Me and My Mum - The story of five daughters and their relationships with their mothers

FOREWORD

During one of our regular Thursday morning writing sessions, we were discussing memories. We found that most of them reflected our child-hood, and the important impact that our mothers had had on our lives. From this developed the idea of writing about how we lived our lives, and how what we have become today, was affected to some degree, by our different experiences. In particular by our relationship with our mothers. This book was written by a group of five women born between the early 1920s and the late 1930s, from varying backgrounds and religious upbringings. We have tried to show how life was for us when we were growing up, and how we were influenced by our mothers’ attitude towards certain aspects of life. Naturally every story will be as different as the individuals involved. Each will be dependent on the actions, attitudes, beliefs and situations of the individual, and her concept of her mother while growing up.

But one thing does show up clearly, and that is how our mothers were representative of a past era, where the mores of society were so different from today. Attitudes and beliefs regarding discipline, religion, class and sex were strongly felt, either indoctrinated or considered taboo. This had an effect on each of us, and in some ways caused us to be what we have become today. We have tried to show how our lives have been condi­tioned by these attitudes of the past, and how, despite them, we are now able to adapt to the present society, and hopefully, relate to our own children in a more understanding way, without dogma or criticism.

Working together on this project has taught us to appreciate each other, and to realise that despite an amount of hardship in our younger lives, we have overcome many obstacles. Each of us has matured and developed our own personal individuality. We have shared many laughs and a few tears while exchanging memories, and have thoroughly enjoyed working together.

It is probable that ‘modern youth’ will view these records with amazement at our naivety, thankful that they now live in a more enlightened and different society.

We hope that you enjoy our reminiscences.

ABOUT THE WRITERS

Leila Abrahams

Was born in Manchester and trained as a dress designer and fashion artist. After serving in the Auxiliary Territorial Services (ATS), she married and had three children.

At 45, she gained a BA degree, which enabled her, after eight years, to be promoted to Headteacher of a primary school in Stockport. After retiring in 1985, she and her husband came to live in Brighton, where she later joined QueenSpark Books. Apart from convening the Women’s Writing Group, she is a governor of a local school, belongs to the U3A, does voluntary work and paints when she has time. She has had a book published by QueenSpark, but would like to write a novel.

Irene Donald

Has been twice married, but with no children. She is now a widow. Irene was brought up in Brighton and helped from an early age on her parents’ fruit stall in the Open Market. Most of her working life has been spent in Local Government offices, only starting to write when she took early retirement in 1988, and joined Queen Spark Books.

Writing her autobiography, she felt that most of the important images involved her father, so it has been a rewarding experience to delve into her memories of her mother.

June Drake

Is a Brightonian, born in Chapel Street in the early 1930’s. She passed her scholarship at 11 and went to Brighton Intermediate School. She is married with two daughters. June worked as a home help for Brighton Corporation in the 60’s. In the early 70’s she joined British Telecom and worked there until she retired in 1992.

She became a member of QueenSpark Books over two years ago, hoping to learn more about creative writing. One of the results is seen here from her written memories.

Monica Hastings

Was born in Melbourne, Australia. She married but had no children. She was a teacher of commercial subjects in local schools until her retire­ment, after which she made two journeys back to ‘Oz’ with her husband in 1983 and 1987.

Monica was writing an account of her journeys to Australia as a collection of adventures and off-beat happenings, which included an affectionate reminiscence of her parents’ life there. Sadly Monica died suddenly in early 1995. So unfortunately we will never see this collection, however the memories here remain as a memento of part of her life.

Violet Pumphrey

Was born in 1926 and is married with two children. Most of her life has been spent in Brighton, and she has had a variety of interesting jobs in between raising a family. She writes of a forgotten age, almost, when living-in service was the lot of many women. It was here she was, ‘the child not objected to’ in her mother’s applications for work as a general cook. Her memories of those days are very vivid.

She has been a keen and active member of QueenSpark Books for over three years now.

Leila’s Story

What woman ever fails to be influenced by her mother but what daughter readily admits to wanting to be like her? Genetically they are caught in an unbreakable bond of inherited traits, and conditioned to respond in a particular way to environmental and social challenges.

There is bound to be a gap between mother and daughter because each generation reflects the mores of its own society and also the conformity to a specific peer group. But within this relationship, like it or not, the mother is inevitably the ‘shaping’ force of the embryonic, future adult, who will either preserve it with love and admiration, or else reject it and become her own person.

I believe that we are what we have become, because of or despite, the conflicting forces of genetic inheritance, social attitudes and environ­mental factors of our mothers.

Until her death in 1960, at the age of 71, I resented my mother. And then naturally, I was filled with remorse and regrets that I hadn’t tried to fully understand what had caused her to be as she was.

I have an old photo of her when she was around 20. Her name was Rose, and the photo epitomises a beautiful rose in bud. She stands, smiling sweetly and shyly, her hand resting on a chair back with a rose on the seat. She is dressed in an embroidered gown, which she made herself, and her tiny 18 inch waist is held in by an elaborate belt. It’s not surprising that my father fell in love with her. But how different from the woman I remember when I was a young teenager. She would then be around 43, but looking more like 63, with pendulous breasts resting on an uncorseted stomach, grey straggly hair, scraped back into an untidy bun, a toothless mouth, and lines of misery and sadness etched into a grim, unsmiling face. But despite all she had gone through, her eyes were the same…. deep pools of dark beauty and compassion that no amount of lines could aIter.

In retrospect, I realise that the changes in her appearance had as much to do with disillusionment, poverty and the collapse of her dreams, as it did with the ageing process.

My father had been an opera singer and mother had had dreams of basking in his success and fame. As a child I remember moving around from place to place when he was touring with the company. Everyone was happy, and to my childish mind it was a life filled with music and greasepaint.

Mother and father were very much in love and three of us were born in two and a half years, therefore the love and cuddles had to be distributed amongst us all. There was always a family, and my young life was a series of moves.

But things changed when I was seven. We were living in Westcliff, and mother was pregnant again. Father, on his way back from a concert in London, was involved in a car crash. For some time he’d been shrugging off difficulty of movement in his legs and hands, but while in hospital he was diagnosed as having the beginnings of Multiple Sclerosis.

The shock brought on mother’s premature labour, and grandma, who had rebuked mother for getting pregnant at the age of 40, reluctantly came over from Manchester to take charge.

Another boy was born – mother was ill, and father knew that his days of singing were over. Grandma took us three older children back to Manchester, and left mother to fend for herself and the baby, until father came out of hospital.

Living with grandma was a period of my life I’d prefer to forget. She was a strict disciplinarian, resented us, and worse than ever, thought my scribbles were rubbish. Both mother and father had encouraged me, and everyone believed I had a great artistic talent. How we all hated her. After around six months of hell, mother and father appeared with the new baby, and a different kind of life now began in Manchester. Father no longer a singer; mother – burdened with four children and a sick husband; her dreams shattered, frustrated, and her neurosis beginning. A neuro­sis which tended to have its effect on the whole of my life as well, possibly because I was the eldest – or I inherited most of her genes.

Mother was a very talented and creative dressmaker, and she was offered a job with a haute couture fashion house, at an excellent salary. I remember her begging grandma to come and live with us to help out while she was at work. Mother would still have been able to afford a daily woman. Grandma refused, preferring to live with her youngest son who had just married. Mother was unable to work, was frustrated, and bitter that she had to beg for charity, and thus became neurotic. She blamed all her problems on her own mother’s selfishness and developed what would be called today…. a mother fixation. She would complain of all kinds of things – pains, backache, shortage of breath, and then tell us to go and fetch grandma. As more often than not grandma refused to come, mother would cry bitterly, bemoaning fate in giving her such a heartless mother.

I often wonder why my mother wasn’t more independent. If she was offered such good money, she could have got a living-in housekeeper and we’d all have been better off. But I believe there was more to it than that. Although few women were the breadwinner in those days, possibly she didn’t really want to be…. she wanted her mum with her. She wanted to shrug off all her responsibilities onto her mother’s shoulders, and be the single girl again, bringing home her wage packet. I believe that living through these actions of my mother, I determined that no way would I be reliant on her. Whatever happened I was going to cope on my own and be independent.

But mother did have a hard life. She tried her best to keep us clean, well dressed and fed; sitting up to all hours altering ‘hand-me-downs’. We had so little money that she would shop just before closing time for fish or meat that was a bit ‘pongy’ and fruit and veg that was just about to go off. Many times I woke up at 2.00am to the smell of fish frying , meat cooking or fruit stewing. There she’d be, busy, trying to prevent further deterio­ration of her purchases.

Our home was a traditionally Jewish, orthodox one, where Sabbath rules were strictly observed. No cooking, sewing, writing – no radio, no spending of money, no riding on buses…. in fact, a day which should have been spent in prayer and rest. But, to me, when young, it was a day of frustration and boredom.

Mother was the upholder of the tradition as my father, due to his illness, was unable to take on the normal male religious role.

When I was around 13, father had to go into a home for incurable Jews, so really he had little impact on my life. Mother was the dominant one. It was she who made all the decisions, did all the work, looked after the four of us, and had to manage on the meagre provision doled out to us by the Jewish Board of Guardians. There was no Social Security in those days, and my father, although having served in the First World War, had no pension or insurance cover, so we were very poor. It seemed a crime then, and we were made to feel ashamed.

Mother did her best in the circumstances, but I suppose that with all she had on her shoulders, moral and ethical training were not part of a conscious duty. We probably learned these aspects incidentally. No beggar was ever turned away without a bite to eat or a copper or two. She would express sympathy at what she considered an injustice, and instilled in us strong elements of right and wrong.

I remember my brother of eight coming home with some sweets. After much persuasion and slaps he finally admitted that he had stolen them, so mother made him take them back.

