Me and My Animals

CHAPTER 1

I didn’t want a bloody coconut! I wanted a Goldfish!

It was May 1954 and the annual funfair had at long last arrived on our playing field in Moss Lane, Litherland for an entire week. My dear, long suffering father had been given the unenviable task of taking me, then aged four and my best friend Ruth who was two years, one month and six days older than me(months and days are very important at that age.) for a few hours of childhood bliss. Of course there was always the indoor and outdoor fairgrounds in New Brighton, where mum and her cousin Vera would take me when we went on one of our frequent visits to mum’s Aunt Dorothy but there was nothing more magical to a four year old as having a funfair right on your very own doorstep.

My parents, I found out in later years had devised a cunning stratagem of never telling me anything they thought would get me over excited until the last possible minute, probably to save their lives being made a living purgatory by their only offspring’s version of the Spanish Inquisition.

We set off, father holding onto me in a vice like grip and mother issuing orders from the front doorstep. ‘Don’t let them go near the swing boats. And don’t let them go stuffing their faces with that revolting candy floss. And keep a firm hold of madam, I don’t want her running off and being carted away by those gypsies!’ Mother waved us off as if we were going on a major expedition to the Outer Hebrides instead of just six hundred yards away.

The inevitable question wasn’t long in coming. ‘Daddy, will there be puppies there? Please say yes.’ ‘Love, I’ve told you before, there are no puppies at the fairground.’

‘But there might be! We can always look. Daddy pleeese!’ I was whinging on again about a dog of my very own but the answer was always the same:-no I thought I had the meanest parents in the whole wide world.

‘You can look all you like young lady but there won’t be and anyway we’ve told you, you’re not having a puppy ’till you’re older so let’s just leave it for now!’ ‘How much older?’ I whinged, writhing like an eel, desperate to make a bid for freedom and to check out the situation for myself. ‘The way you’re going madam, not until you’re twenty one! Now let’s be having you.’

Well, that really did it! Ruth stood by looking angelic whilst I proceeded to make a holy show of dad, throwing the typical tantrum of a spoilt, four year old brat; an only child and daddy’s girl who got most things she wanted except the longed for puppy.

‘Margaret, will you please behave?! I’m trying to win you a coconut!’ I didn’t want a bloody coconut! He’d already won a doll for Ruth, throwing darts which were rumoured to have been blunted but dad always reckoned he was something of a dart sharp when he was in the RAF during the war and sure enough he won first time so at least she was happy. God, I can remember feeling well and truly pissed off. No puppies and a rotten coconut. But it didn’t take me long to spot the goldfish stall. Well, if I couldn’t have a puppy until I was ancient, a goldfish was obviously the next best thing.

Of course there was always Buddy. He was the scruffy, faithful little mongrel who belonged to Nana and Daddy Alec but he wasn’t mine, and I only got to see him twice a week which wasn’t the same as having a dog of my very own.

Father was looking embarrassedly around as people stared and tutted. It’s often amused me, why, when you see one little sod making a god almighty show of themselves all the other little bastards within a ten yard radius suddenly start behaving like angels. The woman on the coconut shy glared at me as she handed dad his prize and muttered something under her breath, probably; ‘I’d swing for the little bleeder if she was mine!’

Ruth and I still laugh about it to this day and still reminisce about our childhood antics. The one thing we are both blessed with is a good memory although nowadays we sometimes have to prompt each other along memory lane. We lived six doors away from each other in Richard Martin Road which was on, a then quiet estate surrounded by pig and dairy farms where dad would take me to see all the piglets and farm dogs who’d gently nudge me for biscuits, and to the wide open fields where donkeys roamed and we’d feed them carrots and bread. Sadly, all that has gone now, made way for housing estates and rows of shops. The once quite top road is now nearly as busy as a motorway. Looking back, it was an idyllic childhood and my only regret in adulthood is not telling mum just how much I appreciate now what a wonderful childhood I had and that, like so many children I simply took for granted.

In 1952 my parents cruelly moved their screaming little drama queen from 16, Ettington Road in Anfied where we’d lived with Nana and Daddy Alec and of course Buddy who I simply adored. Apparently, according to mother, the first word I ever spoke was Bub Bub, which was my version of Buddy! Somehow I think she just made that up to compensate for my lack of intelligence and disinclination at mastering the usual dada, mama gibberish. I think she must have had a premonition way back then, that no matter how much she tried I would never in my life ever be interested in the dolls that were bought by various aunts and subsequently got shoved to the back of the cupboard under the stairs.

