Authors: Cathy Wilson
Please tell me there was a plan!
Our new place was a split-level basement bedsit, although jargon like that meant nothing to me at the time, of course. All I knew was it had stairs and passages and doors – three great ingredients for adventures! You stepped inside the front door straight into the lounge, where a large open fire offered the flat’s only means of heating. There were a couple of chairs already there and a sofa which turned into a bed. That was where Mum slept. I had my own space – under the stairs.
It sounds awful when I tell people now, but I was so thrilled at the time. I had armchair cushions as a mattress and plenty of room for me, my reclaimed panda and Mushka to cuddle up together. I’ve always hated sleeping in the dark, so Mum unscrewed – or maybe just snapped off – the angled door of the cupboard and hung a curtain instead, which I could have open or shut depending on my mood. I was so happy in there. It felt like I was in a tent.
The adventures didn’t stop there. Rising from the lounge were a few stairs and suddenly you were up by the toilet and kitchen. Best of all was a back door leading out into a garden full of beautiful red poppies. That was my secret passageway.
The garden being in full bloom makes me think we moved in warm weather. Coastal summer nights can still be chilly though. Unfortunately, Mum couldn’t afford to buy coal for the fire. Ever resourceful, she got hold of all the junk mail that shared blocks of flats accumulate by the front door and set light to those. When that died down I could sense her eyes scanning the lounge, looking for something else. Luckily I didn’t own any thing suitable, otherwise I got the feeling it would have been sacrificed. Drawing a blank, Mum said, ‘Come on, we’re going out.’
It was pitch black outside. I probably should have been in bed long ago.
‘Where are we going?’
Mum smiled and her whole face lit up.
‘We’re going hunting!’
That was all the encouragement I needed. Our prey, however, didn’t quite live up to its billing. For the next half an hour we traipsed up and down the local roads, looking in bins, going through gardens, scrabbling around for anything that looked like it might burn. Finally, laden with boxes and branches and bundles of newspaper, we struggled back home and, a few minutes later, cuddled up together in front of a lovely roaring fire.
That became another of our little rituals. I liked it. We got to spend time together and always had a hug at the end. Even when Mum was too ill or tired to come out scavenging, I would happily do it on my own, trawling the night-time streets without a care in the world, knowing we would be all toasty together soon enough.
Just writing these words makes me feel terrible. No one in their right mind would allow a six-year-old out at night to scrabble for sticks in dark parks and poorly lit streets. And that’s the tragedy of it all. Mum obviously wasn’t in her right mind. I just didn’t realize.
You can only live with what you’re given and kids are supremely adaptable. I honestly never noticed anything wrong with the way we carried on. We did what we did. There was nothing for me to compare it to. As far as I knew, every house in the country got by the same way. There must have been hundreds of us up and down the length and breadth of Great Britain, collecting kindling at night. I honestly thought that, if I thought about it at all. I never once suspected it was anything other than normal.
Staring at the fire was pretty much the only entertainment we had. We didn’t have a TV or radio, although at some point Mum did take delivery of her old record player and boxes of LPs from Granny’s house. I was really excited about it, but Mum wouldn’t let me play it while Granny was there. So, as soon as she’d gone, I grabbed the plug and shoved it into the wall. A large button marked ‘on’ seemed the obvious place to start, so I pressed that and—
Nothing.
Confused, I looked at Mum, who was just staring. Her eyes looked sad.
‘Sorry, love, there’s no electricity.’
So that’s why she wouldn’t let me touch it in front of Granny.
I was really disappointed, but not for long. Feeling sorry for myself is not in my nature. I hadn’t had a record player that morning and, to all intents and purposes, I didn’t have one now either. I was no worse off.
Evenings, then, were spent staring at the red flames burning whatever trash I’d managed to reclaim. Mum would read or doze or smoke her sweet cigarettes, staring into space, just thinking. Sometimes I would sew or knit or crochet, drawing on those life skills Granny had insisted on teaching me. There was nothing I liked more than adding another few feet to my latest
Doctor Who
-style scarf or weaving a few woolly pom-poms for the cat to play with. A few months after moving in, our flat was full of the things.
