Don't You Love Your Daddy? (9 page)

Instead it made me sick.

It was more than a year after she had been admitted to the hospital for the first time and several months after her relapse that my mother became ill. This was different, she protested, when she was accused of drinking again. ‘So you say,’ was my father’s disbelieving response. Complaints that she ached everywhere and was tired were ignored. Looks of anger and frustration were directed towards her by my father’s relatives.

There were times when I rushed in from the garden at my grandmother’s house and the room went silent. I knew they had been talking about something they thought was not suitable for children’s ears. This piqued my curiosity enough to make me creep quietly around the house and try to listen at closed doors. I heard my father saying he had been through enough and was not going to put up with any more, then my grandmother and aunt agreeing with him. For too long they had witnessed my mother’s depression and her drinking: this was just another bout of the same problem, they said.

My father had visited the off-licence and when he was told she hadn’t been there for weeks, he suspected her friends of buying drink for her. But it was not until school had broken up for the long summer holidays that we all gradually realized my mother was suffering from a different kind of illness. To begin with she just said she was tired and that whatever she ate disagreed with her. ‘Just a bit of indigestion, Sally, nothing to worry about,’ she told me, as she leant back on the settee the first day I was home. She asked me to watch Billy and closed her eyes for the rest of the morning.

Over the following days I heard her retching in the bathroom. The colour drained from her face, leaving a yellow-tinged pallor, and violet smudges appeared under her eyes. I watched her moving tiredly around the house, and when we went to the shops she dragged her feet instead of walking at her usual brisk pace. Her slender figure became gaunt and when I tried to lean against her she pushed me away, complaining of pain.

My father still refused to believe that she was unwell and kept on accused her of drinking. ‘I’ve told you, Laura, what’ll happen if I catch you, haven’t I?’

Looking small and vulnerable, my mother was unable to summon the energy to argue with him.

‘What’s wrong with you now?’ he would shout, when she told him she felt too ill to cook as the smell of food made her nauseous. You could see him smelling her breath but it was the smell of vomit that filled his nose, not the telltale notes of alcohol. Cupboards were pulled open as he stormed around the house searching for bottles.

He questioned Pete and me. Had she stopped at the off-licence, he asked me, and gave me a disbelieving look when I said no.

‘Please just go and get some fish and chips for you and the kids,’ she begged, when she had felt too ill to cook a meal.

‘Have to ask my mother to bring round something decent, seeing you’re not up to doing anything,’ he snapped. ‘Can’t live on fish and chips.’

Finally it was my grandmother who spoke up: she said that this time she thought my mother was genuinely ill.

‘You’d better get yourself off to the doctor’s,’ my father told her, after Nana had voiced her concern. ‘Get yourself sorted out, then maybe this house will go back to normal.’

It was my grandmother who rang the surgery to make the appointment and went with her.

Pete was given the job of babysitting and sat around morosely until they finally returned.

‘So did they find out what’s the matter with you?’ my father asked.

That was when we were told that she was to be admitted to the hospital within a few days. ‘Just for a small operation so they can see what’s wrong with me,’ my mother explained, to Pete and me, when we asked her what the doctor had said.

‘Will they make you better, Mummy?’ I asked as, with a sinking heart, I remembered how it felt at home each time my mother disappeared.

‘Of course they will,’ she answered, ruffling my hair. ‘They always have, haven’t they?’

It was later when my mother was putting me to bed that she told me it had been arranged for me to go and stay with her sister, my aunt Janet. ‘Just for a few weeks,’ she assured me, ‘till I’m better.’ It was only me who was to go: my baby brother was to be left with my grandmother, and Pete would stay at home with our father.

‘It’ll be a lovely holiday for you,’ she said, but I was doubtful of that.

The following day she helped me with my packing. Three cotton dresses, underwear, shoes, a swimsuit and some jumpers went into a suitcase, with a couple of heavier pinafore dresses. It looked like I was going for weeks, not just a few days.

‘You never know what you’ll need with this funny weather, Sally,’ she said, when she saw me looking worried at the amount of clothes being packed.

I chose some books and placed my Tiny Tears doll, which I had named Bella, on top of my case. ‘I want to stay here with you, Mummy,’ I said.

‘You’re going to have a lovely time, darling.’ Something in her expression told me not to show any more reluctance at leaving her.

That night when my mother tucked me into bed she told me she had written down a special story for me to take away with me. As she read it to me I thought the heroine, who was a pretty little girl with long blonde hair and green eyes, sounded suspiciously like me.

The little girl’s mother told her that there was a special place where she would be happy. It was a beautiful house where a very happy family lived and they would look after her. But first the little girl had to find the house, for it was hidden in the enchanted forest. I asked why her mother couldn’t take her there, and was told that it was a journey the little girl had to make on her own.

‘But,’ said my mother, ‘the mother could see the little girl. She watched her all the time, to make sure she was safe and that nothing bad happened to her.’

The next morning the little girl entered the forest where squirrels, foxes and rabbits all lived in harmony. They took her hands and guided her through the trees and hid her from the dragon that also lived there. When night came, the trees made their leaves fall into a soft pile for her to sleep on and wrapped their branches around her to protect her. When she awoke, the squirrels brought nuts and berries for her to eat and the fox gave her leaves filled with sparkling dew to quench her thirst. Again, she set off to find the house and silently called to her mother: if she could see her, she thought, then surely she could show her the way.

There was a rustling in the undergrowth and instead of her mother a bright-eyed rabbit appeared. ‘Follow me,’ it said, ‘and I will take you to where you want to go.’ For the rest of that day it hopped along in front of her, only stopping when it came to a clump of wild strawberries. When the little girl had eaten her fill, it went on until suddenly they came to a clearing where the sun shone brightly on a beautiful castle.

