The
following chapter begins with a frank description of my Mother's explanation
of how babies are made. I felt parents should be made aware of this. I
have treated it as delicately as possible, to be suitable for my daughter
and perhaps future grandchildren to read, however responsible parents
may want to read it first.
I have put this part in italics, to make it easier for those who already know where babies come from to scroll through. I was in two minds about its inclusion but felt it possibly, has an important bearing on future developments and therefore needs to be considered.
Chapter Five.
The Birds and The Bees.
"Peacock Butterfly" by
David F. Prior
One
day when I was about eight Mum was having a bath and called me in to wash
her back for her.
“I need to have a little talk with you Marjie.” It sounded ominous and it was.
“Do you know anything
about where babies come from?” she asked me in agonies of embarrassment.
I replied that I had
a rough idea that they came from the mother’s tummy but that I did not
know the details of how they got there. I had never given it much thought
in the past but since Mr. H. promoted me to the fourth year class; I had
heard things which I just dismissed as the result of someone's overactive
imagination.
I could not believe
that people like my Mum and Dad could have done anything so bizarre as
the strange ritual described by my precocious classmates
“Well that is what I
want to talk to you about." She said.
"Do you know that when
you are a bit older that you will find, every month you will bleed from
a place called the vagina. This blood is nothing to worry about, it just
means that your womb is getting ready to receive an egg every month so
when you grow up and get married, you will be able to have children of
your own." She squirmed with the effort of trying to appear relaxed, about
this delicate subject.
"Now if you have any
questions about this or if your hear anything you don't understand, in
the playground or on television just come and ask me." She continued. I
had heard things in the playground but I was too embarrassed to repeat
it to my Mum, I would have rather joined a convent or died an old maid
before I would say such things out loud and in front of my ever ladylike
Mother.
My Mother defined ladylike
behaviour, she would have preferred to lose an arm to losing her dignety
and composure. She never made a rude noise or said a rude word, to my knowledge.
Her dress speech and manner were always exactly what one would expect from
a well bred properly brought up lady.
She always seemed to
know exactly what to do and say in any situation and was at ease in any
company. She had no airs and was quick to put other people at ease too,
whether they were a beggar or a prince, they were all treated with the
same repect that she herself commanded and recieved.
She was the second daughter
in a family of five raised in Newcastle upon Tyne, born in 1910 to hardworking
Godfearing people. She won a scholarship, did well in school and
qualified as an accountant. She could not get employment as an accountant
because of the depression and the firmly established belief that women
couldn't do sums and were useless with money, regardless of certificates
or diplomas.
It was impossible for
me to begin to imagine my Mother ever doing anything so undignified and
I was quite shocked to hear her talk about such indelicate matters. I almost
wondered if she had a split personality or perhaps she wanted to have children
so badly that she was willing to force herself to be subjected to such
awful indigneties for the sake of Motherhood and her poor little unfertilised
eggs.
Yes that must be it,
unless she was given an aneasthetic of some kind, I mused. I marvelled
at the wonder of a Mother's love, even for an unfertilised egg, that she
would suffer so much just to concieve. We had not even touched the subject
of how the baby gets out of the womb. The mechanics of getting it in there,
were quite enough of the wonders of nature for one day.
"Can only married ladies
have babies Mum?" I asked innocently.
"It is possible for
unmarried women to get pregnant but only if they have been to bed with
a man. It is very sad when this happens because it is very unfair on the
child to be raised by an unmarried mother. It is also very hard on the
mother." She said with a serious tone. I asked her why did you have to
go to bed with a man and why was it unfair to the child if the mum was
not married.
Apart from the obvious
financial disadvantage and only one present instead of two at birthdays
and Christmas. Then there would only be one set of grandparents, who quite
often in those days were too angry about the daughter causing scandal and
disgrace that they would refuse to acknowledge her or the child.
On top of that was the
stigma of being born 'Out Of Wedlock', as it used to be called. For centuries
past this alone was enough to make the whole of respectable and not so
respectable society shun the shameless hussy and her misbegotten offspring.
It was considered to be the single most unforgivable sin.
Society would forgive a reformed murderer before forgiving an unmarried mother or her innocent child, whose was shame was considered to be just as great. Nobody born since 1960, can understand how vicious society was towards these hapless girls and no plea of mittigation was accepted.
Even if the girl was
forced into the act, if she was a nice respectable christian girl, then
why didn't she fight to the death or if overpowered, she should at least
have the decency to die of shame shortly afterwards. In any case nobody
would rape a nice respectable girl would they? she must have done something
to encourage it! No stigma whatsoever was attached to the man, except perhaps
by the girls family.
"To have babies, first
one has to have an egg ready in a special place inside the women called
the ovaries. We each have two because nature hates waste, for a girl to
go through years of growing and then to be unable to reproduce because
her ovary is damaged, would be a waste so nature doubles the odds by giving
us two of everything crucial to survival of our species." My flustered
Mother continued.