I also began to play cards. Typical of what I recall as their suburban Jerry and Margo from
The Good Life
aspirations, Granny and Grandpa had regular whist or bridge nights at their home, attended by Grandpa’s boss, colleagues and friends. The more I stayed at their house, the more card games I picked up. Granny was the real enthusiast and was happy to give me my own deck and a couple of ‘teach yourself’ books.
Mum was never interested, so it was just as well that Granny had shown me half a dozen different versions of solitaire. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed playing against myself. I loved mastering any new skill. Then, once the fire had died, the light went with it, so that was bedtime. Life was pretty simple.
Without paying the electricity or gas bills, there wasn’t much in the kitchen that worked. This didn’t seem to bother Mum, though. As I’ve said, she never really had an interest in food. Apart from our treats at the café in Preston Park, I don’t really remember her eating at all. She was much more comfortable with a cigarette in her hand. It’s only now that I think:
but why didn’t she feed me?
Mum must have thought she was being clever by not letting Granny discover our lack of power supply when she brought the record player over. It turned out that Granny wasn’t fooled for a minute. The next day there was a knock on the door and, before I could panic, I heard her voice. When I opened the door she was holding two foil parcels.
‘I’ve brought your lunch, dear.’
Wow!
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the warm pie cooked that morning in Saltdean and transported so lovingly the six miles to our house. Mum thanked her, but she didn’t eat hers, despite Granny’s best efforts.
‘Well, I’ll wrap it up and you can have it later,’ she said.
In the end, I think I had it for tea.
Granny popping round with meals wrapped in foil or cling film became a regular occurrence. She never stayed long, just dropped them off and vanished. It was really lovely of her, especially going to such an effort to keep the food as warm as possible. I couldn’t even remember eating a hot meal at home before that. Not that it bothered me. It was just another one of those things.
Granny didn’t come every day. I think Mum told her not to. She’d say she could cope. She couldn’t though. If Granny didn’t appear I’d go out on my bike and see what I could forage or scrounge from the other kids. When that didn’t work I turned my attention to the sweet shops. It’s amazing how many sweets you can stuff in your pockets while the shopkeeper’s turned the other way. It was totally wrong, I knew that. But if I didn’t have those sweets I wouldn’t be eating that day.
Soon the local shops became wise to my tricks. As is so often the case, it was getting greedy that proved my downfall. I remember at Easter really craving these little chicks made out of pipe cleaners at the sweet shop. Even though it was the chocolate I really needed to fill my rumbling tummy, I couldn’t leave without making a grab for one of the wire toys – which is when the shopkeeper’s hand landed on mine.
He shouted at me, but I’d seen him do it a dozen times to other kids. I wasn’t the only one with sticky fingers, although I might have been the only one who needed to steal to eat.
I was never banned from any of the shops that caught me – I think they expected all children to have a go at shoplifting – but I quickly realized I needed to think of something else. So, with Granny’s help, I went shopping for groceries.
‘Mum’s going to make a roast,’ I told her.
That made Granny so happy I didn’t dare tell her the truth: that there would be a roast – but I would be the one cooking it.
That afternoon, while Mum slept, I disappeared into the tiny kitchen and began peeling vegetables, the way I’d seen Granny do it. I took out this large piece of pork and laid it all neatly on a baking tray. I covered it with some grimy oil that looked like it hadn’t been touched for years, then shoved it all in the oven. I didn’t know what number to turn the dial to, so I span it all the way round. Granny’s roasts normally took a couple of hours, so I decided to come back and check then.
I really thought it was that simple. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing really. I didn’t know if the vegetables needed the same time as the meat or if they went together or even how long the meat required in the first place. It was all guesswork, based on meals Granny had cooked for me down the years – so it was obviously never going to end well.