‘This is the place you have been searching for,’ the rabbit said. ‘The people who live here are waiting for you.’

The little girl asked if the rabbit was coming with her but he told her that his job was done and he had to go back into the enchanted forest.

‘What happened then?’ I asked my mother, my eyes wide with wonder.

‘Why, Sally, she went to live with them and was happy ever after, of course,’ she said.

‘Where was her mummy?’ I asked.

‘She had to stay in the magic place. She had watched the little girl make her journey and knew she was now safe. And she was happy that the little girl would be well cared for,’ my mother said softly.

‘And could the little girl see her?’ I asked.

‘No, but she knew that her mummy was still watching her every day. I love you, Sally,’ she said. ‘Always remember that.’

‘I love you too, Mummy.’ I wound my arms around her neck before I slid under the covers.

I felt my mother pulling the bedclothes up around my shoulders and, as I drifted off to sleep, her hand gently stroked my hair.

Over the years that have passed since then, that is my one memory that has been kept shiny and bright, untarnished by time. When I was still a child, that forest with the castle of safety was a picture I could conjure up at will. In my memory my mother has stayed for ever young and I can still see her with the light from my bedside lamp on her face – a face full of love – and hear her soft voice telling me the story of the little girl.

The next morning my aunt and uncle arrived to collect me. My aunt Janet, who was two years older than my mother, had her colouring but not her slenderness, while my uncle Roy, a teacher, was a quiet sandy-haired man who looked ordinary until he smiled. Then his eyes crinkled and his face suddenly seemed that of a much younger man.

My mother had a light meal ready for them but once it was eaten they seemed anxious to be on their way. I think of that day often and believe the hasty departure was to stop an emotional goodbye. Before we left my mother gave her sister a large bunch of gladioli. ‘These have always been my favourite flowers,’ she said. ‘When one flower on the stalk dies and you remove it, another grows at the top and takes its place.’

They hugged then and I saw moisture in my aunt’s eyes and wondered why the flowers had made her sad.

Then it was time to leave and my mother bent down to kiss me. ‘You be a good girl,’ she said, and her arms came round me and her head rested briefly on mine. My case was placed in the boot and then I was on the back seat, looking out of the window at her as we drove away. My eyes remained fixed on her as I waved until we turned the corner and she was lost to view.

That was the last time I ever saw my mother.

Two days later she was admitted to hospital and the surgeon who opened her up saw that the cancer had spread from her stomach to her pancreas and was inoperable. She was sent home to wait for death. But she had already known her fate when she sent me away.

Three hours after we had left my home we arrived at my aunt Janet’s house, an old two-storey stone cottage in a small pretty Midlands town. In front of it was a garden where cushioned wooden benches stood invitingly on the neat lawn. As my uncle swung open the gate for us to walk in, I smelt the perfume of the honeysuckle and jasmine that grew around it, and further along the garden path the heady scent of pink roses filled the fragrant air. I could see shrubs, and flowerbeds that were a riot of colour; a bird table hung from an old apple tree and I peered into a fish pond in which sleek golden fish swam lazily. Near the back door, which led into the kitchen, there were pots of lavender and other plants, which I later learnt were various herbs for cooking. I thought it was the most beautiful garden I had ever seen.

I was to have my own room, my aunt told me, as she led me up a steep flight of stairs. It was next to my thirteen-year-old cousin Emily’s. She placed my suitcase on the bed. ‘We can unpack that later,’ she said, as I gazed at the floral wallpaper. There was a single bed with a pink bedspread and on it sat a large, round shocking pink and purple soft toy. I had never seen anything like it before. It had an embroidered face with long lashes and on its head it had felt hair in a Beatles style. There were feet, but no legs, and two arms for me to hold. ‘It’s a gonk and it’s your welcome present,’ my aunt told me. My affection for my Tiny Tears doll was immediately forgotten as I picked it up and clutched it to me.

When she took me back downstairs I gazed around in wonder. The home I was used to, with all its clutter and tired furniture, was nothing like the room I was standing in. Nor did this house resemble my grandmother’s, with its small stuffy rooms and her collection of ornaments, bought on day trips to seaside towns and placed lovingly on lace squares. Everything in my aunt and uncle’s house was bright and clean, like the pictures in a magazine.

Small tables were placed at each end of a long tan-coloured settee. In the centre of the room there was a low coffee-table with a few magazines lying on its smoky glass top. Prints of country scenes hung on the walls, flowering plants decorated the windowsills, and family photographs in silver frames stood on the mantelpiece and the small beige-wood sideboard.

My aunt took a tall yellow and white vase from a cupboard and arranged the gladioli my mother had given her in it, while my uncle busied himself with making a pot of tea, cutting large wedges of fruitcake and pouring orange squash for me. I watched him with interest – I had never seen such domesticity in my father.

My cousin Emily came into the room and grinned at me. She had dark hair with lightly tanned skin and she was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. She started telling her parents about the lovely day she had spent at a friend’s house while they had been collecting me, then turned to me. ‘Hello, Sally! My, you’ve grown,’ she said, then told me she was going to show me around the house and garden as soon as tea was over.

‘Milly,’ she said, ‘has a little sister your age, so I’ll take you over to her house tomorrow.’ Milly was her best friend I learnt later. She went on to tell me she had looked out some books she had enjoyed when she was my age. ‘I’ve already put them in your room,’ she added.

Faced with Emily’s friendliness, my nervousness at being with relatives I had only seen until now a couple of times a year evaporated, and I began to think I might enjoy my holiday after all.

‘Sally,’ my aunt said, a couple of hours later, ‘what’s your favourite meal? I’m getting supper ready.’