"The egg only develops
if a seed, which the man supplies, is planted in the woman, close to the
egg. To feed this egg, blood forms a lining in your womb every month which
will nourish the growing egg." She explained and went on to say.
"If no seed is sown
the blood and the unfertilized egg has to flow out to make the womb ready
for the next month's egg. Nature has chosen this method for all mammals,
they are animals with breasts and the ability to make milk to feed their
babies. God or nature knows that it is very hard work to raise a
baby from birth to adulthood." I listened in amazement as Mum continued,
I had never realized how amazing nature or God is.
"While a mother is breast
feeding her baby and for the first five years, until the child is old enough
to start school, it is essential that another adult can go out and earn
the money to feed and clothe them both. This is why nature made it necessary
for two adults to make a child and take on the responsibility for sharing
the considerable amount of work involved in giving a baby a good start
in life.” She spoke in a sad and serious tone of voice that told me that
I was being given the benefit of being treated as an intellectual equal,
if not quite a grown up.
"It may be that you
are a bit too young for this conversation but I have heard of girls not
much older than yourself, who have begun to have, 'periods', as we call
these monthly cycles. The medical term is 'menstruation' and it is absolutely
normal; all girls go through this when they reach a certain age, called
puberty." She asked me if I wanted to ask her anything and said if any
questions came to me to just ask her.
We were both so embarrassed
that I hardly listened to what she had said and put off asking any more
questions about it for another time. We both thought there was plenty of
time but we were wrong. Six months later I came in from school and while
I was changing out of my school clothes I was horrified by the awful mess
I found in my navy-blue school knickers.
Against the navy blue
background it looked dark brown, of course I thought [well you can guess
what I thought it was] and I was too embarrassed at just nine years old,
to tell Mum what I thought I’d done so I hid the knickers in a paper bag
and tried to wash them myself, when they wouldn't come clean I threw them
away.
A few weeks later, the
same thing happened again and this time I was really worried, what would
I do if it kept on happening Mum would notice my vanishing knickers. If
anyone found out I would never live it down, a girl my age making a mess
in her knickers and not even aware of it. I would die of shame. I would
never be able to face going to school again if the other kids found out
about me having accidents.
Of course I had all
but forgotten Mums little chat, in any case all the blood I’d ever seen
was red not brown and this was brown, not red. The next day when I returned
from school, I was dismayed to see my knickers were in the same state as
yesterdays had been.
I sat down and cried
thinking I must have developed so dreadful illness. I had heard of something
like this happening to somebody’s Grandmother, when they were dying. I
MUST BE DYING. It was the only explanation. I would have to tell my Mum
when she came in from work.
Mum came in and I began
to explain, but before I said much she said.
“I did tell you about
this happening. Did you forget?” I quickly explained that I had not forgotten,
but was confused by the colours, which was true. I did not go on to tell
her that I’d thought I was dying I felt silly enough.
_________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________
The next rotten trick that
nature and my body played on me, of course was that I grew boobs. I began
by ignoring them and hoped that they would go away. Of course instead of
going away they just got bigger and bigger and bigger. Until one day I
was in the attic playroom, playing with my brother. I’d got the better
of him in some game or other and was having a good old gloat.
“I WON! I WON!” I shouted
and jumped up and down in glee but instead of the usual sulking and promising
to get me next time, he burst out laughing.
“What are you laughing
at?” I asked, most put out and a bit suspicious. He went bright red and
would not tell me, I finally forced it out of him, he just pointed to my
chest. It was my new boobs that had caused him so much mirth.
“When you jump up and down,
they jump up and down too; you looked so funny.” He was rolling about laughing.
At last I was forced to face the fact, I had grown boobs and the rest of
the world could see them and not just sitting there minding their own business
but bouncing up and down, making me a figure of fun.
I ran downstairs to where
Mum was doing lunch in the kitchen,
“Mum! You have to help
me! John is laughing at me and everyone else must be as well.” I whined
almost in tears (and you know how hard it is to talk normally when you
are trying not to cry.) My Mother was one of the most patient people I
ever knew but no one copes well with hysteria. She was busy and in a hurry
to get lunch done so she get to Altrincham for an afternoon shopping
“What on Earth is the matter?
Marjie what are you crying about.” She said. I tried to calm down but I
had gone all high pitched and squeaky. I could not be understood, in frustration
I just said.
“Watch this!” Pointing
to my chest, I jumped up and down, to demonstrate the problem for her.
“Oh Dear!” Mum said, trying
to keep a straight face, and failing miserably.
“Well I suppose the time
has come to get you a little training bra; you can come to Altrincham with
me after lunch and we’ll get you measured up for one.” She said and told
me to get ready.
We went to a very exclusive
corsetry shop, at the posh end of the old market town and Mum told the
lady we needed a training bra.