Discipline was administered with shouts and slaps. There were no explanations. If we were told to do anything, and we asked “Why?”, the answer was, “Because I say so”.

Mother had very high ambitions for us. I suppose because hers were denied, she wanted us to do better in life. Sometimes we may not have had bread, but no travelling salesman offering books, encyclopaedias and such like was ever turned away. They were bought on the “never-never”. Not only did she value culture and learning, but she felt sorry for the poor salesman trying to make a living.

I do believe that this incidental culture and mother’s constant pressure, not only to do well, but to really excell, has dominated my life. Whatever I have undertaken, from my early school days, when I had to come top, through army life, when I sought promotion, and after the war when I opened my own business, it had to be successful. Later after taking up teaching, I wasn’t happy until I had achieved a Headship. And now even after retirement, I can’t relax and enjoy peace and tranquillity…. I still feel the need to achieve to the limits of my ability and to strive for perfection. Maybe I’m putting too much blame on my mother for my actions – they may well be due to the fear of ever being so poor again (not that I’ve ever made much money from all my achievements)…. or again, it may all be due to my genetic make-up…. inherited from my mother!

Three years before I was born, my parents had lost a little girl of three from polio. Mother was told that she couldn’t have any more children, so when I was born there was much rejoicing. But as my sister followed 14 months later, and my brother when I was two and a half, I had little individual love and attention. Everything was shared, and I can’t remember ever being cuddled on my own.

I suppose there were certain compensations in being part of a family. You were never lonely, couldn’t be spoiled, and you learned, especially in those days, to accept that boys were different from girls, although why was kept hidden.

I can remember mother bathing the three of us – my sister, brother and myself. I was five at the time, and I wondered why Joshy looked different from Vita and me. But I accepted it. I’d been told that he was a boy, and we were girls, just as daddy was a man and mummy was a woman.

Curiosity did rear its head when mother was in labour with Joshua. I was two and a half, and the baby was to be born at home. The midwife arrived and I could hear mother screaming. I wanted to go to her, but dad wouldn’t let me. He just said, “Mummy’s alright. Don’t worry. You’ll soon have a little baby brother or sister.”

I was puzzled, “But why is she crying?” Then a thought struck me. “Where will the baby come from?”

He laughed. “Don’t bother your head about that. We get babies from under a gooseberry bush!”

I couldn’t quite get the connection between mother’s screams, the midwife, and a baby under a gooseberry bush, but I was too young to question further.

I did question further, however, when brother Leon was arriving. I was nearly seven, and grandma had come over from Manchester to help out. The midwife arrived and grandma warned us, “Now don’t make a noise, mummy is busy. If you’re naughty the baby won’t come.”

This time I was more curious. “Grandma – where does Mummy get the baby from?”

Grandma muttered angrily, “Now stop asking silly questions. It’s nothing to do with you.”

I thought it was, and continued. “But where, Grandma?”

“Oh girl – will you stop mithering.” She gave me a thump, then burst out, “The nurse brings it in her black bag.”

I thought for a moment, then piped up, “But where does she get them from?” Visions of gooseberry bushes with babies lying underneath, floated before my eyes. But it didn’t tell me where the babies came from. Grandma, wanting no more of my questions, slapped my bottom and said through clenched teeth, “If you don’t shut up I’ll lock you in the cupboard.” How different from today.

I was around ten when I first found out about sexual roles and inter-course. I had been ill in bed with flu when I found blood on the sheet. I shouted to mother, “Mummy, I’ve hurt my bottom – I’m bleeding!”

Mother took one look and slapped my face. I flushed red, wondering what I’d done wrong. Then she kissed me and said, “Now you’re a woman. You must be careful of men and don’t let them touch you.”

This did nothing to explain her action, nor her words, and I was left confused. Then one day at school it was all spelled out to me – in the worst possible way.

It was in the toilets and the girls were whispering. “Pearl’s started!”

“Started what?” I wanted to know.

They giggled. “Well – you know – the monthly curse!”

As I still looked blank, they began chatting, “She doesn’t know – She doesn’t know!” And then began the instruction in explicit detail of what the curse was, and what my dad did to my mum to make a baby. I was shocked and horrified. No mention was made of love or romance. I pondered and pondered, and while I could accept that it was logical for a baby to grow inside its mummy, I couldn’t conceive how it could come out through the navel…. which they’d told me.

Eventually, unable to believe it any longer, I asked mother if what they’d told me was true. All she said was, “When you’re older you’ll find out. Yes, a baby does grow inside a mummy, but only after a girl has a period.” I asked her why she’d slapped my face when I’d started. She laughed and said, “Oh, it’s an old custom. You flushed, and the roses that came in your cheeks will always remain. You’ll have a good complexion – for ever!”

She was right to an extent, as I always had a fair skin with rosy cheeks – that is until they faded with age. But I never remember her doing this to my sister, whose skin was of a darker hue which tanned easily, while mine always burnt!

I think I’ve always envied my sister. She was a placid and contented baby, and was beloved by both my mother and father. She grew up into a beautiful woman, three inches taller than me, and had a wonderful eye for colour and dress. When we used to go dancing, she was always the one who got the boys, while I held up the walls. She can still make me feel inferior, as her cooking and baking, her home-making skills and her charm and personality are far superior to mine. But maybe Mother’s influence to achieve, and to do well, reacted in her in a different way from what it did with me: hers practical, while mine more cerebral.

I do believe she was Mother’s favourite, and this favouritism, conscious or not, has had an effect on my life; on my temperament and my personality, as subconsciously, I’m forever seeking approval. Many times, instead of doing what I really want to do, or not do, I tend to agree to certain propositions or volunteer for certain duties, in order to please, instead of saying “No!”

I suppose, it’s possible, that in some ways, through my mother’s actions, my life hasn’t really been my own.

I believe I was a happy, friendly child, but it is only in retrospect I realise that as the eldest, much was expected of me. My father would play with my sister and call her, “Daddy’s darling little baby girl.” Then when my brother came along, he was the “apple of their eye” – a boy! Between them I was rather left out, although I loved them very much.

I can remember one time when I was around four, and the three of us were recovering from measles. We were in a bedroom with a coal fire and there was a fire-guard with nappies hanging over to air. My sister was combing her doll’s hair by the fire, when she suddenly threw the celluloid comb onto the fire. It flared up and the nappies caught fire. I screamed for mother, jumped out of bed, pushing my sister from the room, and grabbing my brother from the cot, I tried to stagger down the stairs. Instead of praising me, mother told me off . “You shouldn’t have let Vita go near the fire – you all could have been burnt!” And she cuddled the two crying children, while I sat alone, shocked and sobbing.

I now feel that I had too much responsibility thrust upon me at an early age, was not fully appreciated, and was denied the love and affection given by my mother to the other three. This tended to make me rebellious as I didn’t think she loved me as much as them, and led to constant arguments with Mother. She had a quick temper, and so did I. This was another inherited trait…. fuel added to the fire.

When I was eighteen, in 1940, I was offered a job in London at a salary of £2.10 a week – enough to keep a family on, in those days. I dearly wanted to get away from home and begin to live my own life. But problems arose again. My younger brother had been evacuated, and my older brother was in a sanatorium recovering from TB. My sister was working on munitions, so little money was coming into the home.

Mother hit the roof when I told her. “That’s right…. you go off and leave your sister to look after the household.”

I was ready for her, “Don’t worry Mum, I’ll send home money every week – you’ll manage,”

Mother went on raging, “So where will you live? It costs a fortune to live in London.” And then she played her trump card. “And what about the bombing – eh?” But there hadn’t been any bombing up to then.

My stay in London didn’t last long. The Austrians I was working for were interned, and as there was no work for a fashion artist at that time, I had little option but to return home. Mother wasn’t too pleased to see me, as I had sent money home each week, and now she had to keep me – insolvent.

I tried war work for a time, but hated it, so, anxious to get away again, I volunteered to join the Forces. This again caused arguments, but again I was away…. this time for four years, but still supporting Mother…. without my presence disturbing her. Strangely enough, we always got on well when I came home on leave…. maybe it was a true case of “absence makes the heart grow fonder!”

But these halcyon times didn’t last long, something always occurred to cause resentment and anger. When I married in February 1947, bed and household linens were only available on dockets, so, as newly-weds I applied for sheets and blankets, etc. We planned to live with mother as she was alone. It was a freezing cold winter, and when we returned from a short honeymoon, the parcel of linen had arrived – but it had been opened. On checking, I found that two sheets, a woollen blanket and other items were missing. About to write and complain, Mother said, “Oh, that’s alright. I opened the parcel – just to check, you know!”

I was annoyed. “You shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t addressed to you. And now there’s some things gone missing.”

She shrugged, “No they’re not. I’ve got them on my bed. I was cold. And anyway you don’t need them – you’ve got each other to keep you warm!” Suffice it to say that after only a month, which nearly broke up our marriage, my husband came home and said, “I’ve found a bedsit – you
either come with me, or stay here with your mother.” Well, there wasn’t really a choice.

After we left, my sister came over from London, sold the house, and took Mother to live in a flat with her. Of course Mother considered her the best daughter in the world – in contrast to me, whom she called, “the root of all evil.”

Later, when we were all married, Mother, now in her late 60’s, was a lonely, sick lady. She was nearly blind, had diabetes, angina and was racked with arthritis. I offered her a home with me in Manchester, but she was reluctant to live with a working daughter and three young children. She wanted to remain in London and live with my sister, who had a nice home. But her son-in-law wouldn’t allow it. Neither of my brothers would have her, so they put her in a home for the blind in Dorking, where she was most unhappy.

In November of 1960, I invited her to stay until after Christmas. I felt sorry for her and persuaded her that a change would do her good. She wasn’t too keen, but came.

