Secrets My Mother Kept (38 page)

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go and find the bear’s special dream place.’

We giggled, excited to be acting out the story, and tiptoed after her.

‘Lay your heads on the cushion,’ she said. ‘It’s nice and cosy in there.’ And she placed the cushion in the oven.

We did as she asked, and I can remember the feel of the cushion on my skin, and the smell of our dog Pongo’s special ointment, from where he had lain on it a hundred times. I saw the stone pillars that cradled the big Butler sink where Margaret and I would stand on a chair to help Mummy wash up or sometimes float orange-peel boats. I looked at the pile of pans under the sink, the fat congealed inside them that smelt of stale, long-past meals. Then I smelt another smell. A smell that I didn’t recognise at all and that choked my throat and made me feel sick. Margaret tried to sit up, but Mum said, ‘Shh now, try to go to sleep. We will all hold hands and we will all go together to the dream place.’

It was quiet apart from a strange kind of hissing sound, but I didn’t like the smell, so Mum sung to us:

Lulla lulla lulla lulla bye bye

Do you want the moon to play with?

Or the stars to run away with?

They’ll come if you don’t cry . . .

I felt sleepy and started to close my eyes when suddenly the silence was broken. I heard a key in the front door, and my sisters Josie and Marge came in.

I sat up. ‘Josie’s home,’ I said sleepily, rubbing my eyes.

Everything changed. Where there had been silence and stillness there was now shouting and movement.

‘Open the window!’ Josie bellowed as she attacked the back door, pushing it open wide. A blast of cold air blew in as Marge pushed at the scullery window, which was stuck tight through years of over-painting. I didn’t like the banging as Marge tried to force it open, and I put my hands over my ears as the old bottles and soap dish and jugs that stood on the window ledge were knocked skittering into the sink.

Margaret was awake now and was desperately trying to cling on to Mum as she walked slowly away. I sat on the scullery floor, crying from the shock of it all, with Josie and Marge staring on in silence. All the while I could hear Margaret wailing ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ and not getting any reply.

63

Missing Pieces

My life has been so full of confusion, so full of an all-consuming need to find out who Mum really was, and why she behaved in the way that she did, who my father was and why he abandoned us. I have found some of the answers, but still have many left to ponder over.

I am not sure if Mum ever loved Ron Coates or Reg Stevens. In fact I am not sure that she ever loved any man, although I like to think that she cared for Thomas. Surely she wouldn’t have kept his letters all those years if she hadn’t? Or is this just something that I want so badly to believe – that out of all of them, the one that she really loved was my father. Margaret and I knew we were always special to Mum. Perhaps that was because we reminded her of our father. Or maybe it was because by the time we came along she was beginning to realise that the men in her life came and went, but her children would always love her with a fierce adoration, not only until she died, but beyond.

I still have many things I want to know. Was Thomas Bartholomew really our dad? Why did she keep his letters for all those years? Did the news of his death when I was only five years old trigger her desperate attempt to finally escape from the bleakness of her life?

The genealogist has left Margaret and I with a tantalising thread to hang on to, but I don’t know whether or not I will ever have the courage to use it. You see Thomas had a son, and we know his name, and that we could find him. But how do you ask a man who probably doesn’t even know you ever existed if he’s your brother? How many memories would it hurt or destroy?

Will we ever look into the past again? I’m not sure, but we are determined to find out whether or not we are full siblings, my little sister Margaret and I, and a DNA test should be able to tell us that.

I went to visit my brother Peter not long ago.

‘If you had to use one word to describe your childhood, what would it be?’ he asked.

I had no hesitation in answering: ‘Fear.’ The fear that our darling Mummy would leave us; that someone, anyone, would hurt her or that she would be unhappy, or be disappointed in me. The fear that I was different, wasn’t good enough, would mess things up. But most of all the fear that I carried with me for so long that I will never truly know the name of my father, and why he deserted us so long ago. As I have written this book I have come to a startling realisation that this is no longer true.

Depression is devious; it has no morals. It will lay in wait for you, and be there ready to pounce when you are least expecting it. It slides into your mind, and corrupts your body with darkness, leaving you struggling and panicked, desperate and desolate. I have learnt to fight back – not on my own, but with the love and loyalty of my wonderful family and the laughter and enduring support of my dear friends without whom I couldn’t survive.

Over the years I spent as a teacher I came into contact with many troubled families. What I have come to realise is that the greatest gifts we can give children are love and self belief, because with these comes an enduring tenacity and strength of spirit that will allow them to be ready to stand up to the world proudly, to fight their corner, to know that they are worth something. Family and friends are what make that possible, and I am so glad that I have been given so many of those wonderful people in my life.

I have many failings, faults and weaknesses that I am ashamed of, but there are also things of which I am proud. I still ache with longing to know who my father was, but this is soothed by a kind of calm acceptance. I have at last managed to exorcise my ghosts. Does it really matter whose blood flows in my veins? After all I am still Kathleen, my mother’s daughter. I am the sister, the aunty, the wife and mother, the friend . . . despite my past, or perhaps because of it. All of these are what I was able to be with the love of my family and friends. I have at last found a sense of peace and I dedicate this book to you all as a token of my gratitude, and of course to you Mum with thanks for those sunny days when we sang and danced and ate banana rolls.

Acknowledgements

I have only been able to write this book with the love and encouragement of my family and friends to support me. Thank you to my sisters Pat, Mary, Marge, Marion and Margaret, and my niece Sheila – all of whom showed immense patience and kindness, reassuring me along the journey. To my dear husband Colin and our children Sam and Jo (and Gem of course!) thank you for always believing in me and keeping me going when I faltered (and for the copious cups of tea and coffee!). I send my grateful thanks to my friends, Anne and Anne and Sherry – and especially my dear ‘partner in crime’ Karen who helped me to believe in myself, and my wonderful boss lady Liz who read my work with enthusiasm and made me believe that I had a story to tell. I would also like to thank both my editor Fenella for her kindness, patience and support and Women and Home for the opportunity they have given me.