“It will be her first bra
so we have no idea what size she will need. Could you measure her.” The
assistant showed us into a fitting room and got out her tape measure.
“Did you say she was eight
years old? She needs a size 36b cup.” The lady said. My Mother looked at
the tape measure in disbelief.
“Don’t stick your chest out so much. Just stand normally, you’ll mess up the measurements.” Mum scolded. I told her I was standing normally.
“Honestly Mum! I'm just
standing here. I’m not sticking my chest out.” I said a bit hurt by the
unjust accusation.
“Are you certain?
You couldn’t be a 36b cup at eight years old.” Eventually I managed to
prove to Mum that I was not messing about or doing anything to alter my
chest size. [I don’t know what she thought I was doing] We left the shop
with my new boobs fully supported and under rigid control, inside a brand
new bra.
It was an absolute scientific
miracle of nylon, cotton and elastic. Guaranteed not to ride up, down or
side wards, claiming to be the greatest leap for womankind, since Boudicea
was let down by her bronze breastplate.
All my life I’d wanted to learn to ride a horse, many of my new friends at school had horses or ponies and I was pea green with envy but my folks would just laugh.
“Where would we keep it?”
They would ask, when every birthday and Christmas, I would beg to be allowed
to have a horse or a pony. There was no hope of ever getting either of
them.
“The novelty would soon
wear off and we’ll be left looking after it but we would never be able
to sell it because we would have got too fond of it by then. You know what
you are like, you're a human butterfly. One day you want to be a ballerina,
the next day you want to be a fighter pilot, the day after that it's acting
or singing.” My Mum would say, until I knew it off by heart.
“A horse is not a toy that
you can chuck out when you get bored with it, Love. They need feeding,
grooming and exercise, every single day. Do you really want to cancel every
holiday for the next twenty odd years because you can't just stick it in
the car and take it with you. Then there are vet's bills, blacksmith's
bills and hire of a field to keep it in.” Dad would add. I knew really
that they were right, not to gamble the welfare of an animal on the whims
of a kid.
They were wrong about not
getting piano for me though. I loved all music especially the music of
pianos and even as a child, I know I would have stuck at it. When I finally
got a Yamaha keyboard at the age of twenty one, I really enjoyed practising
and learning to play new tunes. Ginette, my best friend at school, had
a piano and took lessons.
I thought she was very
good when she played it but she was never keen on playing it and hated
to practice. She was very glad to let me play on it so her parents would
think she was practising. It was a beautiful thing, white walnut with the
most beautiful sound and tone. I would have given my right arm to own it
but then I would not have been able to play very well.
Ginette taught me
what she could about piano playing, but she could not read music well enough
to teach me to read it. I finally learnt to play an electric organ and
read music but it was too late at twenty one to get very good at it. I
still love to play my keyboard.
My parents let us take
riding lessons at Abersoch, but they would only pay for us to have one
lesson a week each; if we wanted to ride more than that it had to be out
of our own pocket money. Every penny I got for ice creams and any money
I could earn by serving in Dad’s shop on Saturdays and during school holidays
was all spent on horse rides and lessons.
The best riding school
was in Llanbedrog and was expensive. To save money we decided to try hiring
a pony from the farm in Porth Tocyn where the Sidney family had a caravan.
Even to a childs inexperienced eyes the ponies were not plump and frisky
like the ones at Moe's in Llanbedrog but they seemed well enough looked
after and lived in a field of juicy grass so could not be underfed, could
they?
The farmers son Edgar,
had suffered an accident as a child and was a touch slow but he loved the
horses they were his life. During the day he would go down to the beach
and give the children rides for a shilling, just walking and trotting for
a couple of hours. My brother and I decide to hire one each for an hour
and ride them down to the beach, in the early evening when it would be
empty and we could have a gallop.
"I'm not happy about this,
Harry what do you think? This is not like going out in a group with an
experienced rider like Moe and his wife. Anything could happen! If a car
was coming up the hill as they were going down it, it would be really dangerous."
Mum said, about to go into her 'Worrier Princess' act.
"We will walk all the way
down the hill and won't begin to trot until we get to the beach. We promise
we will be really careful." John said keen as mustard to have a first unsupervised
ride and not have to canter instead of a proper gallop. We would be able
to race each other and gallop when we wanted without having to ask. We
couldn't wait.
"I'll walk down the hill
with them and make sure they are OK." Dad said and we went to claim our
waiting steeds. Edgar gave John a leg up as Dad helped me up, checked my
horses girth and altered the length of my stirrup straps. The walk down
the hill was uneventful but incredibley hard work.
The two ponies walked so
slowly, having to be pushed every step of the way. I had to kick the poor
thing as it must have been years since a squeeze of the knees had any effect
on these poor old beasts. One would have thought they were being ridden
into the jaws of death, judging by their reluctance to move forward and
the number of times they spun round at any slight loss of our control.