Unfortunately, after a couple of weeks she was in hospital after a heart attack, but was discharged just before Christmas. We had friends round to celebrate New Year’s Eve, and she really enjoyed herself and got a bit tipsy (she liked a little tipple). That night she had another heart attack. She was in hospital for six weeks, during which time her kidneys began to fail, and it was suggested that we get her into a nursing home. Then began the arguments amongst the family as to who would pay the costs. My husband who couldn’t stand the squabbles, said, “To hell with the lot of you. She’s your mother, but you make me sick. We’ll pay for her. You’re all better off than we are – but we’ll manage – somehow.”

One week later, in February 1961, they all had to come over again to attend the funeral.

I remember the day before she died. I’d been to visit her, pushing my youngest in a pram through the thick snow. She was lying in bed, pale and weak. I tried to get her to eat the meal they’d brought in, but she could only take a sip of her tea. She held tightly onto my hand and said sadly, “My dear – you’re the best of the lot of them. I should have realised. When I’m better, I’ll make it up to you.” And she closed her eyes.

I kissed her and smoothed her hair. “I know. Don’t worry – you’ve always tried to do your best. When you’re better I’ll look after you. We won’t let you go back to that home…. you’ll stay with us. Now dear, I must go – try to get some sleep.” She clung to my hand and nodded slowly.

The next morning the matron phoned to say that Mother had died during the night.

I was angry with my family and myself. I felt that she’d had a dreadful life, and that we’d all contributed in some way to her unhappiness. I was filled with remorse and regrets that for most of the time, I’d been too busy getting on with my own life to really consider her. I’d had little patience with her, and had not given sufficient thought or consideration to what she’d been through.

She’d tried her best for me, but I’d reciprocated with resentment and feelings that she’d favoured the others above me. And yet, I remember, when I was fifteen, she entered two of my paintings in an exhibition in London. Both were sold and we were invited to attend the gallery. How she rushed everywhere to get me something suitable to wear. I ended up in a hotch-potch of garments, and must have looked dreadful, but Mother was bursting with pride, while I was tongue-tied and self-conscious. My name was in all the papers and a wonderful artistic future was predicted for me.

Possibly I am a lot like her, but I feel that I have much more “back-bone” than she had. But then, life is very different today than it was in her time.

Women are more emancipated, independent, and self-reliant. And yet, maybe the spirit she instilled in me and possibly my genetic endowment has made me what I am today.

I often wish for peace of mind and contentment, but unfortunately I didn’t inherit such traits – those were part of my father’s make-up, which my sister and brothers inherited, while I am my mother’s embodiment.

And now that I have a daughter and four grand-daughters, I try to do my utmost to help them to adjust to life logically and rationally; to cope competently with whatever problems may arise, and to overcome any adversity, despite those genes that they may have inherited from myself and my mother.

Although my daughter now lives in Australia, I do believe that we have an excellent relationship, and that she loves and respects me, as I do her. I would hope that we all find happiness and contentment in this life, and don’t die as my mother did…. a sad, sick, disillusioned lady, in her 71st year – all her dreams and plans frustrated by her life, her genes, her own mother, and fate!

Irene’s Story

Mum was the fourth of six children, born on the 11th August 1899. She had a hard life, starting when her father got drunk and wrecked the house. After leaving school at 14 she had a variety of jobs and then met Dad and worked with him in their shop, building for the future together. They had married in 1926 and I was born on the 16th August 1936, so Mum was 37 at the time. In a memoir written about a year before she died in 1964, Mum said when they moved to Southdown Avenue and had me that “It was the happiest time of her life.” I wish she had told me.

I remember those early days before the war with happiness, playing around Mum’s feet in the kitchen, and with other little playmates at Preston Park.

As an only child of middle-aged parents I was pampered and overpow­ered, so my sense of initiative was low.

Mum told me that Dad had passed to go to the `big school’, but instead had to go to work at an early age as she had done. So when I helped on the stall directly I could walk, it seemed to be the most natural thing to work obediently all my days, for men and for my livelihood.

But my sense of wanting an education as my parents never had, has never left me. I left school at 16 and it wasn’t until my forties that I obtained an Open University degree, but ambition still burns within me and as the Open University motto says, I will “Live and Learn”.
It is difficult for me to say in what way Mum gave me any moral education or told me what to do or how to behave.

I think my baby tantrums had been squashed at an early age, for by the time I went to school at four and had dinner with my cousin, I was timid and not able to say what I felt. “Eat up your dinner or you won’t get any Tizer.” How could I say I didn’t like the little glass of Tizer placed before us two little girls as though it were a treat. We only had still orange at home, so I didn’t like the sparkle of a fizzy drink. However, I didn’t need any encouragement to eat after my morning’s work at school. I was grateful to my Aunt Rose for a good dinner but could never say I didn’t want the Tizer. After lunch, in the afternoon, we slept on little camp beds at Sussex Street School.

Aunt Rose was one mother figure. Before that I loved my Aunt Lil, Dad’s sister who I imagined I was cuddled by when Mum was ill after having me. But recently I have been told that it was Aunt Eve’s where Mum stayed after my birth. I don’t remember that at all, and when Aunt Eve moved further up the road she always seemed very severe to me.

The other Mum, as I likened her, was Mrs Davey. She was a dominant neighbour who offered to have me to lunch on Saturday, which gradually became an all day visit. Mrs Davey used to chase her daughter, Janet, round the kitchen table with a switch of bamboo, for cheeking her. Although she wouldn’t chase me, I was frightened and huddled in the chair with my book. “Be still and survive,” I must have thought.

Apart from Mrs Davey, Mum left any moral upbringing to the Sunday School where I was sent to get me out of the way, as I listened to the tales of God the Father, which was coupled with the darkness of the cinema, where the good guys wore white hats. That was my weekend until Monday and the teachers who were there to be obeyed. Until I got to Ditchling Road School at five I never remember being told off, until my ogre of a teacher put fear into me by hitting my knuckles for talking. I was so frightened that the next time I wanted to “be excused” I was too frightened to put my hand up, and fled to the toilets too late.

When we moved to Patcham I was sent to the Brownies and later the Guides, so there was a feeling in the background of “doing your duty”, and of course at school there was the assembly with its Christian outlook, which was taken for granted.

At twelve I was confirmed at the Church of Christ the King in Braybon Avenue, just opposite to where we lived in Carden Avenue. At the time I was very aware of wanting to be good and when I went on a school trip to Westminster Hall to hear about the United Nations, and its quest for peace, I was captivated. I never heard any more about it at school. Like other events and clubs it wasn’t for me.

When I was naughty at Varndean it was only to follow a lead, drawing back before getting into any real trouble.

Off and on I’ve wanted to “stand up and be counted”. Like going on a CND march. But I am always hesitant about breaking the law and fearful of authority, which Mum’s subservient attitude has instilled in me. I imagine my first experience of sex was a precious child sitting on Dad’s knee as he lounged in his armchair, singing “Come on, come on – here comes the galloping Major.” Bouncing me up and down. I giggled and laughed with the pleasure of being loved and being close to my dad. Then Mum came in round the door pointing her finger at us and snapping her fingers, saying “Tut, tut”, and shaking her head. Although I didn’t know the word then, I felt there was something risque being inferred. I felt my pleasure was frowned on and would never again feel at ease when something made me happy. It was the beginning of guilt.

As I grew older and was able to read the News of the World I suppose I read lots of sexy items without realising the implications. We went to the Hippodrome every Monday for a while, so I heard and saw Max Miller with his lewd jokes and the way he looked. Loud and insinuating amid the laughter and embarrassment of women trying to look prim. It was a night out with my parents. I felt grown up as Dad gave me money to go and get an ice cream, felt grand on the rich dark red pile carpet, and the golden features of the balcony where we always sat.

When I was about ten a new friend came to Patcham, Shirley. She and I were once asked to join a gang and were ushered into a garden shed just up the road. A friend from our class at school and another older girl looked at us. Shirley and I were both big girls, and they looked at our chests and poked our burgeoning breasts. We hurriedly went home. Next day Mrs Harper our lovely teacher took me to one side, “You shouldn’t do that.” I felt I was being told off, but hadn’t done anything! I suppose Shirley had told her mother, who had told the school, but I never heard anything more about it.

Shirley and I were tomboys, climbing trees and making dens in the woods at the top of Braybon Avenue. One day we were high up a tree when a thin man came by looking up at us. Shirley was frightened and as he moved away she led me to a house at the top of Peacock Lane and asked the lady for a drink. Again we hurried home. That night the police came to ask me questions, “Had I seen any other men in the woods?” Sitting in my night-dress at the bottom of the stairs, I shook my head, “I don’t think so”. “OK then.” Mum went back to her radio and I back to bed. Later that week I remembered a fat man who used to sit on a bench playing with a balloon, or so I thought. “It’s too late now to say anything.” I thought, pushing it out of my memory. There were men wandering about, but they were probably shell-shocked individuals, lost and alone after the war.

Before I went to Varndean, Mum gave me a little book to read in bed, How a Baby Is Born, then she said, “Is there anything you want to know ?” I shook my head, it was the first and only time she asked for my opinion on anything. In the book the drawings were of little caricatures. I could understand it, but it seemed to have no relevance to me or my life, like all the other books I read.

At eleven, I began my periods not quite knowing what was happening, but feeling no pain. I went to Mum, who gave me a packet of sanitary towels and a belt. The next month she asked me, “Are you queer again?” That was the refrain for many years as though she wanted to make sure. If I had a pain, I was given a tot of gin, which was Mum’s tipple if she went out.

Nothing more was said at home about sex, and I never saw Mum or Dad naked or making love, or Mum being cuddled. However, the night before I got married at twenty, Mum said, “You might get a bit of blood.” And as she went out of the door, she murmured, “You girls talk about these things.” I thought, distressed, she doesn’t know me at all. I didn’t really understand what would happen the following night. Unfortunately, although my husband was four years older and had done his National Service, he was as inexperienced as I.

