Little Emily and me.

My dad never read on into David’s adult life. Perhaps he thought I’d lose all grasp of the story. Perhaps I simply got better. It left a deep impression on me though. I still can’t read those early chapters without hearing my father’s calm quiet voice saying the words – such a
different
voice from when he was in one of his rages.

When I’d stopped whooping, I was still so weak that Biddy had to borrow a baby’s pushchair to wheel me around in. I went back to school eventually but it was hard going. I’d missed so many lessons. There are still black holes in my basic knowledge. They’d learned the alphabet when I was away. To this day I find it hard to remember whether ‘f’ comes before or after ‘h’, and what about ‘o’ and ‘s’, and where does ‘q’ fit in? I have to sing the alphabet song inside my head to work it out.

I missed the rudiments of maths too. I’ve never
quite
understood
sums. When I’m calculating, I still frequently use my fingers.

Biddy didn’t worry that I’d fallen behind at Lee Manor. We were about to move so I’d be going to a brand-new school. We were going to get our own home at last.

Which sisters have a father as irritable and unpredictable as Harry?

 

It’s Prudence and Grace in
Love Lessons
.

‘Oh, Miss Know-It-All! Only you know damn all, even though you think you’re so smart. You need to get to grips with maths, even if you’re just going to waste your time at art college. Remember that, missy. You thought you could swan off and do your own thing, tell bare-faced lies to your own father, waste everyone’s time and money—’

He stopped short, his mouth still working silently though he’d run out of words.

‘Bernard? Do calm down – you’re getting yourself in such a state. You’re making yourself ill!’ said Mum, catching hold of his arm.

He brushed her away as if she was some irritating
insect
. He focused on me. His face was still purple. Even his eyes were bloodshot with his rage.

Harry wasn’t really a bit like Prue’s father – but they certainly ranted in a similar manner!

12

Cumberland House

MY PARENTS HAD
had their name down for a council flat for years. They’d given up on the whole idea when a letter came. Three new six-storey blocks of flats had been built on Kingston Hill. My parents were offered number twelve, on the first floor of the south block.

Cumberland House looks a bit of an eyesore now, three well-worn square blocks with satellite dishes growing out of the brickwork like giant mushrooms. In 1951 they seemed the height of luxury. There was
central heating
! No more huddling over a smoking fire in the living room and freezing to death in the bedroom, having to dress under the eiderdown in winter. There was a fireplace just for show in the living room. We used it as a centrepiece. The Peter Scott print of wild birds hung above it, with our three painted plaster ducks flying alongside.

We had
constant hot water
. This meant we could have a bath every single day. No waiting for the boiler to heat up and carting tin baths around. We could have a bath first thing in the morning or last
thing
at night. Biddy could wash our clothes whenever she wanted. Well, she didn’t ever
want
to wash them, though she did so diligently. She was a feminist long before the word was invented. When I asked her about washing some PT kit one time, she snapped, ‘Why should
I
have to wash it?’ I said without thinking, ‘Well, it’s your job, isn’t it?’

I wasn’t meaning to be cheeky, but Biddy was outraged. It made me rethink the whole concept of what a mum was supposed to do. Jo and Bessie and Fanny’s mum cooked and cleaned and washed the clothes – though David Copperfield’s mother lay limply on her chaise longue while the servants did the chores.
My
mum, with her smart clothes and her lipsticks and her cigarettes, wasn’t anything like
their
mums.

There was a communal laundry room for each block of flats. There were no washing machines, just big sinks in which you scrubbed the clothes using a wash board, and then you squeezed the water out using a big mangle. Biddy seldom fancied carting our clothes downstairs and chatting to the other women. She washed at our kitchen sink, wringing the clothes out fiercely and spreading them out on the dryer. She ironed everything with elaborate care. She even ironed Harry’s socks, spreading them out and ironing up to the heel, and then neatly tucking them into paired balls for the airing cupboard.

The best thing of all about Cumberland House was the fact that
it had two bedrooms
! My parents had the biggest bedroom, of course, but I still had a whole room all to myself. I was six years old and I had my own space at last. It wasn’t decorated as a little girl’s room. I’d read about Ellie’s pink and white bedroom in an abridged version of
The Water Babies
and I’d felt as awestruck as sooty Tom, but it didn’t occur to me that I could ever have a room like that. We had very little money, and Biddy and Harry weren’t the sort of parents who made frilly curtains or wooden furniture.

My bedroom had a built-in wardrobe so I could hang up my favourite dresses in a row: my rainbow party frock; my white dress with the cherry print and little cherry buttons; my blue and green flowery dress with puff sleeves; my pink dress with the fruit pattern and the white collar; my sundress with frills at the shoulders like little wings. There were also the clothes I
didn’t
like. I detested my navy pleated skirt, which was stitched onto a white bodice. The pleats stuck out at the front. Biddy was forever telling me to pull my stomach in. I also hated my good Harella coat, fawn with a fancy velvet collar. I was supposed to wear it with a pale brown velour hat. I had to wear both the coat and the hat to my new school and got horribly teased. The boys adopted my velour hat as a new football.
I
can’t say I blamed them.