Not a bit like Moe's willing
ponies, which had to be gently held back and would trot or canter at the
least squeeze of the legs and obeyed every touch of the reins. These
were the complete oposite, we hoped it was just the steepness of the road
and the slippery surface.
My naughty pony, whose
name was Punch, was one those ponies who likes to skate across any smooth
surface. In my inexperience, I thought he was losing his grip and was doing
it accidentaly, it was very unnerving. My Dad seeing my predicament, took
hold of the bridle and Punch behaved a bit better for a while.
"Are you sure about this,
you two? They seem to be giving you quite a battle just to keep them moving
forward. If they keep this up your hour will be up before you even get
to the beach. Will you be able to manage if I go back when you get to the
beach." Dad said with a worried look. Dad didn't know much about horses,
if he had would probably have put his foot down and led us back.
"No we're alright, we'll
be fine when we get on the sand. It's just the road they don't like." John
and I both insisted. They were only small ponies so it was not far to the
ground, so even if we did fall off on the sand, it would not hurt, much,
we thought with all the confidence of the young and ignorant.
When we got to the beach
and Dad watched for a while as we battled to keep the horeses going in
a foreward direction. It was quite a bit harder, now that we no longer
had the hedgerow to control one side and prevent an about turn. It took
about half an hour to go about half a mile, so much for galloping where
we liked and racing.
"We better turn back now,
I think. At this speed we will be half an hour getting back and if we go
over the time, we might be charged for another hour. I would hate to have
to pay any more for this than we have already, I have never worked so hard
in my life." John said, thoroughly fed up.
"Come on then, lets turn
back." I said but before I could give my pony any 'aids' (that's what riders
call using hands and legs etc. etc. to let a horse know what the rider
wants him to do) I swear they heard and understood every word we said.
Even though Edgar only ever spoke in Welsh.
Before I could do anything,
these schitzophrenic ponies, spun round almost unseating us and began to
bolt back up the beach fast enough to win the Derby. Mine had a head start
being behind John's at the turning point but John's was closing fast. As
we both frantically 'see sawed' on the reins to absolutely no avail. Both
bits were firmly between both sets of teeth.
I began to worry, what
if we couldn't stop them before we reached the road and what if on that
road (which was just wide enough for one car and no horses or two horses
and no cars)a car should come the other way. I didn't want to abandon a
helpless animal to its fate but I made up my mind that if this pony was
still galloping at the end of the sand and I was still on top of it, I
was going to jump.
In fact I never got chance
to impliment my daring escape because a split second later the galloping
pony jumped over a piece of driftwood on the beach and I didn't. One millisecond
later my brother's pony followed and he hit the sand too. Neither of us
had the presence of mind to remember the cardinal rule.
"If you do fall off, don't
let go of the reins." Moe used to say. "It might be a long walk back and
I don't want my poor ponies running across roads on their own." He used
to tell us.
We Watched in shame and
dismay as the two innocent victims of our over confidence, were heading
faster than ever now unencumbered by riders, along the beach towards the
road. Then I saw, to my huge relief and gratitude, my Father, walking then
running towards the riderless horses as they steamed and snorted, neck
and neck along the sand towards home.
The next second my Dad
put out an arm and grabbed one and before it had even stopped, he grabbed
the other forcing both ponies to stop in their tracks. I was amazed at
the time and if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed
it. John and I picked ourselves up and ran to where Dad stood waiting with
the ponies.
"Are you alright, not hurt
at all? Come on then up you get." Dad said, there was no question of saying
"NO WAY". Obediently I gathered the reins and bent my knee for Dad to leg
me up. John did the same and we let Dad stay in front of us till we were
back in the farmers feild. The ponies had to be held back all the way home.
We learned our lesson though, properly supervised riding only from then
on.
I will never know how he
did it. I have spent a lot of time with horses since and have seen people
trying to catch one pony that was just trotting along and almost get mown
down but two! Going full pelt at about thirty miles an hour towards home
and dinner, which incidentally, was what all the fuss was about.
The farmer had put back their dinner time so that they could eat after they were done working for the day. Our booking had upset their routine, so they protested in the only way they knew.
44
In 1956, there was the
Suez crisis and the Russians were causing trouble in Eastern Europe. Britain
and America were finding room for Polish and Hungarian refugees. We children
were blissfully unaware of all this strife. In our safe little world, the
most important event was the news that a second T.V. channel was to be
launched.
Commercial television
was coming and we were going to throw out our old T.V. and get one with
a dial that would allow us to receive the new channel. I.T.V. would have
advertisements, as well as brand new programmes. There was even talk of
more channels in the near future, we knew that in America they could get
as many as twenty and imagined that it would soon be the same over here.
“What will it be like?
What are advertisements?” I asked Dad.
“Well! In between the programmes,
there will be a two minute break for them, they will each last about half
a minute. They will tell us what they are selling and why we should buy
it, like the adverts in the Cinema. The money they make, will pay for the
programmes so we won’t have to pay any more money for the new channel”
Dad said.