I never had any brothers or sisters although as the war was drawing to a close, there was some talk of me having a little Dutch sister. I suppose there were refugees to be placed. It seemed exciting but I never heard any more about it. Unconsciously I felt I wasn’t good enough for them. My best friend and three cousins near to me in age took the place of sisters in my heart, but there is no comparison. I don’t know what it would be like to have a sister, more’s the pity.

I knew we were working class although we always owned our own home and as a child I never felt we were poor. It wasn’t until we went to dances and dinners when Mum and I had new frocks, that we were aware of the posh people who knew how to behave, what to wear and who drove big cars.

I had no real knowledge of class relations, capital and employee, because Dad worked for himself. No one told him what to do. The underclass as far as I was concerned were women. As Mum worked in Dad’s business, did the housework, cooked and tried to make the money she was given stretch to clothes and small luxuries.

As an employee, after Dad died she got a job and a council flat, dressed better than she had done for years and came into her own as a pensioner. I suppose class is relative.

At the age of four, I left home for the first time, just to the end of the garden, which was a big deal for me. I seem to have spent most of my early life leaving home, to nursery school, then to lunch with my cousin at Sussex Street School and after that, Ditchling Road School, with the cruel teachers. Then up early on Saturday to go ice skating with Janet, piano lessons and the rest of the day with Mrs Davey, Janet’s mum. On Sunday I was pushed out to Sunday School, and then to the dark cinema’s films in the afternoon. Little holidays were spent with Janet’s relations.

At eight, I ran away and stood at the end of the road and vowed I would never have children to bring up in this awful world. Eventually I went back home because there was nothing else to do and hung up my coat. Mum hadn’t even noticed I had gone!

As a teenager I wanted to leave home to go to college, but Mum said “Teachers are all spinsters”. So I felt the only thing that mattered was to marry – but nothing prepared me for marriage. At twenty I went out of the frying pan into the fire!

Due to her early life when she wanted to get away from home, and then worked with Dad in his fruit business, Mum probably took the easy way out when dominated by others.

So I grew up feeling it was safer to be quiet and keep out of trouble. This was coupled with the fact that you worked for men and protected them or you would be sorry. This has been true in my life. But whether you put yourself in situations where you feel comfortable with the known, rather than dare into the unknown has made me feel uncertain of my own identity. The continual seeking of someone to love me for myself alone, because I feel if I’m not quiet and well behaved at all times something evil will happen to me. There must be a time to shake off the past, but when? I felt a sense of relief when Mum died, I wouldn’t have to worry about her any more I thought. My doctor, who had listened to my tales of woe after leaving my first husband, said, when I told him Mum had died, “Don’t feel guilty about it.”

“Oh no,” I replied, “it was Mum who made me feel guilty.” And I left with a load off my shoulders.

My relations with my Mum had been tumultuous. From just a little girl being quiet, to a proud young learner looking down at Mum’s hesitant reading. As a teenager I was eager to tell how the world should be run, Mum would exclaim “You’re too good to live, my girl!” I knew she didn’t think that I was good at all, just that I made her feel bad, by saying things I learned from Sunday School and other teachers. I felt she didn’t really bring me up, and that I didn’t learn from her what was necessary for me to mature. I blamed her for never showing me enough love or praising me for my achievements, such as winning a form prize or being in the hockey team.

Thirty years after her death I am coming to terms with the brain-washing. What she wanted doesn’t matter any more. I believe that the lasting problem for generations of mothers and daughters is not what we learn from our mums, but how to develop into our own selves…

June’s Story

I wrote this story about my mum, because to me she was a mum in a million.

She was a woman of few words, yet showed us children a great deal of love. Her station in life was to be poor, so she looked for no more than the rent to be paid and a meal on the table for the family.

Her one claim to wasting money was her hair. A perm every six months, no sets in between. I can remember that perm being the tightest rolled I have ever seen, so that it would last. I wonder sometimes how they survived on so little, yet still came up smiling.

Mum was born in March 1904, her home, a little cottage in the goods yard of Brighton Station, her father worked for the railways at the time. She met my father, and married him in June 1926.

They gave the world six children, five boys and me, the only girl. I was born in June 1932, third in line, my month of birth gave me my name, June Rose; Mum was also a flower, Poppy.

Mum and I were very good friends, I never got anything more than my brothers, but I think she could see me as someone who could take over in the future, if she was ill. In fact in my early teens, I did just that, once to look after the house and cooking while she had another child, then again when my youngest brother came along. I had never previously been allowed to black-lead or light a kitchen range and I must have spent two hours on the job. It did light eventually but I know I was in tears at the time.

Mum was not a religious person, funerals, weddings or christenings were the only events she attended, although she did give the local vicar a cup of tea if he called. She would sit and listen to all he had to say, but that was as far as it went.

I went to a Church of England school, St. Mary’s in Mount Street, only because it was the nearest, my infant school had been Park Street School. I also went to Sunday School, maybe to give her a rest on a Sunday afternoon, but I chose where I went. She never raised any objections that I chose All Souls in Eastern Road, I only wanted to go because my best friend went there.

I went on to get myself confirmed, with the help of a good Sunday School teacher. I was very interested in religion. My mum bought a new dress for the occasion, but never came to see the event, which upsets me now. I don’t know why, perhaps with hindsight, she wasn’t really interested. Discipline in our house took a high priority, if I or my brothers were naughty, we were never smacked, the punishment took the form of sitting on the stairs, no tea, only allowed off when Mum decided you had been there long enough. You may think this was not a harsh punishment, believe me it was, the stairs were creepy. No electric light, very dark and eerie, they spiralled round in a funny way, I shudder to think of them. They were in a far corner off a long hall, there was a little more light nearer the top as it had a skylight there, but the bottom was hell. I shiver as I write this, yet it did no harm to any of us children, in fact it did a power of good. Our manners had to be the best, we might not have had much, but that was no excuse, if I spoke to my grandparents, it had to be in my best voice, bordering on reverence really, in fact I only spoke if spoken to.

Mum took me to see them every Friday evening, we always walked there. I suppose it took half an hour. Supper was always served, then Grandad would take Mum to the corner pub for a drink, while I stayed with Granny. She had two things I was scared of, one a feather duster, kept behind the kitchen door, the other a cottage-style cheese dish. The duster, Grandad informed me, came out and smacked naughty girls on its own, the cheese dish had a man living in it. He used to put his pipe in the dish when I wasn’t looking, so the smoke came out of the chimney. I believed every word, it was many years before the penny dropped. It all sounds so frightening for a little child, but like everything else it did me no lasting harm. After all the rituals, Mum and I would make our way home. She always produced a sweet to suck on the way, then we would get to St. Peter’s Church and I would want to pee! It was Granny’s home-made lemonade. So I can say I have watered many of the bushes over the years, while my mum stood guard.

We also had my father’s parents living next door to us, we lived in No.15 and they lived in 15a. We could go in and out as we pleased. I used to get Grandad’s tobacco every day, also his snuff, for that I got a penny. I always beat my brothers to the job.

I can picture my mum and grandmother talking every morning on the doorstep. I suppose it was the latest gossip, they would whiten their steps and polish the brass together, both in the same cross-over aprons. Then drop into St. James’s Street to do their shopping.

I could talk to Mum about anything, except for SEX! That was taboo. I certainly didn’t know where babies came from, let alone how they got there, even though Mum went on to have three more boys after I was born.

The first boy after me, died. Mum blamed the hospital. All the others were born at home. I didn’t know how ill she was at the time. The baby died three days after birth. I’ve learned since, he would have been an imbecile, so God does work in strange ways. She still never told me how the birds and the bees worked, so I learned parrot fashion, from who else but the girls at school. They all had differing ideas, from the knight on a white charger to downright stupid stories. But at the time I hung on to every word.

When I learned girls had periods, I was frightened. It happened at the ripe age of eleven, I went all day trying to figure how to broach the subject at home. Eventually my brothers were all out of earshot, so the courage had risen and I told Mum. All I got was, “You are now grown up, put that on.” That turned out to be a square of white sheet and two pins, no advice as to how to use it. I must have found out pretty quick, as I never remember having an accident at school, where PT was done in your knickers. I always swore if I had daughters, they would know from an early age, so they didn’t go through the traumas that I did.

As to the sexual act, nothing. I learned by trial and error as I got older. When my “knight in white armour” came along, we didn’t do too bad. I think we were very naive by today’s standards, but we had a very happy life together.

Looking back at mum, dad and my brothers, I had a great childhood, nothing posh. We were on very low wages. My biggest trip was a bus ride to Ditchling, where my mum could pick her wild flowers to her heart’s content. We never had a garden, only a yard, so for her it was a good day out. We would play in Queens Park daily, or go to the seafront for a paddle. Another trip was to the race hill on race days, I thought the horses very grand creatures. My brothers took me to the pictures now and again. I was not allowed to go until I was much older, on my own or with friends. By then I had two little brothers that I was more than pleased to look after. It helped Mum and they now look on me as their mum, which is rather nice.

The boys are all married now and only one hasn’t had children, so I have a good number of nieces and nephews. They have all done well in life, although the two older ones were not interested in education that much, but did do well in the army in later life.

The two younger ones have had good lives, both had children, so I have a good number of nieces and nephews. Sadly we lost our elder brother
Fred, he died in his forties, which was a great shock to Mum and Dad. My father was very proud of me, as I was the only one of his brood to win a scholarship. I passed exams to go to intermediate school in York Place. Passing must have been a big worry for Mum as she had no spare money for uniforms. But I was lucky as my cousin, Jean, had passed a few years earlier, so I had a lot of her cast-offs. I did get a new blazer when I was thirteen. I was very proud of it although I hated school.

Mum taught me how to cook, especially cakes, nothing weighed, but between us we made the best cakes in the street. You name it, we made it.

