I
t had been many years since I had allowed myself to think of the lonely little girl that I had once been. But as she appeared in my mind, I felt tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I saw her scraggy little form standing day after day at the edge of the playground, hoping, but not believing, that she might make a friend.
I remembered her bewilderment at hearing words like ‘holidays’, ‘central heating’, ‘conservatories’, ‘patios’ and ‘indoor bathrooms’, and heard once again shrill mocking laughter ringing out when another child saw her confusion.
I thought of how she had tried to cover up her hurt when as the months rolled by she also heard about birthday parties she was never invited to and presents she could not imagine ever owning: dolls’ houses with tiny replicas of modern furniture in every room, three-wheeled bicycles painted a glossy red and dolls whose eyes opened and shut and that cried like real babies.
The children talked of treats she could only dream of: outings to tea shops where pink meringues, scoops of ice cream and fresh raspberries with cream were consumed, of new dresses being bought by doting grandmothers, of trips to the seaside and the funfair and so many other things that set her apart.
Having no stories of her own that she thought she could share, she kept quiet.
I tried to conjure up more images, but my memory seemed fixed on the picture of that little girl standing alone in the playground. Sighing a little, I pushed myself out of my comfortable seat and went to the cupboard where the family albums that recorded happy events were kept. Pushing them to one side I pulled out an old brown envelope that the years had faded to a burnt-out yellow.
Such a thin package, I thought sadly. Although I had not looked at its contents for over two decades I knew that inside it were the only photographs that recorded my first fifteen years. I took those few grainy black and white snapshots out of the envelope and placed them face up on the table.
There were none of me as a gurgling baby or as a toddler clutching hold of my proud parents’ hands as I took my first steps. Most of them showed me with other people. It was as though the camera, wanting to capture their images alone, had included mine by accident, for I was always standing on the edges. There were a few school-group photographs taken when I was about twelve. Those I pushed to one side, for I wanted to see myself when I was younger.
There were only two. The first was a black and white snapshot taken of my first brother and me when he was a plump baby and I was a scruffy six-year-old. We were sitting side by side on our old settee. It was me he was leaning against but it was my mother’s hand he was grasping. A wide gummy smile was on his face while I, all skinny arms and legs, was gazing blankly into the distance.
That was a time when I had grown to realize that my parents did not love me. Before my brother was born I had not seen my parents bestow tenderness on anyone else, but now when I watched my brother being picked up and looked at with those expressions of care that were never shown to me, I did not doubt it. I had listened to words of endearment being whispered to him and even on one occasion heard my father say ‘My boy’ with such a note of happy satisfaction ringing in his voice that I felt an emptiness that physically hurt.
For seeing that love, that unknowingly I had yearned for, given to another left a cold empty space under my ribs. I thought then it must be me that was unworthy of it, for my brother had been born too short a time to have earned it. At first when he was just a tiny mewing little creature I would stand looking at him marvelling in the perfection of his rounded limbs and creamy skin, and as he grew so did my love for him – however, with that love came another feeling; not jealousy but more an acute loneliness.
‘Look at your little brother,’ my mother would say as he took his first faltering steps. ‘Look at that smile,’ she would say to my father. ‘He’s going to be a heartbreaker all right.’
I’m over here, I wanted to cry – look at me; but when they did I wished they hadn’t, for the fond look bestowed on my brother was absent when their eyes fell on me.
I would watch my mother stroke his rosy cheeks and his neck, and blow kisses on his round little stomach before wrapping her arms around him.
I tried to be good then, offered to help with feeding and changing him, but all the time I asked myself a question repeatedly. If she was capable of feeling so much love for my brother, why wasn’t there enough left to give a small slice of it to me?
When our meal was finished I would slide off my chair and pick up the chipped china plates and anything else my small hands could hold. Then, with my brow furrowed in concentration, for I knew not to drop anything, I would take them to the sink.
Sometimes I would be rewarded by a smile from my mother as she ran her fingers through my hair. ‘You’re a good girl, Marianne, aren’t you?’ she would say, and on those occasions just those few words of praise were enough to put a smile on my face.
Apart from my brother’s existence emphasizing my parents’ indifference to me, the biggest change his presence made in my life was that for several months before he was born my mother no longer took me to school. ‘Marianne, I’m too busy and you’re big enough to go alone now’ was all she had said by way of explanation.