“What happens if we don’t
want to buy the things, will we have to pay then?” I asked, puzzled.
“No of course not, as the
ITV. will still get the money for adverts, they have had it for years in
the States.” Dad explained I did not really understand though. Eventually
the great day came and all our friends, whose parents were waiting to see
if it was worth getting a new TV. before committing themselves, came round
to watch the new channel.
Very soon, we were all
wondering “Where the yellow went” and we learned that “Someone’s Mum didn’t
know, what someone’s Mum, really ought to know.” Of course, we did not
take them too seriously, not at first at least but then they began to work
on us.
Suddenly people were being
told that they might be missing out because they didn’t have a best friend
with the courage to tell them that they had B.O.. Body odour, of all things,
became any teenager's worst nightmare. Not the 'Cold War' or even the
but 'did they have bad breath' or 'would they get a pimple' was suddenly
the big question mark in most teenaged minds.
It was pointed out to us
that dandruff, might be ruining our chance of romance and could even
lose us a good job, by giving the impression that we were not well groomed.
In fact, that we were actually dirty, smelly and too stupid to realise,
that we were being offensive, unless we had this tactless, mythical, best
friend. The truth was that most people's best friends were too busy, worrying
about their own body odour and bad breath to notice anyone else's.
No one seemed to care,
that the adverts were, the really offensive thing. As they encouraged us
to whisper about bad breath to each other, behind the backs of whoever
was unlucky enough to be using the wrong make of soap, toothpaste, shampoo
or washing powder.
As we approached puberty,
we were to be bombarded with a constant and never ending, list of things
and products, that without which we may as well give up any chance of a
social life and become bedroom hermits. It would not have been so bad if
the products had worked.
We would have been able
to cure these sudden embarrassments and rid ourselves of these problems
which, but for the adverts we would have had no knowledge. The problem
was that they didn’t work, most of them were no different to the products
we had always used, in fact they were the products we had always used?
We were made acutely, aware of our grottiness but we still had no effective
solution.
Life became a hypochondriacs
and paranoiacs paradise and a prepubescent nightmare but eventually someone
invented deodorant, with this and the help of a tube of Clerasil and a
medicated shampoo that worked, we survived. It was a close run thing and
there were casualties but luckily, my friends and myself were not among
them.
T.V. got better, the rivalry
between BBC. and ITV., caused both to strive to produce better programmes,
as the ratings wars set the pace.
The BBC presenters were
very proper, looking like posh folk who having got dressed for dinner,
had missed their way to the dining room.
They spoke using exaggeratedly
correct Queen’s English, which most people reserved for the telephone,
if it was someone they didn’t know) and for job interviews. Have you noticed
that no one does that anymore or do they?
The ITV presenters were
still very posh, but much more laid back, and they usually dressed smartly
but at the same time very fashionably and ‘with it’ as the saying was.
Of course, there was no swearing, at any time, there was no sex either,
at all. All the films on TV were at least twenty years old and U cert.
(which meant suitable for all ages) nothing to upset babies or old folk.
Then the sight of teenagers jigging about on a programme called ‘Six Five Special’, caused an absolute outrage among the adults. Teddy-boys and girls began to appear in Chelsea, London and coffee bars opened, like the ones in Marlon Brando’s films.
Jukeboxes began to
appear to give young people somewhere to congregate and there rest of the
Country soon found itself following suit. The old Folks were scandalized,
horrified and disgusted. Parents added a new line to their prayers, along
the lines of: -
“And please God don’t let our little boys turn into Teddy-boys.” or if they had girls the prayers were that their girls would not go out with a Teddy boy. Rock and Roll was to blame and its evil influence was soon spread all across the land, much to the dismay of anyone over the age of twenty-two, unless they were deaf.
We kids loved it, it was so different to anything we had ever heard and we tried to copy the dances, and learn the slang. The more the Church, teachers, parents and politicians preached against it, the more we loved it.
The post war baby boomers
were going to be a force to be reckoned with. We didn’t know it at the
time but a new age was about to dawn. The air was electric with it, if
anybody took the time to notice. It was just beyond the horizon still out
of sight. The expression ‘teenaged’ was coined to describe the adolescent
years between twelve and twenty-one.
We children were eager
for our parent’s approval and respect, hoping more than anything, that
one day we would make them as proud of us as we were of them. We were too
young to be Teddy boys and girls, as we called them but we loved the new
music we heard on the radio since 1956 when Bill Haley had come to Britain.
As well as the Home Service
plays, I began to listen to Radio Luxembourg. The first and only ‘music
only’ radio station, until the pirate radio ships appeared in the mid sixties
and forced the BBC. To start a legal music station called radio one.