I met my husband, Ernie at the ripe age of fourteen. I’d left school and was working. That meant I could now afford the local dance hall, The Regent. I think half or more of the people in Brighton had met their better halves dancing to Syd Dean! Ernie and I went with a crowd at first, but by the age of 15 we were a couple. My mother took to him from the start. We always stayed in on Wednesday evenings to babysit for my two younger brothers. Mum and Dad went to the Hippodrome where the variety show changed each week. I can remember Dad laughing all the way home once saying, “Mother swooned over Donald Peers.” Because we stayed in I had to cook Ernie’s supper, always the same, cod. Mum would get him a large piece from Rolf’s in St James’s Street every Wednesday morning. When I work it out I cooked that same supper for nearly seven years! Funnily enough Ernie has never lost his taste for cod. We only stayed in the one night a week, other nights were spent going to the various cinemas. We had a good number then. There was the Odeon, West Street; the Odeon, Kemptown; the Academy, Gaiety and the Regent. There were others, some of which we called “flea pits” which showed only old films. The larger places in the centre of town showed the latest films, so you could see a different one every night of the week if you wished.

We also loved ice hockey. The Brighton Tigers every Thursday night would find us screaming our heads off. If they lost we blamed the ref, if they won, the Tigers were at their brilliant best.

At home, I automatically helped Mum with chores, as a girl it was expected of you. It was not expected of the boys. I sometimes think it was sheer hell, but through it all I worshipped my mum. I had to see her through the last two babies, cooking, cleaning and washing for all. I suppose in those days Dad lost money if he stayed home. I didn’t get on too well the first time I ran the house, but for the second birth I was sixteen, a bit better equipped. I had to give up my job, but work was much easier to come by then. People often said to me I must have been spoiled being the only girl, how wrong they all were. Mum waited on the men in our house hand and foot, and I was expected to do the same if she was out of action. I never thought it wrong as it was all I knew. However, my best friends now that my mum and dad are dead are my brothers. If we don’t meet, they all ring me, I also get on well with all their wives and children.

Mum was a very down-to-earth sort of person, never a gossip. She really wasn’t interested in other people’s lives, she had enough to do in her own. She held a part-time job, cleaning offices at the bottom of our street. Dad earned a small wage, yet she made it go round. We always had breakfast, dinner, tea and supper. This was laid on a pristine white cloth, although our cutlery and plates never matched.

Later in life, before the last two boys, Mum was a part-time barmaid for the Labour Club. She did the nights the bar steward had off. I did most of my homework in that place, as I always went with her so she had company on the way home. Mum always looked up to the people she worked for. After all they paid her wages.

I only know of one occasion where my mum would brag. Dad had died, so I had her up most weekends and my husband would take her into her beloved countryside for a run in the car after Sunday lunch. She used to meet her sisters every fortnight on a Tuesday in one or the other’s houses where tea was the order of the day. They would all present each other with a cake or a pie, whatever they had been baking. Mum would take centre stage to inform them all of where her son-in-law had driven her the Sunday previous, of all the flowers she had picked and if we had stopped and had tea before taking her back to her own home. If this was bragging, it gave her great pleasure in her last years.

As I reached the age of 18, Ernie and I wanted to be married. My father objected as he thought we were too young to know our own minds. We never asked again but just waited till I was 21. Mum knew I was upset at having to wait but Father made the rules and they were never ques­tioned. I was brought up that he was the boss, even Mum never queried his word. I make him sound an ogre but he wasn’t, just the head of his household. A kind person but strict.

Mum started to get me bits for my “bottom drawer’. Things like enamel pie plates, enamel basins; all the things that good old Woolworths sold for coppers.

I lived at home until the day I married at the age of 21. I can’t remember Mum being excited because her only daughter was to wed. Not like I was when my own two girls got married. I was now a woman and in her eyes because you were female you were just expected to marry, raise a family and look after your husband.

We had a white wedding with all the trimmings although it was a small affair. Mum did all the wedding reception herself, and cooked for days beforehand. She must have got a lot of stuff on the black-market as food was still rationed. There was only a couple of dozen people invited, all family, as any more would have been beyond her pocket. My brothers went to the local to buy bottles of drink and it all went off very well. We married on a Wednesday, because it was my father’s half day. If you took time off you lost wages and they could not afford to do that, so it was his half day or nothing. The most expensive present we got was a cut glass bowl and a nut dish from an old aunt.

Two years later I presented Mum with her first grandchild. She wanted her to be called Christine, but I couldn’t do it. All the boys that had been born after me, would have been called Linda Ann if I had had my way, but no, they were boys. I had longed for a sister, so I had my own Linda Ann. Two years after that we had another daughter, Mum again stepped in, but I said no. Her father called her Susan Jane.

Mum loved to tell everyone about her two grandchildren, and of course they did better than anyone else’s, according to her. Sometimes I think she thought I would kill them with the new-fangled ideas of the fifties. At times I missed home with all the hustle of a large family, but it was nice to have my own place to fuss over.

Mum died in January 1978, just a few days after Christmas. It had been the first time I had asked one of my brothers to have her over the holiday period. I had had her every year since my father’s death a few years earlier. I had been asked out to quite a few places over the few days of Christmas. My brothers agreed she would go to one of them on Christmas Day, then on to another on Boxing Day. We never told her the
reason, or that I had asked them, but I still feel, deep down that she knew I wanted Christmas without her. She enjoyed both days, then went
home. I went to see her on the Thursday, she told me all about the days spent with her sons. We asked if she wanted a lift to the cemetery next day for her brother-in-law’s funeral. She retorted that she had a cold and there was noone to look after her if she got worse being out on a January day. It was most unlike her to answer like that, I told her we would go and call on her on our way back, to let her know how it all went. My husband turned to me outside her flat, and told me it was the first time he had heard her speak like that. I had to agree.

We all went to the funeral, my sister-in-law memorised all the flowers, to tell Mum.

Mum made us all tea, then we went on to tell all. After telling her about the flowers, she answered that they would not do him much good now. Not a bit like her. She decided her cold would be too bad to go out shopping the next day, so my brother and I got the list together to do it all for her. She wanted fish, but it was too late in the day, so I promised to get it on my way over the next day.

This I did and, when we got there the curtains were still shut. My husband noticed it first, then told me to be ready for anything. My answer was “Don’t be so stupid”. We knocked to no avail so I rang my brother as I knew he had a key. He was there in no time. He didn’t knock, just kicked the door in. Mum seemed for all the world to be asleep in her armchair. But she was dead. We called all the services but she must have died some time late the day before. I remember the kindness of the poor policeman. He made me a cuppa, then asked where Mum kept her cups. I couldn’t tell him, yet I knew they were in the sideboard. My mind was blank. He found them himself. My husband had the sense to call my other brothers. They all arrived but kept me in the kitchen while the doctor examined my mum and sent for the hearse to take her to lay to rest. They sheltered me so much. My brothers cleared the flat, returned the key to the council, plus the hundred and one things you have to do. After the funeral, I realised that I now had no mum and the thought hit me like a brick. I followed with a nervous breakdown. My husband and children showed just how much they cared for me at this time. It took a month before I could face anyone until eventually I went back to work It has never left me, the fact that I put her off that Christmas.

Monica’s Story

Mum was aptly named, Minnie Swadling, for the word “mini” suited her perfectly. A tiny woman, who even on her wedding day only weighed 7 1/2 stone. She loved her surname. In the Bible it says “the child was wrapped in swaddling clothes,” and at school she would say proudly, “That’s my name.”

Being the middle one of a family of ten children it fell to her to look after the four younger ones while her mother went out to work. It was an unbelievably difficult job for a youngster of ten years. Her father, though by no means poor, kept the family so short of money it was almost impossible to feed herself and the children. She knew little of the joys of childhood. Release came at thirteen when Mum was sent out to service, this being one of the few occupations open to women in those days. She was sent off without even a change of underclothes. Fortunately the ladies’ maid befriended her, and taught her how to make clothes for herself. She became an excellent needlewoman and passed on to me her love, if not the skill of that craft. Even though she was paid only £1.00 a month for working hard from early morning to late at night, she was at least well fed. For some years she put up with the drudgery of being a kitchen maid, getting up at 5am to light the boiler so that the gentry were able to have hot water for their baths.

She was a bright young girl and quickly bettered herself. After a few years she obtained a good job in one of the biggest houses in London. Under her improved circumstances she grew into a pretty and smart girl with several admirers. However, the one who stole her heart was the athletic immensely popular Frederick. They wanted to marry but times were hard in England, so Frederick decided to emigrate to Australia and try his luck. After a year or so he sent for Mum and all alone she travelled out to join him. What courage to undertake such a journey in those Victorian days! Frederick met Mum at the quayside in Melbourne with 2/6d (25p) in his pocket. They got married just the same! My parents settled down happily to life in Melbourne, Australia, where after a few years I was born. I was surrounded by flowers and animals (a cat, a dog, a parrot and an aviary of birds). My mum told me to “watch the fuchsias and you will see a fairy come out”. I often think of this when I look at fuchsias, but no luck with the fairy. Nevertheless this atmosphere gave me an enduring love of nature. Eventually my parents decided to return to England “just for a visit,” they said, but sadly they never returned to Australia. With typical grit and determination they started all over again and made a home for them-selves in England.

As I grew up I was puzzled and upset by my mother’s strictness. Later on I understood that this was partly due to her desire for me to have a better life than she had experienced. And through her work with “the gentry” she had gained standards of behaviour, speech, table-manners and even letter-writing.

I received very little formal religious training from my Mum. Perhaps this was due to an unhappy experience in her youth. However, when I showed an interest in going to Church, she provided me with a prayer book and put markers in for the various parts of the service. This didn’t last long as both my friend and I found the formality too much to cope with. Therefore, my main source of instruction came from the local school. Our day started with morning assembly, prayers and hymns, followed by a period of Religious Instruction, which was excellent.