Nana and Daddy Alec were my mother’s aunt and uncle and as both my parent’s mothers were dead Aunt Ellen was a natural substitute and from the minute I could talk I called every man I saw daddy, (which must have caused mum a great deal of embarrassment) even the man who owned the local sweet shop on Priory Road whom I shall always fondly remember as Daddy Mitchell. My memories of actually living there are rather vague but the memories of our once or twice weekly visits are very much alive today. I can still describe in vivid detail every room in that Victorian terrace; the parlour with it’s china cabinet that amongst other ornaments housed an ivory sculpture of two small dogs that I was allowed to hold (under strict supervision) when we went for tea on Sundays; the old black leaded range in the back room; Daddy Alec’s old leather chair in the corner where he’d sit and meticulously roll his cigarettes from a tin box.; Nana’s half bottle of brandy and her Rennies on the sideboard next to a portrait of King George V and Queen Mary. From the narrow kitchen three steps led down into the yard where I’d love to play in the wash house but my favourite place was the outside lavvy with it’s long wooden seat. It always fascinated me for some unknown reason. Nana called it the throne room and in spite of there being an upstairs bathroom, even in later life I always preferred the throne.

A few months ago I decided to take a long yearned for trip down memory lane. Encouraged by my friend Betty I tentatively knocked at the door of 16, Ettington Road, trying to rehearse what I would say. ‘Oh, hello, I hope you don’t mind me knocking at your door, sorry to bother you but… . But what? Oh hell, just go for it girl! Well, in for a penny in for a pound. Whoever lived in Nana’s house now could either tell me to bugger off, slam the door in my face, thinking Betty and I were a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses or quite politely point me in the direction of the nearest loony bin. Instead, a very charming man answered the door and in spite of all I’d practiced to say over the last few weeks, even wondering if I should take proof of identity; no, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a good idea, he’d probably think I was trying to flog him something I just blurted out ‘Sorry to bother you, but would you mind awfully if I had my photo taken outside your house?’ He looked at me as if I was raving bonkers. ‘You see, well, err actually I used to live here but it was my nana’s really and my Auntie May used to live next door but I heard she died a few years ago(I gleaned this information from Auntie Queenie, a long standing friend of mum’s, who at the age of eighty-eight still keeps in touch with half of Liverpool.) and I’ve been away from Liverpool for so long so I just wondered if…’ God, I was making a real pig’s ear of this! ‘Well I wondered if you’d mind if I had my photo taken on the doorstep… .’course I don’t mind luv, I was dead fond of old May.’ Thank God for dear old Auntie May! I’d only thought of her on the spur of the moment, at least mentioning her name gave some credence to my idiotic ramblings. Auntie May wouldn’t have known me from Adam! I’d just taken a wild chance that he’d lived there long enough to know her!

‘Now, would you like to come inside out the cold? If yer tripping down memory lane girl, best do it properly eh?’ Name’s Harold, please ter meet yer.’ ‘Oh great, I mean that’s dead nice of you! Thanks a lot.’ Chatting with fellow scousers always brought the old accent back! ‘My name’s Maggie by the way, Maggie Graham and this my pal Betty. He grinned and firmly shook our hands. Never trust anyone with a handshake like a limp dick, a flatmate once told me.

‘Well don’t just stand there gawpin’ girls, come in.’ Harold ushered Betty and me inside the hall which was far smaller than I ever remembered. Only a scouser could welcome a complete stranger into their home and make them feel so welcome. I didn’t quite know what to expect, but the house somehow had shrunk, yet in my memory it had always so big. I wandered from room to room trying to imagine all of Nana’s big heavy furniture in such a small space. The wash house had been pulled down long ago but the outdoor throne room was still there. And the back yard wasn’t nearly as big as I remembered and of course there was no longer the hook in the kitchen where my beloved Buddy’s lead once hung. They say you should never go back. On one hand I was glad I did as I’d have hated spending the rest of my life wondering, on the other hand it made me quite sad to realise nothing stays the same.

When I recounted my memory lane tale to father, his immediate response was; that I had the cheek of the devil and what the hell was I thinking about, going into a strange man’s house. And finally, just to get his point across: ‘How d’you think I’d feel, two coppers come knocking at my door saying you’d been murdered?! Don’t you ever do that again, with or without Betty. Understand? And don’t stand there grinning at me like that young lady, anything could have happened to you’.

‘Dad, stop being so daft. He was a dead nice bloke. I’m not five years old anymore!’

‘Then stop bloody acting it!’

‘Now, is ticking off time over?’

‘Yes. Now bugger off and put the kettle on and give your old dad a kiss. And don’t grin at me like that madam. By God you could always get away with murder with me!’

‘Who, me?’ We both grinned, knowing he was so right!

Every Tuesday mum and I would hop on two buses to get to Priory Road then make the short walk to Nana’s, me so excited, clutching a few more cuddly toys which I would happily leave behind in the parlour and return home at the end of the day with some that had been deposited on the sofa, tucked under a blanket the week before. I think maybe in some strange way it was probably my childish way of marking a weekly sense of security, ensuring our visits never stopped! I’d spend the day playing with my toys who were really my imaginary pets, they all had names and would often be dragged round the house by leads Nana had fashioned out of some of Daddy Alec’s ties. The game I loved best though was playing with Buddy, I knew he wasn’t really my dog but I pretended he was and on Tuesdays and Sundays he was all mine. I’d roll on the floor with him much to mum’s disgust, arms wrapped tightly round his neck whilst he wagged his tail and made funny little rumbling noises which always brought mother flying through from the kitchen.