We hoped to God that the
Russians and Americans did not blow us all to Kingdom come, before we had
chance to grow up. I suppose our generation came as close as any, to seeing
the World go up in smoke. It did not affect us any more than our ancestors
were affected by the threat of wars or annihilation by the end of world,
heralded by the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
Every generation has its
own sword of Damocles. The truth is we had no more nor less, to worry about
than any other age, and far more for which to be grateful.
As swimming was my Favourite pastime, having to miss out every time I had a period was sheer torture. In spite of my Mothers warning not to try to use tampons, because they were only for married ladies.
“They were not suitable for little girls of nine or ten.” She insisted, when I showed the advertisement in the womens magazine.
“Why not?” I asked stubbornly.
“A little girl like you
might put them in the wrong hole!” She said. I didn’t want to argue with
Mum or worry her so I resisted the temptation to say – “How many holes
have we got? Because if I am right it’s two and I know which one I have
been wiping since I was three. I am hardly likely to get confused.”
I knew what she was getting at though. I had heard enough school yard gossip (even at a private school) for me to realise that my poor Mother was afraid I would lose my virginity to a piece of cotton wool. I managed to get my school netball and swimming teacher on her own, and asked her what she thought about tampons and virginity.
She laughed at my Mums old-fashioned attitude and assured me that using tampons would, in no way affect my status as a virgin. She advised me to suggest that my Mum should ask our family G.P., next time she took me to see him.
Dr. Beechtree just wasn’t
that sort of doctor. He was always terribly busy with very important things
to do, and very important people to see. I could not possibly take up his
valuable time, with this, even if I was not too embarrassed, which I was.
I bought a packet of tampons,
out of my pocket money and hid them in my room, only to be used if important
swimming was to coincide with one of my ‘on’ days. Months later, I came
in from school to be confronted by my distraught Mum who had been Spring
cleaning and found my tampons.
“Marjorie I have
found these in your room. Please tell me that you have not used any yet.”
I had been using them for ages, but for one of the few times in my life,
that I had no choice but to lie.
“No Mum, I tried but I
could not get it in so I threw it away. It was the swimming gala at school
and I didn’t want to let Jordan house down. I haven’t tried to use them
again.’ My Mum heaved a sigh of deep relief and threw the rest of the packet
in the Rayburn. I gave my Mum a cuddle, as a whole week’s pocket money
went up in smoke, and have you ever smelt burning cotton wool?
I suppose Trisha and I
were about nine when we were changing in the same cubic for our school
swimming lesson, as Trisha didn’t have a bra to struggle with she was ready
before me and began to pick up our clothes, hanging them on a hook so they
would not get wet when we came back.
“Marjorie! What on Earth have you been doing to get your knickers in such a state?” and she held up my navy blue school knickers, in horror to show me. I had started my period unexpectedly and had not realised, Trisha had come to the same conclusion as I had a year before and she did not realise that it was a familiar sight to we women.
She went on and on about
the mess in my knickers, in such a loud voice I was afraid even the boys
changing on the opposite side of the baths would hear her.
“Trisha it isn’t what it
looks like. It’s! Well you know! It happens every month.” I whispered hoping
the whole school had not heard her shouting about my knickers. Her Mum
obviously, had not told her what to expect in advance and it was not my
job to tell her the facts of life so I gave up trying to explain.
“Trisha, will you get Mrs
H. for me? I’m feeling a bit ill; I don’t feel like swimming now.” It was
all I could say to cover my embarrassment. Honestly, Trish is such a child.
I thought to myself. It came pretty close to being one of my most embarrassing
moments.
My best friend at school
was Ginette we had a lot in common, we were both big, I mean tall, for
our ages, and we were the only two in the whole school that needed to wear
a bra. I wrote, a couple of pages back that I rarely told my Mum a lie
but I’ve been feeling a bit guilty about saying that.
On reflection, it isn’t
true and as I am writing this book for my daughter, I would be wasting
my time and yours if I don’t keep it as honest as possible. Bearing in
mind that memory can play funny tricks on a person. I have to confess to
at least one other time, that I lied to my poor old Mum.
I had all weekend to do
my French homework. Now we all know about homework, especially at primary
school, it takes about half an hour to do it or you can worry about it
all weekend.
I loved any amount of extra
lessons but I hated homework. It wasn’t even that I couldn’t do it, it
wasn’t hard and if was needed for the next day I would do it straight away
(I’m sure I did) but sometimes when I had a few days it was just too easy
to put it off until later.
“Have you done your homework
Marjorie?” Mum would ask, at regular intervals.
“No Mum, I will do
it before tea.” I would reply, but there was always more interesting things
to do, wasn’t there? I did have all weekend and it we only Friday night.
“Have you done your homework?
It is bedtime now.” my Mum would ask again.
“No Mum, I’ll do it in
the morning. Honestly First thing.” I would reply.
“You are not going out
to play until you have done your homework.”
“I will do it at Ginette’s
house, we can do it together.” I would answer, in all sincerity, genuinely
believing myself. When I got home in the evening, Mum would ask.