Although she gave me little formal training in religion, my Mum taught me “right from wrong” as she put it. By her example I was brought up with a code of behaviour; no lying or stealing, kindness to animals and respect for older people. She was so stern with me that I often felt quite frightened of her, but in later life I could see that much of the training, which I resented at the time, was invaluable and I was grateful.

Information and guidance regarding sex and sexual matters was left much to my imagination. Just before the onset of menstruation a brief reference was made, with female animals used as illustration. But friends at school had already enlightened me regarding the menstruation aspect, and garbled sexual information was exchanged.

Before my first date I was given scanty information and was warned not to let boys “touch me”. Such was my confusion, that I was afraid I might fall pregnant should a boy even kiss me. My school friends gave me a garbled version of the “great mystery”, but eventually, in my late teens, I managed to piece it together. Sex before marriage was practically unheard of in those days. It was truly an age of innocence so far as I was concerned.

As I was an only child it was fortunate that we lived next door to the Johnson family, with a boy and a girl about my own age – about ten years old. These two, Elsie and Stanley, and a lad named Arthur were my inseparable companions. The four of us would play together for hours, mainly at Pirates. To add realism to the Desert Island Saga my mum would tie strings of apples to the garden fence for us to discover. The Johnson children had a deep pond in their garden. It was a natural pond, none of your crazy paving and rockery stuff, and this probably inspired us in our Pirate games. We built a ship out of orange boxes, but never attempted to sail it, and nobody ever fell into the pond. We were strictly dry-land sailors.

When Elsie and I grew sick of being bossed around by the boys we’d play dressing up in our mums’ old dresses, high-heeled shoes and picture hats. We had a wind-up gramophone and a few records, which cost 6d (21/2p) in those days. Our favourite was played over and over again as we tried to make out the words. It was titled Do Shrimps Make Good Mothers? I said it was “Yes, no, yes,” but Elsie maintained the answer was “Yes they do.” We never found out.

We four played, squabbled and fought with each other, but it was all taken in good part. However sometimes we were joined by another group of kids who had their own ideas about what we should play. Away from the cosy foursome I was confused and went squawking to my mum. Instead of sympathising she said that I couldn’t expect others always to do what I wanted, and it was up to me to fit in with other people. These kids gave me some of the rough and tumble of family life, and I remembered my mother’s advice when it came time for me to leave home and live with others.

Being an only child had its drawbacks. Sometimes I felt I was “piggy in the middle” as my parents had totally opposite temperaments. My mum, both quick to anger and to forgive, and my dad calm and unruffled. I naturally inherited some of both of their characteristics so I could see both sides of any arguments. As I grew older I refused to take sides but I couldn’t help feeling cut in half as my sympathies lay with one or the other.

My father often worked away from home, consequently my mum and I were thrown together so much that friends adopted the attitude, “You can’t invite one without the other.” Although by now our relationship was developing into friendship, rather than that of parent and child, I felt stifled and longed for freedom to live my own life. I tried to get jobs away from home, so that I could justify the move without hurting my parents’ feelings too much. This was not to be as always something prevented me.

During the War my father was drafted away from home so it seemed I was destined to continue in tandem with my mum. Eventually fate took a hand and I did leave home, but not quite in the way I had anticipated. Largely because of wartime conditions I contracted TB and spent the next three years in a sanatorium. My Mum was determined that I should get better and I felt my recovery was largely due to her efforts. She never missed a visiting day, although it meant making a long journey twice a week, and almost willing me back to health. Gone were my feelings of resentment about her strictness. I couldn’t get home quickly enough.

After a few years and a complete return to good health I went away on a course for mature students to be trained as a teacher. At last I had made the break and fulfilled my ambition with my Mum’s complete approval. The final break came however when I married, quite late in life, but very happily. At first my Mum resented this. I feel she imagined she would always have me at home to look after her and my father. Eventually she came to realise the true solid worth of my husband and everything settled down. But some of her attitudes and outlook still remain with me, through her stories of her own life.

Mum was one of the people who could cut right through the barriers of class. As she often said, “We all come into the world in the same way and we all go out the same way.” She firmly believed, and it has been my experience also, that the higher the class the more humble people are. Many famous people came to the house where she worked. These included people in high society, like Caruso and Sarah Bernhardt, other celebrities and even royalty. What tales she used to tell me. My favourite concerned Queen Mary, who would visit the house, bringing with her the Prince of Wales (later the Duke of Windsor). I can just see my little Mum who had struggled up the stairs with a huge jug of hot water, not noticing until she reached the top that Queen Mary was waiting to go down. (Why the Queen should use the servants’ flight of stairs she never knew.) What should she do? Drop the jug or drop a curtsey? Queen Mary, great lady, solved the problem by drawing aside and smiling graciously as she said, “After you.” I still love telling the story of the day the Queen of England waited for my Mum.

My mother’s handkerchief sachet lies tucked away in my drawer like some long-forgotten dream. Yet I only have to open the drawer and the gentle perfume of lavender wafts out and triggers my memories. The heart-shaped sachet, made from grey silk painted with bunches of violets must be nearly 100 years old. Some of her handkerchiefs are still inside. They’re made from Irish linen and some are edged with hand-made lace. The scent permeates them and my mother seems to be right there beside me. Not that she was altogether a “lavender and lace” type. There were so many facets to her personality. I often gently stroke the silken container and my fingers make a slightly rasping sound. As I put my hand inside the grey quilted lining I feel comforted. Because the sachet is so old some of the lining is stained and stiff. It has a mustiness about it which adds to the little air of mystery. I can breathe the varied scents of perfume and decay. They hit the back of my throat and I can almost taste them. Soon after her death I found a letter tucked away between the handker­chiefs. I never discovered who wrote it. An uncle? A family friend? Certainly I was affectionately mentioned. However I decided to destroy the letter. Somehow it seemed the right thing to do. No more speculation about the writer of the letter. It was all so long ago.

After I married I went to live quite near to my parents so I was able to visit them almost daily. The years flowed on, and we all felt this happy state would last for ever, until one lunch-time my mum had her first stroke. It was so slight that it almost passed unnoticed. Then the strokes became more intense and closer together, until at last she had to stay in bed. Fortunately by then I’d retired so I was able to undertake the day nursing, and my brave father coped with the nights, which he dreaded. Eventually he too succumbed to strokes, so I had one parent in one room and one in another both needing my attention. After a few weeks of home nursing they both had to go into hospital. They died there within ten days of each other. I was so exhausted myself that had it not been for the support of my husband I would probably have joined them.

Just before my mum died, when aged 93, she looked back over her long life, “I’ve lived through six reigns,” she told me. “Where have the years gone? It seems only yesterday when I went, aged 18, down to Somerset to work in a country house of one of the landed gentry.”

She lived through some eventful times, travelling to Somerset by a horse-drawn vehicle, sailing to Australia right through to seeing men travelling to the moon.

There was always an air of quiet dignity about her. It was as though her association with the aristocracy, even in a below stairs capacity, had rubbed off on her. Truly she could, to paraphrase Rudyard Kipling, walk with Kings yet not lose the common touch. Her philosophy was, “Life is what you make it,” and she met it head on with courage, dignity and humour. I can only hope that she has passed on some of those qualities to me.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but a few days after my mother died I walked into my bedroom and there she stood. I felt frozen with fear. I could feel my flesh creep as I looked at this small, grey-haired figure. A thin little face stared at me from big eyes set in a tiny pain-filled face.

It seemed that I stood there for ages, too frightened even to scream. At last I plucked up the courage and held out my arms and said, “Oh, Mum,” as I moved towards her. Simultaneously the little figure held out her arms and her lips repeated my words. It was only then, that I realised I was looking at my own reflection in a full-length mirror. I could see how the months I had spent caring for my parents had taken their toll. After my fear had subsided, in a way I felt disappointed. I wanted to clasp her in my arms once more and tell her how much she had meant to me.

I miss her so much. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being without her, for she was not only my Mum but my best friend.

Violet’s Story

When I think of my mum, I see two different people. The Mum of my childhood, in charge, strict, sharp-tongued, not particularly understand­ing, and the Mum I knew when I was married. She seemed softer then, and had lost her frequent criticism of me. It was almost as if I’d grown into a responsible adult and she could now sit back, her lectures and admonishments no longer needed. The last years of her life were enriched by her two grandchildren, and all her spare time was placed at our disposal. Baby-sitting, shopping, whatever was needed was unstintingly given. I’m ashamed to say I took it all for granted.

When we were experiencing power cuts in the ’70s because of strikes, she scoured Brighton to find candles for us. She came to me trium­phantly bearing probably about a dozen. My response? “Why did you bring so many? It’s people like you who create shortages Mum.” How cruel! I can hardly live with myself when I recall the incident, especially as she was in her eighties.

She was one of those people who would do anything to help others, and hated it if a gift or payment was offered because, as she always said, she did things “with a good heart”. I would like to be able to say that I was one of twelve. A sense of missing out hits me when others speak of their numerous sisters and brothers. There was only ever Mum and me, and now she has gone.

However, I honestly can’t recall being lonely, even tho’ Mum never read to me or played with me. I remember begging her sometimes to be “the lady in the shop”. Poor Mum, so tired after her daily endeavours to keep us (me) clothed, fed and with a roof over our heads, used to comply, but I realise now, she only pretended to play. She would be reading her beloved newspapers, but would ask for “a pound of sugar please,” as she turned the pages. I’ve done it so often with my children.

I suppose she didn’t give me her time in that sense, but the fact is, she didn’t have much to give.

I’m sure all children were subjected to parental control in the thirties. Even if you had lenient parents, and I’m sure most of us didn’t, there were the teachers to hand it out. The parents backed them too. Sometimes, a mother would come to school and complain, but it was rare. If you were sensible, you didn’t tell your mum you had been caned, because you would either get a good telling off or another whack, instead of the sympathy you may have been expecting.