My biggest mistake, I realized some time later, was not appreciating that the cooker ran on electricity. It didn’t matter what number I set the temperature to; with no power, that oven wasn’t going to do anything. But I didn’t know that. I’d never seen Mum use it, so I didn’t know lights should have come on. It didn’t even occur to me that it should have been getting hot.
Two hours after I’d put it in, I called Mum to the little table and proudly served her uncooked meat and raw carrots. It was disgusting. Bless Mum, though, she ate a few of the veg. But I was mortified. All that effort and I couldn’t get it right. I’d only wanted to feed Mum and I’d failed.
Not every flat we lived in had an indoor toilet, but May Road did, which was lucky because Mum spent a lot of time in there being sick. Sometimes her illnesses came out of the blue. On other occasions they followed a night out. Either way, I would stand next to her with a cold flannel or just hugging her or sometimes crying to see her in distress. I didn’t like it.
Mum’s nights out weren’t as regular as they had been when she was working, but they were a lot more random. They went on for longer too. I watched her dabbing some perfume on one night and studying her face in the mirror, and guessed something was going on. I caught her eye in the mirror.
‘Am I going to Granny’s?’ I asked.
Bending down, she gave me a squeeze. ‘You’re a big girl now. You’ll be all right.’
Yes,
I thought proudly,
I will.
I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t disappointed. I certainly didn’t feel abandoned or anything like that. As much as I loved staying at Granny’s bungalow, with all its home comforts, nothing beat the thrill of just being at home. Everything I had – and it wasn’t much – was here. Most importantly, though, I wanted to be there when Mum came home. Just in case she needed my help.
So Mum went out and I collected kindling and lit the fire as normal. I promised myself I’d stay awake until she got in, but of course I fell asleep. When I woke, at about five in the morning, she still hadn’t returned.
I hope she’s all right.
Then I rolled over and didn’t wake again till noon.
Sometimes Mum stayed out all night, sometimes she didn’t come home for a day or two. I wasn’t unduly bothered. It just meant more opportunities to play with friends during the day and more time spent cleaning the flat, crocheting pom-poms or beating myself at solitaire at night. And there was always Mushka to play with in my little cupboard room.
Mum never apologized when she came in, but then I never expected her to. She was the boss. If she popped out for five minutes or five days, that was up to her. It was my job to be there when she returned, to have the place looking as welcoming as I could muster. And besides, she was often so poorly when she came home that no one would have had the heart to be cross with her. I’d just help her undress, whatever time of day or night it was, guide her to her little sofa bed and tuck her in. Then I’d kiss her forehead, wish her sweet dreams and get on with my day. Perfectly fine. And perfectly normal.
Mum never told me not to mention her comings and goings to Granny, but instinctively I didn’t. If she called round with food and Mum wasn’t in I’d say she’d nipped to the shops. If Granny wanted to hang around I’d say I wanted to play with friends so we’d both leave together. It’s not that I thought Mum was doing anything wrong; I just sensed that Granny had her way of thinking and Mum had hers.
One of the things I really loved about Mum, I now realize, was that she treated me like a grown-up. I wasn’t, of course. I was six. But every kid thinks they know it all, even the ones who can’t tie their own shoelaces. They all dream of killing dragons, flying to the moon and bossing large numbers of people. I was no different. So when Mum let me clean the kitchen, I was delirious. When she allowed me to tidy the hearth and the toilet, it was an honour. Anything I wanted to do, she’d just look at me, smile and say, ‘Go ahead.’
Sometimes there were problems even I couldn’t fix. Every so often, thanks to Granny’s generosity, Mum had enough money to put coins in the meter for a month or two. We didn’t have central heating, but suddenly we were able to turn the oven on for a bit of warmth or, best of all, actually play music on Mum’s record player. I’d never seen her happier than when she was listening to her music. On nights when she didn’t come home, as long as we had power, I’d just play records till I fell asleep. I loved Mum’s Bay City Rollers and David Soul albums and I even had my own Brotherhood of Man single and an
Adventures in Toytown
children’s LP. I could recite every word of that early talking book – which was useful when, one day, the player just stopped working. I presumed the money had run out, but the lounge light was still glowing.