“Did you do your homework,
Marjorie?” My heart would sink, of course I hadn’t.
“No Mum I forgot all about
it. I’m sorry Mum. I’ll do it now.”
“You can’t do it now, I
need you to set the table; dinner is ready. You will have to do it after
dinner, and before you watch any T.V. I mean it” This pantomime would go
on all weekend until about an hour before bedtime on Sunday night, when
my poor old Mum would stand over me till it was finished.
One weekend though having
promised faithfully, cross my heart, that I would do it, I didn’t, and
because I didn’t want to have my favourite T.V. programme interrupted by
the lecture. You know the one, about keeping promises, being reliable and
doing what you are supposed to do, when you are supposed to do it. Instead
of making such ‘heavy weather’ out of every simple little job, etc. etc.
It was right at the exiting
part of some programme and I would go and do it as soon as it finished.
Wouldn’t I? It would only take a few minutes it was ages before bedtime;
I had hours to do it in. So I lied, yes I did I lied to my Mum; not a white
lie either but a great big black one.
“Yes Mum I’ve done it.”
Now I could have eased my conscience, and the situation by adding that
there was still a bit to finish, but I didn’t and I hadn’t thought it through,
after all it was not planned. It just popped out of my mouth, almost by
accident and I was not prepared for my Mums reaction to my whopper.
“Oh! Marjie you are a good
girl, just for that you can stay up and watch that film you wanted to watch.
Now isn’t it nice to have it all done and be able to enjoy the rest of
the weekend, without me having to nag you. I bet it only took you thirty
minutes didn’t it.” She went on and on and on as only a proud mother can
and with every word, I felt worse and worse.
I will not embarrass myself
further, by relating verbatim but to say I was regretting my lie is putting
it mildly and I still missed the end of my programme because now I could
not concentrate on it. How was I going to do my homework now that it was
supposed to have been done? I didn’t worry too much, at first; after all,
I did have the rest of the weekend, didn’t I?
The next morning was Sunday
and my father’s only day off, as he would frequently remind us all. We
would get up early, go to the little parish church and then have a massive
cooked breakfast. Bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, potato cakes, mushrooms,
hot toast and home made marmalade, the complete works. It would have to
sustain us until we had our picnic lunch and flasks of tea at Winsford
Flash.
We would spend the whole
day at the lake, where we took Judy, our little sailing dinghy. Dad, John
and I, would sail up and down and down and up. I enjoyed sailing more now,
especially if I was allowed a turn at the helm. As I was youngest and a
girl this did not happen often but even crewing was fun. It meant I had
to duck my head (to avoid being brained by the ‘boom’*) and jump from one
side of the boat to the other, while at the same time, putting one piece
of wet rope in a clamp, called a cleat, while grabbing another piece of
wet rope out of its cleat.
*A boom is a heavy piece
of wood that is fixed to the bottom of the mast, by which the sail can
be angled into the wind. When the boat changes direction, the crew has
to duck as it swings across.
Now this technical stuff
might see boring to the uninitiated and I wouldn’t want to bore anybody.
To those of us lucky enough to have been born and raised into a dingy sailing
family, like myself, boring doesn’t do it justice, a nightmare of utter
tedium, might be a better description.
However boring is as boring
does, I always say. To be fair, I did enjoy doing it, just not talking
about it so much. I especially liked it if the weather was rough and there
was a chance of *‘capsizing’ and I could have a swim instead. *(The boat
tips upside down.)
I got the nickname ‘May
day, Marjie’, in the end because every time I went out in a boat it would
capsize, unless I got a decent go at the tiller. There were always other
things to do at Winsford. There was wildlife to watch, like great crested
newts and dragonflies, as well as some quite rare birds to watch with the
aid of Dads expensive binoculars.
The time passed quickly,
by the time we were leaving to come home I had all but forgotten about
my homework. It was late when we left Winsford and of course Dad and Uncle
Ted, wanted to stop for a drink on the way back.
We stopped at one of those
lovely half-timbered pubs for which Cheshire is famous. This led to a meal
and a game or two of skittles and a few more drinks. My Mum and Ivy were
fretting about the time.
“It will save time in the
long run, Ann, because you wont have to worry about a meal when we get
back so the kids can go straight to bed, can’t they?” Dad and Uncle Ted
said.
“Alright, Harry but remember
it is school in the morning, we can’t keep them out too late. At least
they have both done their homework. Haven’t you, kids?” replied Mum, (as
always, it was Mum who worried about things like that, although Dad probably
worried just as much about our futures but never nagged us about things.
“Don’t worry Ann we wont
stay very late, will we Ted?”
When we got in it was
very late, and I was exhausted, Mum said it was too late for a bath. If
my Dad was good at one thing in particular (apart from being a good Dad)
it was having fun and making the most of simple pleasures, like being with
friends.
Dad has that unique ability
to light up a room, with the warmth of his personality and sense of fun.
