The relationship mum had with the sailor didn’t last fortunately for us. The lasting legacy is that my sister and I still hate tinned peaches and boiled fish. If you’re made to sit in front of these things often enough, having said you don’t like them, but still being made to sit there until you eat them or the adult in question finally gives up, then you’d hate them too! I know kids can be arsy about food and change their mind on a daily basis but sometimes they are telling the truth and do need to be listened to not punished for genuinely disliking something. That’s like forcing someone to always attend Richard Clayderman concerts despite having an aversion to kitch piano recitals! Enough to drive you mad.
So it fell apart and mum had a dilemma. We were fostered originally because she had no money and no qualifications and didn’t want to drag us up through abject poverty. The sailor had meant that she could have us back sooner than anticipated (still four years though) because he was solvent and had a house and she could continue building her own earning power. So, now what!
Probably from my mother’s point of view there was only one solution and one that would have galled her deeply to admit to and then do. Grandmother! My mother had a difficult relationship with her mother. In fact my grandmother had a difficult relationship with her older two children but had mellowed a little when the youngest one came along. The result of this was that mum left home at sixteen and barely communicated with her parents. My grandfather was described as ‘ineffectual’ meaning that what my grandmother said was what happened and he never seemed to intervene. If he didn’t agree we’ll never know. My impression…and please bear in mind that this is my impression not the written views of his children, was that he was pretty much ‘hands off’ when it came to parenting. My mother, as you now know, was pregnant at nineteen and not married. The shot gun wedding was not attended by my grandparents as a protest and fairly typical of that time. There must have been some relenting however because mum always tells this story of my grandfather arriving at the hospital when my sister was born and demanding to see, ‘the wrinkled prune’. On first glance he melted instantly and went all soppy. Who wouldn’t? It was my lovely sister after all. There are no such stories around my birth.
So given that history my mother had to swallow a lot of pride and ask her parents to give a home, all be it temporary, to herself and two small girls. They said yes.
Baring in mind we all re-write our own history’s I am relying on my memory and family stories for some of this and my sister, mother etc may remember things differently. I think my grandparents lived in quite a large house in Birmingham. I remember my youngest uncle being around quite a lot but whether he was living there I am not sure. I am guessing I was about 6 or 7 so he would only have been 16 or 17 and therefore ,I think, still at home. There was also a dog, Eve. My uncle said the dog’s name was actually short for ‘Evil Stench’ being a small dulux type dog and smelly when damp. He also said she bit him once so he bit her back and she never bit anyone again. The dog was famous for taking whoever put the lead on her for a walk. It was definitely that way round and as a small child I certainly wouldn’t have been able to control her on my own but would have had to run at her pace or land flat on my face…I have no doubt that happened on more than one occasion and I would have been watched with a careful eye if allowed to take ‘the reins’ at all. I vaguely remember mum saying that my grandfather and uncle had been sent out with strict instructions on what type of dog my grandmother wanted and it wasn’t that one! They’d seen her and fallen in love.
My grandmother was American. The story I was first told about her was that my grandfather was stationed in America for part of the second world war. He’d gone to an event or something and seen a mass of beautiful auburn hair. He, supposedly, said, “if the front half is as beautiful as the back I’m going to marry that woman’ and did. Sadly the marriage was not to be as romantic as the story.
I remember that she had a soft American accent which you could particularly hear when she said ‘darling’. She was a very practical woman who made a lot out of very little. There was a dressing table in one of the bedrooms and this was made out of old fruit boxes. Two side bits and a plank or what ever across the top and then material cast off’s that she tacked over the boxes to make it look nice, painted the plank..etc etc. A very nice job. There were also some hexagonal place mats that looked hand made with a lady in a long dress with bustle and hat painted on it that I am sure she made too. I still have one of those.
On the wall in the hallway were three photo’s. I got upset about them because I couldn’t understand why she’d have a photo of my sister on the wall and not one of me. It was explained to my small brain that it wasn’t a picture of my sister it was my mum. Amazing hey!
My grandfather played quite a big part in my memories of that time. I know this happens in other families too..that my grandparents were actually much better at being grandparents than they were at being parents. more relaxed. not feeling the responsibility so much and able to just enjoy these little people who were adorable…Obviously!!! Like quite a few small people we were early risers. breakfast was laid out by my grandmother the night before. I remember she pretty much always did this. There would be a bowl for your cereal and then a cold liver oil capsule under the rim. God how we hated those. Repeated on you for hours. Grandfather knew that. He would be up when he knew we were and because he was on dog walking duties. He seemed to have a never ending supply of Cheesy Watsits and we’d have a bag each to help the medicine go down. Maybe that’s where I got my savoury tooth from because I still like savoury things more than sugar. Then off we’d pop armed with Watsits, grandfather and dog and still be back in plenty of time to go to school.
Mum told me that I used to like to go down to the Evangelical church on a Sunday because I liked the singing. She used to walk me down, pop me in at the back and collect me later. It didn’t make me religious but wow, the singing was fab.
I remember very little else about that stay or exactly how long it was. I don’t think it was more than a year and a half and not long after we left my grandfather died. He had cancer having been a smoker all his life. I am so glad we had that time with him because if my mother’s circumstances hadn’t changed I don’t think we would have got to know him at all.
His name was funny, ‘grandfather’. I think it was, again, a rule my grandmother insisted on. There was no grandpa or grandma etc but always grandfather and grandmother. I remembered the importance of this so well that when I came to do the death certificate for my grandmother many many years later they asked me my grandfathers name. I had no idea….I remember shrugging and repeating the word ‘grandfather’ again hoping that that night be enough. But it wasn’t. I had to return to my grandmothers residence, go through her documents and find it…yes, none of her children were there when she died. Only me…but that’s another story….and not for a good while yet.
I realise I had promised tales of morris dancing infiltrators. Well that happens next…if I didn’t get distracted by a musical event and relate story.
Jo Freya’s Musings 