So instead of sitting on the seat behind her with my arms wrapped around her body, I had to walk alone for about half a mile to the bus stop and take myself there. That added to my difference, for I was only too aware that I was the only child in my class who walked into the playground alone without a mother to wave goodbye. And when the final bell rang, I was the only one not collected.
At the end of the school day all the children in my class rushed to the gates to receive hugs and kisses and tender enquiries as to the events of the day. Larger ones held their small hands tightly and they left without even a glance in my direction. I felt as though I was invisible, a feeling that grew when after a few months I arrived home to see my brother sitting on my mother’s knee.
Those days I felt an overwhelming need for something in my life, without knowing what it could be.
I
t was the second photograph that made me smile. It also had been taken when I was around six, but this time there was an expression of delighted surprise on my face and I clearly remembered the day when the button on the camera was pressed, capturing that moment for ever.
I knew that my father’s family had no affection for my mother and very little for me. On the rare times they called on us I had seen the expressions on their faces as their eyes slid around the dirty room before alighting on me.
‘She takes after you in looks,’ my grandmother always said to my mother and I understood it was not meant as a compliment. So what my father did was surprising.
He was the eldest of four children and, despite his forced marriage to a woman his family disapproved of, was still his mother’s favourite. His father had died while I was still a toddler, so when his sister announced that she was getting married she asked my father to give her away.
He in turn asked two things of her. His wife was to be invited to the wedding, and I was to be bridesmaid.
Neither my mother nor I was present when he made his request. All I knew was that my aunt had said yes and that I had been taken to my grandmother’s house to be measured for my dress.
If it is love that makes a child pretty and parental affection that puts a bloom in small children’s cheeks, then my lack of either explained why I was an unprepossessing pale-faced child; one dressed in badly fitting cast-offs from charity shops and one who seldom saw the inside of the tin bath. The expressions on both of my aunts’ faces left me in no doubt of their opinion of me.
‘Going to take more than a few minutes to get her ready,’ the elder one had said, after taking one look at me.
‘Bring her over the evening before so we can tidy her up. She’s such a little scrap we can put her in my bed to sleep – sure I won’t even notice her there.’
So the evening before the wedding I was dutifully delivered into the care of my aunts. A beautiful pink silk dress was laid out on my aunt’s bed, ready for me to wear the next day.
‘Bath! ‘said my aunt after I had eaten my supper.
‘Here,’ she said to her sister, ‘help me out will you? I’ve still things to do for my big day.’
My hand was taken and the next thing I knew my clothes were on the back of a chair and I was looking at a huge white bath filled with bubbles. ‘In you get,’ said the younger aunt, not unkindly.
For a second I was scared. It was so big, surely I would drown in it? But my aunt’s strong adult arms held me tightly as she lifted me in. Soap was lathered over my face, neck and body, shampoo rubbed into my hair, and then with instructions to close my eyes she tipped me backwards. My head went under, my legs kicked out; soap was in my mouth, laughter in my ears. Choking, they raised me to the surface.
‘This time keep your mouth shut as well as your eyes,’ they warned me, then under I went again.
‘Blimey! Grubby little mare our niece is!’ said a voice I recognized as belonging to my younger aunt. ‘Wonder when she was last as clean as this?’
‘You could have flaked bits of grime off with your fingernails,’ I heard the older one say to her sister. ‘Whatever is that mother thinking of?’
‘Good thing she ain’t got nits, or you could count me out doing the pinning of her hair later.’
It was me they were talking about. And knowing the shame of it, it the happiness and excitement of the day faded. Suddenly the arms that held me close now constricted me. The friendly laughter had become mockery and the comments had turned into criticism. I wriggled in protest.
‘Oh, come on love, don’t you get narky,’ said my aunt when she saw my discomfort. ‘Sure we’re all girls together tonight, aren’t we?’
‘Course we are,’ they both said in unison, and suddenly I was lifted up onto a knee, a fluffy white towel was wrapped around me and my aunts’ arms hugged and petted me. A sweet was popped into my mouth, my hair was given another quick rub, the tangles carefully combed out, then, while still wet, coils of my light-brown hair were wrapped in rags and pinned tightly to my head.
‘Don’t spoil it now, Marianne,’ the elder aunt said. ‘You are going to be so pretty tomorrow with your hair all done up.’
‘Yes,’ said the other one, ‘a special little girl, that’s what you’ll be.’