If you are seeking a life partner the first quality is this; he should
be able to make the sun shine for you. The next is kindness and not just
physical generosity but also, of spirit. The third is a willingness to
work hard for you, himself and any children you might have. After these,
a sense of humour is vital.
My Dad had all these four
qualities. We kids, loved it on the occasions when Dad came home from work
early and had time to play with us before bedtime. Up would go the cry!
“Daddy’s home!” and we
would race each other to the door to greet him and see if he had brought
us a treat. Behind his back would be a big bag, from which he would produce
four ‘walnut whips’, one each and a bag of ‘chocolate dragees’, for Mum.
After dinner we would sit and each had their own way of working through
a ‘walnut whip’. I would always break the walnut off and give it to Mum
and she would give me an extra ‘dragee’.
“You will just have to go to bed dry and dirty. Have a good wash though and bath in the morning, you will have to get up early though.” Mum said when we got home. We kissed them both goodnight and went to bed. I put my alarm on for six thirty a.m., before I went to sleep and banged my head on the pillow six and a half times (someone had told me that banging my head on the pillow so many times was a certain way. of ensuring I would wake up on time). I didn’t.
The next thing I knew my
Father was at my bedroom door telling me that it was time to get up or
we wouldn’t have time for breakfast. My brother’s room was next to the
bathroom and I suppose because he had not had a guilty conscience, keeping
him awake all night he was much quicker.
I got to the bathroom door
just in time to hear the lock click shut.
“John, be quick in there
or I’ll be late for school and I don’t want to get in trouble, please hurry
up.” I said
“Dad can I have my breakfast,
while I’m waiting for John to come out of the bathroom?”
“What! In your dressing
gown? Come on you know that is no way for a young lady to behave. The very
idea.” said Mum, not waiting for my soft old Dad to weaken and give in
to his hungry little girl. I was doing my best to look sweet and appealing,
as I tried to wrap my Dad round my little finger but the soft-soap wouldn’t
work on my Mum.
“Oh come on Mum just this
once, who’s going to know? I’m starving hungry.” I said
“We will know, and I daresay
that *Mrs. Crabtree will see too and she would be horrified to see you
sitting around eating breakfast half dressed. You could have got dressed
while you’re talking about it.”
*Mrs. Crabtree was an old
lady, who occupied a first Floor flat, in the house next door and lived
with her bachelor son. He was about fifty and she was in her eighties.
She had been a debutante and was presented to Queen Victoria. Her windows
over-looked our kitchen and dining room windows and I think the antics
of the ordinary folks next-door was better than a soap opera to her. Mum
wouldn’t have net curtains, she hated them.
“Why should we have net
curtains? We have nothing to hide.” she would say. Mum gave me a piece
of toast and told me to eat it on the stairs, out of sight. I had my bath
and got dressed just in time to drink a cup of tea and I still had not
done my homework, it had to be handed in at 9.30 after assembly.
I was done for, I would
get detention and Mum would want to know why and I would be in the doghouse
probably for the rest of my life, my parents would never believe another
word I ever said and it would serve me right. Then I had an idea. If I
was ill, I could have a day off and would have all day to finish my homework!
“Mum, I don’t feel very
well, I’ve got a sore throat and it hurts when I swallow.” I said. Mum
looked at me and felt my brow and the glands in my throat.
“You don’t have a temperature,
and your glands seem normal. Are you sure?” She got the thermometer from
the bathroom cupboard, and put it under my lying, little tongue. I was
sure I would go straight to Hell but that would be after I died and no
one would know. If I spent my life in repentance God might forgive me;
it was times like this that I wished we were Roman catholics.
When my Mum turned her
back for a moment, I took a swig of my lukewarm tea. Mum removed the thermometer
from my mouth, I kept my lips closed and wondered how long it would be
before the black spots, that I was sure I was growing on my tongue, became
visible to the naked eye.
“You do have a temperature.
I could have sworn your head was cool. It just shows how deceptive a cool
brow can be; it is always wise to check with the thermometer. You had better
go back to bed love. I’ll be up to see you as soon as I’ve done the dishes.”
Mum said gently. I went back to bed, being careful not to drop the dying
swan act until I was alone in my bedroom. I was a bit puzzled about the
temperature perhaps I was ill really.
Of course it might have
been the cup of tea, it must have made my mouth just warm enough to raise
the mercury a degree or two, what a brilliant discovery. I will wait for
Mum to make the beds and then I could get my homework done. I have always
had ears like a bat so when I heard Mums voice, from downstairs, saying
–
“I am sorry to bother you
Dr. Beechtree, but could you manage to pop in to see my daughter, Marjorie,
she is complaining of a sore throat and she has quite a high temperature.
------ Yes, it came on quite suddenly this morning when she woke up. -----
Yes, I will keep her in bed and we’ll see you after surgery. ----- Goodbye.”
Mum said and hung up the phone.
adv