To be honest, Mum never hit me, ever. She didn’t need to, her sharp tongue was enough. It may seem a strong word to use, but I was scared of her. Perhaps that is why I was a dutiful child – mostly!

I got caught with a friend once, stealing apples and the owner of the property, fed up with kids helping themselves to his fruit, decided to make an example of us. He bade us to get into his car and horrors, drove us to the local police station. I was frozen with fear. Our names and addresses were taken and we were told we would be hearing from them. I went home very unhappy. I was so scared of what Mum would say that I decided not to tell her. Weeks went by and I began to breathe more easily. Until one day, letting myself in after school I heard a strange male voice coming from the kitchen.

“Is that you Violet? Come here I want to talk to you young lady.” My heart thumped, “What for?” I asked as I entered the room.

A strange man regarded me unsmilingly and Mum looked very stern. “What have you been up to you naughty girl?” She asked. The colour rushed to my face, and I said not very convincingly “Nothing, what do you mean?” “I’ll tell you what I mean. Do you know who this is? (indicating the man) It’s a policeman, that’s who.” There was no escape, it had caught up with me at last. In a way it was almost a relief. It had been a heavy burden to carry alone.

We had to attend court and Mum was fined 5/- that she could ill afford and somewhere in the Hove archives it says, Violet Nock is a thief.

I don’t think our employer, with whom we lived, was ever told. Mum was relieved that a uniformed man hadn’t been sent to the house in Shirley Drive. The plain-clothes man only addressed one remark to me. I have never forgotten it. “Is this what your Catholic schools teach you?” he asked.

Yes, I was brought up a Catholic. Mum had been also, but she had lapsed. My first memories of Church was being confirmed. We had received instruction during Religious Knowledge at school and were invited to choose a Saint’s name for ourselves. As a sort of personal mediator to Jesus Christ I chose Bernadette. In the manner of a child I was very proud thinking I was known as Violet Mary Bernadette Nock. I felt very holy. We kissed the Bishop’s ring after the ceremony, I don’t remember why, I didn’t understand it all. It is much too young to be committed like that.

Later came my First Communion. Mum made my dress which looks alright in photographs, but she was no seamstress. The material called imitation satin cost 61/2d per yard. The shoes, second-hand, had been black patent ankle-straps. Every small girl’s dream then. Except these had no straps and had seen better days. Mum got over that by punching holes along the side and threading laces through.

Before Communion every month, we attended Confession to be washed clean. You waited your turn, then entered a dark cubicle saying “Please Father give me your Blessing as I have sinned.” I was eight and didn’t know a lot about sin. I would perhaps confess that I had told a fib. I never called it a lie because that sounded more serious and would probably warrant more prayers as penance.

On Mondays, the priest would visit the classrooms asking who hadn’t attended Mass the previous day. Most of us had, but he would remind us it was a mortal sin to miss, and to die with mortal sin on one’s soul meant going straight to Hell. I believe the Faith is not as strict now.

Mum didn’t need to interfere in any way. It seemed to be the responsibility of school and the Church. I loved all the ritual of the services and the smell of incense. I had a little altar in my bedroom and every night before bed, I would kneel and say my prayers. Mum began attending Church again, probably because I walked in processions and sang in the choir. In spite of all these promising beginnings, I gradually drifted away from the Catholic Church and finally married in the Church of England. This was a serious matter in the 1940s and it meant ex-communication from the Catholic Church. Mum was still a practising Catholic and at first refused to sign the consent form for my marriage. She later relented, mainly because she approved of my husband to be. She and I never had a deep discussion about the implications and I wonder if she was really unhappy about my decision. It was years later that I overheard her telling someone sadly “Of course my daughter’s been exterminated you know.” She always had this propensity for a near miss with some of her words. For instance, she could never say “Sexual”. It was always “Seckical”. “Don’t go to the Odeon this week Violet, it’s all that seckical stuff,” she used to warn me. When I see some of the oldies on TV now, I am puzzled to know what offended her. The love scenes are so chaste by today’s standards, the bedroom door closing on fade-out, but I can still hear her “Tch, tch” in the darkness.

She was imbued with typically Victorian attitudes to all things concerning sex, and I remember well the first time the subject cropped up between us, I was about seven and an older girl told me that babies came from the mummy’s belly button. A neighbour sitting by her open window, heard, and felt she ought to inform Mum and I was punished. It seems unbelievable now. I was kept in and told I must not play with that naughty girl again. That was that and the subject was closed. So when Mum decided I had better be told about periods I was very nervous and my face flushed bright red. Immediately her manner became serious “Do you know about this?” she asked. Remembering what had happened before, I denied it. She put my red face down to embarrassment and said “I thought the girls at school may have told you.” Of course they had, but I wouldn’t admit it. That was the sum total of my sex education. None at school then, except from the older girls who often got it wrong anyway. I’d had no contact with boys. I don’t know exactly when I realised they were made differently. I was still very innocent when I took my first job at fourteen. One of the girls returned from her honeymoon to be met by the rest of them who were keen to find out about “IT”. They were all older than me, mostly eighteen to twenty-three year olds, but sexual experi­ence before marriage was almost unheard of. She told ALL. It went completely over my head of course. Puzzled as I was, I didn’t feel I could ask Mum.

Eventually of course, probably when I was about sixteen or seventeen, I began to piece it all together. It wasn’t just us girls who were innocent, mostly boys were too. I first met these socially when I joined the Brighton Girls Club in Tilbury Place. A dance was held weekly and the local boys were invited. We girls spent several evenings during the week there, and attended the service on Sunday afternoons. Mum signified her approval even though at first we were in service in Hove. The war was on and although she must have been worried when I was away from home during the frequent sirens, she didn’t try to stop me. She was a sport like that and used to say “You’re only young once.” I do wonder if she was lonely and missed my company at home.

Our main source of entertainment was the wireless, but every Friday we went out together. In summer it was the seafront and piers, and in the winter we went to the pictures. It was always called that. I was twenty-five before I heard it referred to as “going to the cinema”. Like most people, Mum and I didn’t worry ourselves what time a film began. We just went along and joined the queue. Once inside it was always possible to pick up the story or plot. It didn’t strike us as odd that we often saw the end before the beginning. It was of course the days of continuous performances. A commissionaire, resplendent with lots of gold braid on his hat and jacket, kept the queue in order. He would be back and forth calling out “Three doubles, two singles.” The people at the head of the queue would probably take up his offer and the rest of us would shuffle forward. It was never boring, even though we might wait an hour. Various `oddballs’ would spend time with us, singing songs, begging or exhorting us to prepare to meet our Maker. All the while we would be anticipating the return of the commissionaire and the lovely warm fuggy atmosphere we knew awaited us inside. Nearly everyone seemed to smoke in those days, all the seats had ashtrays. The projectionist’s light caught the blue haze that hung in the air. Dialogue was missed because of the coughing, but no-one objected. Ices etc. were sold during the interval of course, but all through the programme the usherette would silently walk up and down the aisles, the glow of her torch illuminating her wares. People used to good naturedly pass your money along the row in the dark and whisper to her, “She wants a tub, can you change a pound?” Then your ice and change would be passed back the same way.

Coats were folded and held on one’s lap. Often they would be wet, although there was a place to leave them, but as there was a charge it was out of the question. The patrons who sat in the circle used the cloakroom of course and paid the high prices of 3/6 and 4/6 to watch the film.

We paid 1/9 at the Odeon, West Street and what value we received for our money. A main feature, a “B” film (often just as good), the news, a cartoon, forthcoming attractions, local adverts and at some cinemas an organist too. Oh! Those beautiful draped curtains which were displayed during the interval, and the attractive interiors of cinemas then. So different from the functional boxes used today.

Mum and I discovered it was wise to take any single seats offered. We always managed to get together before long, because people were leaving and arriving all the time. It was the method of getting together that finally put me off going to the pictures with Mum. On this occasion we had settled down in different parts of the auditorium. The film was being enjoyed and all was quiet. until that is, the person next to Mum prepared to leave. Immediately, Mum was on her feet to alert me to the situation. At the same time the usherette appeared intent on gaining the seat for a newcomer. Mum wasn’t having that, and called out across the seats “VIO-LET, quickly over here.” Then casting a glance in the direction of the usherette called “quick before she gets it.” I just wished the ground would open and swallow me. I have never felt so embarrassed. Seeing my hesitation, she called again. Ever the dutiful daughter I did as I was bid, with the usherette muttering “Tch, tch.” Quiet reigned once more, but not for long. Mum had met me from work and I had had no tea. Out came a packet of sandwiches and a cake. When I was little I used to love these munchies in the cinema, but not any more. People began hissing “Shush” as Mum rustled the paper bags (she was quite oblivious to them). She wouldn’t have minded in the least if someone had done the same, so she didn’t think of objections.

She followed the lives of the stars avidly and would often nudge me at some point in the film to say “You know who she married don’t you? That fella we saw in that film last week. You know. What was his name?” Someone was sure to say “Shush” again. She never understood the intricacies of film making. Later she would say something like “Fancy James Stewart looping the loop in that plane, I didn’t know he could fly.” “That wouldn’t have been him Mum,” I’d say, but it was no good trying to explain how it was done. She just wouldn’t have understood. Education of the majority of children in the 1890s was really very basic indeed, but she left school knowing how to read, write and spell.

Mum had been born into a poor South London family. She was the fourth child, and second daughter. Her parents had thirteen children, but only nine survived babyhood. When she was twelve, she was the eldest at home. Her older sister and brothers had left to get away from their father who was a drunkard. So it was she who now bore the brunt of his violence by way of beatings. I am certain that these awful years when she had no support from her mother (who was terrified also), or indeed any adult, moulded her character. She came through it all alone and it seemed to me, nothing frightened her again.