‘You sleep with your neck on the pillow as well your head,’ said her sister helpfully. ‘Don’t want to lose these rags.’ And with all the excitement I hardly noticed any discomfort as I tried to quell the excitement and sleep. The last thoughts as I finally fell into a deep sleep were ‘Tomorrow I’m going to wear a beautiful new dress and I’m going to be special.’
The next morning, in a bedroom where the older bridesmaids were fluttering around mirrors and jostling to gain a better view of themselves, my younger aunt took the rags out of my hair, brushed it gently, then pinned it up into a soft roll. Next, new pink underwear was pulled on, white socks went onto my feet that were then slipped into shiny black shoes. I could hardly keep still for excitement when finally my wonderful new dress was pulled over my shoulders.
‘Close your eyes, Marianne.’ I squeezed them shut, felt my hair being smoothed back into place. Hands gently took my shoulders and turned me around to face a large mirror.
‘Look, Marianne, look how pretty you are!’
Out of the glass a child I hardly recognized stared gravely back at me. As our eyes met a look of astonished delight spread across her face and I, feeling that joy, felt my mouth stretch into an answering wide smile. That was when they took the photograph.
The wedding might have been the most important day in the bride’s life, but I felt it was mine as well. Every mirror I passed was stopped at for me to admire my reflection. At the end of the day I went home still wearing my new clothes.
‘They are for you to keep,’ my younger aunt told me when I thought they must be returned. And I beamed at her with happiness.
She bent down and gave me a kiss, and as I inhaled a mixture of soap and perfume, I knew then what it was that I so wanted. For twenty-four hours it was as though a curtain separating our two worlds had been pulled back, allowing me to step into her world. I wanted to be part of it – a world where houses were full of laughter, children wore nice clothes and little girls were told they were pretty. I wanted to feel special again. It was to be another year before I felt that – it was when I met the man who called me his little lady.
W
hen I look back on my parents’ marriage I think it had taken those five and a half years of my being an only child for my father to come to terms with no longer being single; certainly matrimony was not a state he appeared to enjoy. I learnt as I grew older that my parents’ marriage had been a rushed event, with me being born less than five months after the ceremony. When his eyes fell on me he seemed to remember that I was the cause of all his unwanted responsibilities. His brows would lower, thunderous looks were cast in my direction and at a very young age I quickly learnt to keep out of his way.
When the first of my siblings arrived, a boy, the birth of a son appeared to please my father more than my presence ever had. The tiny red-faced scrap was leant over, smiled at and even on some occasions spoken to. For a brief interlude my mother also appeared content, but no sooner was my little brother crawling than she announced that another baby was on the way.
Maybe the imminent arrival of another mouth to feed made him seek fresh employment, or perhaps with his surly manners and quick temper he had upset his employer. Whichever it was, my father took work on another farm, one where the wages were higher and the rent-free cottage larger.
‘Got a new job,’ he had announced at the supper table and named the farm that would be employing him.
‘We’ll be moving too, so you can start packing,’ was all he said about it.
My mother only asked him where the cottage that was going to be our new home was.
The woman my mother had been, before I came along, might have questioned him more, but seven years of marriage had taken their toll. She showed very little interest in herself and far less in what was happening around her.
Her husband’s drinking and frequent violence, the greyness of poverty, and her total lack of independence, for my father controlled what little money there was, had slowly stripped away nearly all her youth and confidence.
I was surprised that over the days leading up to our moving my mother suddenly appeared happy, put an effort into the evening meal and smiled at my father. She told us both that she had taken herself for a walk to inspect our new home, which was nicer than she had expected, and met our new neighbours.
It was clearly the last part that had put the smile on her face.
‘The people next door seem very nice,’ she had said as she placed my father’s dinner of stew and potatoes in front of him. His response was to lift his fork and commence eating.
‘Yes, they do, really nice,’ she continued. But her words vanished into the silence of disinterest.
Maybe it was then that I recognized the loneliness that my mother endured on an almost daily basis. For hours at a time she was alone in the house with just a brown Bakelite radio for company, and she longed for another adult to talk to. That evening I heard that barely concealed flicker of hope in her voice – hope that she might make a new friend and be able have a conversation with someone other than herself, her small children or her morose husband.
Two weeks later, when we moved to our new home, it seemed that my mother’s wish was to be granted.