As soon as she left school, she was put to work at a laundry. She didn’t scrub clothes, her job was to push a hand cart round the streets collecting and delivering. Then when she was a little older, she entered domestic service and for the rest of her life she cooked and cleaned for those who could afford to pay for the service. She hadn’t expected it to be otherwise. There was one interlude that was different. She remained in London during the First War, working in munitions at the Woolwich Arsenal. Later she volunteered for the gunpowder sheds filling shells. An extremely dangerous job, and one that earned them the name “Yellow Canaries” due to the powder being absorbed into their systems.

When peace came, it was back to service again, but this time as a chambermaid at the Savoy Hotel in London. The girls were nicknamed the ‘Merry Widows’ after the popular musical of that time. Mainly because of their long black dresses and long black streamers on their caps. This was a happy busy time for her, although the work was hard. Hotels were busy as people began to travel again. All the rooms had chamber pots, that had to be emptied each morning and hot water for washing taken to every room also. Visitors would return and ask to be put on “Sarah’s floor please”. She nursed the ones who succumbed during the great Influenza epidemic, but didn’t catch it herself. She was eighty-three before that happened, so maybe she had built up an immunity for life.

Offers came regularly to “Come and work for us” from people whose homes were in Buenos Aries and Canada, but she was never tempted. She encountered snobs of course but they were usually English visitors. Most of the ones from abroad treated her as an equal, Americans in particular. Mum could always tell immediately who were the real gentry as she called them. According to her they always treated you as an equal, but of course a good servant wouldn’t presume on that. The other kind, usually women who had married into money had all the airs and graces, and showed off because they employed domestic staff. What-ever kind they were, Mum was expected to wear uniform. A huge white apron, blue cap and dress in the morning and black dress with white frilly apron in the afternoon.

I used to note her hands when I was older. So work weary, with swollen knuckles due to all the harsh cleaning materials of her day. Her stint at the Savoy was hard but more prestigious than domestic service. I had coffee at the Savoy one day. I’d have loved to have had her with me, she would have been so impressed. She probably never saw the main entrance when she worked there.

I was nearly twenty-three when I left home. It was one of the most miserable times of my life. The war had been over for three and a half years and I had been married for three. My husband left the Navy and moved in with Mum and me, there was plenty of space. Anyway flats or rooms were hard to come by. It seemed everyone wanted to marry and settle down after the uncertainty of war.

Mum carried on as before, cooking and catering, whilst we two went to work. I’ve no doubt she hoped life would continue in this way. The big snag was, we had no time alone. We would wash up in the kitchen after our meal so we could chat and kiss and cuddle. Mum would call out, “Come on you two, you’re wasting all that light out there.” We would come into the sitting room dutifully to listen to the wireless or read, longing for bedtime so we could be on our own. There seemed so much we wanted to say to each other, but Mum would complain that we kept her awake with our chat. I can see now that it must have been hard for her too. We were so wrapped up in each other, she must have felt shut out. So, when the chance came to rent a tiny room unfurnished, we jumped at it. Naturally, it was left to me to break the news to Mum. She was devastated. All she could manage to say was, “But why?” I couldn’t explain, I felt so awful. It really spoilt the happy anticipation of setting up our first home.

For days, she was quiet and withdrawn and I was upset to see her eyes were red from weeping. I just didn’t know how to deal with it, it made our contact awkward and unnatural. We didn’t seem able to talk it through; being young, I didn’t know how to express myself.

The day of moving came and Mum went out rather than see me go. My heart was heavy, but I knew in fairness to my husband we had to do it. I kept thinking how alone she would be. I was her life. The sad thing was, because of our decision, Mum lost her home too. Before long she wrote
to the council offering her house to a family in exchange for something smaller, it wasn’t playing the martyr, it was just Mum’s sense of fair play. So eventually she settled down quite happily in a flat in the centre of town. It was old and scruffy compared to the nice house and garden she had given up, but she was a ‘townie’ at heart and enjoyed being at the centre of everything. She accepted we wanted to have a place of our own and of course we saw each other often.

Mum enjoyed good health almost all through her life. She was in her seventies before she visited her doctor. He called her his “ghost patient”. She always said she had been born with a good constitution, but her generation seemed strong and anyway didn’t think much about health matters. It seemed unbelievable but she was also in her seventies when she discovered that her heart wasn’t way down under her left breast after all. She was so puzzled that she asked her doctor next time she visited, as she felt sure I had got it wrong. I do wonder what she imagined female innards were like, because she used to tell me that having a baby at forty was good. It gave you a good clear out!

Because she had always been there for me, I could never imagine life without her. Consequently I was of the opinion that I would die first. So when the end came for her, I was unprepared. How could a day like that begin in such an ordinary way? Just a phone call during the morning to say she was a little unwell. I left work as soon as I could, with no sense of urgency. When she told me how far she had walked the previous day to visit a club member who was ill, I wasn’t surprised to find her under par. After all she was in her 88th year. I am glad now that I decided to stay with her. Later when she was comfortable in bed I laid down on the floor by her to sleep. It was June and we were in the middle of a heat wave. Being light, I woke early and went to her. She was dead.

Initially there was sheer disbelief that she had gone. A terrible sense of loss dogged me for years and even now, twenty years later, the feeling engulfs me periodically. She often used to say to me, “I pray I never become a burden to you.” Her prayers had been answered, she had just slipped away in her sleep. I couldn’t have wished for a more peaceful end for her; watched over by the Virgin Mary in the painting that always hung over her bed.

It seems a shame that at one period of our life together, Mum and I were often at loggerheads. Predictably it began when I reached my teens, but more specifically, when I began work. I must have been insufferable, forever quoting the girls at work, arguing with Mum’s decisions and showing I found her outlook old fashioned.

Unlike me, when I became the mother of a teenaged daughter, Mum had no yardstick. In her day, it just wasn’t done to argue with one’s parents. Well, certainly not in Mum’s family.

I sometimes felt completely misunderstood and could have used some sympathetic encouragement. I remember after my first day at work, she eagerly awaited my return, eyes bright. “Well, how did you get on?” “Nobody talked to me.” I grumbled. She probably felt sorry for me but wouldn’t show it. Instead she said what she always seemed to be saying in those days, “You’ve got big ideas my lady.” That time passed of course and really she was very good the way she allowed me out and about during the war.

Years later as she approached old age, suddenly I realised that she had become a dutiful child and I the mother. By that I mean she wanted to fall in with my wishes, but we were easy with each other and only if her safety and well-being was in question would I become bossy. I am generally meek and mild.

There is no doubt that being in service with Mum has made me the sort of person I am. Her early instructions about my conduct in those homes have left their mark. I was trained to stand up when madam came into the kitchen, even if we were off duty, and to refer to her husband as “the aster.” To keep to our own quarters and never be so forward as to expect to mix with any children of the family. Sometimes, when they were out, Mum used to let me accompany her when she went into their rooms to clean. I used to gaze in awe at all the opulence and speak in hushed tones. Woe betide me if I touched anything though. Huge squashy chairs and a settee, beautiful carpets that completely covered the floor. A grand piano.

One family had two girls about my age and a live-in nanny. When we first moved in, I was thrilled, thinking I would have playmates. Mum soon put me wise. “It would never do to play with the cook’s daughter.” I just accepted that they were our superiors. They were educated, travelled and rich. We were poor but it didn’t bother us. We certainly didn’t have any envy of them.

Looking back, I can remember the first time our status dawned on me. I was thirteen and until then hadn’t given the matter any thought. I hadn’t known much else anyway. It was a Monday and I was sitting at the large wooden table in the kitchen, chopping parsley, while Mum was at the sink. The lady of the house came in, I automatically stood up and said, “Good morning, Madam,” and remained standing as I had been trained to do. She took my chair and said, “Sarah, we must do the week’s menus quickly please. I haven’t done the flowers yet. I am absolutely exhausted and this afternoon I have bridge.” “Mustn’t overdo it Madam,” was Mum’s reply. Normally I wouldn’t have paid any attention to their conversation, but there was something in Mum’s tone that made me look at her sharply. Her gaze caught mine for a brief moment and I saw the amusement in her eyes. Suddenly I understood. I was elated and wanted to laugh, but I was also nervous of her daring. It was at that moment that I ‘saw’ Madam for the first time. I noted her hair and pale white hands, then looked at Mum sitting beside her, with her red swollen knuckles and cook’s hat and apron. Feelings I didn’t know I possessed surfaced, but of course I couldn’t have put them into words. I am left with regret that Mum had to work so hard and in such a way and I’m glad those days have gone. However, it was an experience I don’t regret, but then I wasn’t the servant.

Sometimes, Mum would become tired of living-in and being at her employer’s beck and call, so then she would obtain a daily job and we would rent a furnished room. She would earn about £1 per week. The first thing put by was rent and insurance. Always. If she didn’t work there was no money, it was a simple fact. Thankfully I can only remember her being ill in bed once during these times and the worry of being short of money I’m sure didn’t help her recovery. Finally, I was sent round to the parish priest with a note and Mum was relieved when he responded by sending us a 7/6 grocery voucher.

She never made me aware of her worries. I had security, but affection was not part of my life. Neither did I receive any praise. Possibly Mum was pleased with my continued progress at school, but I’m sure she felt I might become big-headed if she said so. It just didn’t seem to be the style then to praise, cuddle and pet your child. Anyway, Mum had only ever known violence as a child, so how could she show me affection when she had never received it herself?

The expression one-parent family hadn’t been coined then, but Mum alone was responsible for my upbringing. The only money that came into the house was what she had earned. I can only say that I am full of admiration for the way she coped without support, for her strength of character, independence and ever present cheerfulness. What a woman! Mum, why did I never tell you?