‘That dog’s going to bite that child one of these days! Margaret, get up of that floor right now!’ Mum must have said that at least half a dozen times but being the wayward child I probably was, I didn’t take any notice. Neither did Daddy Alec!

‘No wonder that child’s ruined!’

‘Oh come ’ed our Mary ! The old bugger’s as soft as a brush with her, an’ I’m ’ere anyhow ter keep me eye on ’er arn’t I?!’ Daddy Alec chuckled.

‘Doesn’t look like it to me! Uncle, you’re as bad as Jack with that child! You pair and your wretched animals! The way you go on she’ll probably end up a zoo keeper thanks to you!

‘Nuthin’ wrong with that Mary, our Margaret’s a natural with animals, you just wait and see.’ Mum then muttered something about me catching fleas and something about how she despaired of the lot of us and stormed back off to the kitchen with Nana.

It was the same scenario every week!

Naturally, as soon as she’d gone I was back on the floor rolling about with my best furry pal trying as best I could to brush his scruffy coat. In the afternoons we’d all go for a walk in Stanley Park to feed the ducks and Buddy could chase his ball to his hearts content. The lake was so big (or so it seemed to me then) and the ducks so beautiful and tame, they weren’t even bothered by Buddy’s presence, nor he by theirs. Just as Daddy Alec and I weren’t bothered by mum shouting from the park bench, ‘Uncle, don’t let her too near the edge of the water, (it was all of an inch deep at the edge and Daddy Alec always kept a firm grip on my hand), and don’t let her feed those ducks close up by hand.’

‘What’s she supposed to feed them with then; her feet?!’

It was the same silly banter between the two of them every single week, mum shouting orders and Daddy Alec shouting daft things like, ‘Quick Mary, fetch the vet, one of the duck’s has just eaten Buddy!’ It never took very long before we were surrounded by them, both of us standing stock still for fear of treading on the chicks that followed their mothers right up to our feet. I loved waiting for them to come swimming and waddling over, squarking and quacking impatiently for their bread. I was always tempted to try and pick one of the chicks up but I had been taught from an even earlier age to always respect nature. There was the odd duck or two however, who would preen and rub against our legs for her feathers to be tickled. Naturally, as a four year old I thought it was only me they came to see, never dreaming for once that they behaved exactly the same with every other visitor to the park, who just happened to have a paper bag full of bread and cake crumbs!

Tuesdays were always the same, some of the best days of my short life. Nana would always cook her usual Tuesday supper of soused herrings with a heap of mashed potatoes and mushy peas which dad and I loved and mum gagged with every mouthful. That’s probably why, in fifty four years of marriage she never once made them at home. It might sound awfully boring now but then it was all part and parcel of my wonderful childhood stability.

Dad would turn up as near to 6.o clock as he could in our old Austin A40 with the running boards I used to love to stand on, clinging to the door handle whilst dad drove slowly up our road. Granddad Bill who was my real granddad and mum’s father had bought it for us the year before on one of his many trips home. I thought we were the poshest family in our road until Ruth’s dad, Uncle John bought a Morris Minor. That soon wiped the smile of my snobby little face!

Granddad Bill was head chef on board the S.S ‘HIMALAYA’. I used to hate it when he had to go away to sea again, I’d creep into his bedroom which was comfortingly next to mine and lay one of my stuffed toys on his pillow, breathing in his smell of pipe tobacco and soap; go into the bathroom and stroke the long leather strap he sharpened his cut throat razor on then promptly throw one of my attention seeking wobblies until finally dad would come upstairs to see who was being murdered. If mum had appeared on the scene it most definitely would have been me! The months Granddad was away always seemed like years to me but like most kids I soon forgot and my little heart was quick to mend. I’d just have to be patient (which wasn’t quite in my nature and still isn’t) for the next few months to slowly pass until the HIMALAYA brought Granddad home again. They were some of the most exciting times in my short life, being bundled into the back of the car, me begging to be told where we were going, mum and dad refusing to say. ‘The orphanage if you don’t keep quiet!’ Mum hugged me to her on the back of the car and winked but it still made me think. As I said earlier, they had this stratagem of never telling me anything until the eleventh hour.

We were on the Dock Road, bouncing over the cobbles and I knew, I just knew! We were going to Princes dock to meet the HIMALAYA. I can still remember the policeman waving us through the dock gates and there it was, the HIMALAYA. To me, the most beautiful ship in the whole world. And then I saw him, waving madly at us from the top of the gang plank. Granddad was home.

‘Where’s my Queen?’ Granddad swept me up in his arms, ‘Wait ’till you see what I’ve got for you!’

‘A puppy!?’

‘Not exactly sweetheart, but sort of and I think you’ll like it.’

‘Dad, she’s spoilt enough as it is. I hope you haven’t gone over the top again.’

‘Yes, and she’s my only granddaughter and I’m your father so I’ll do as I please!’ I can remember mum always laughing at him when he got on his high horse, knowing she was fighting a losing battle.

God, there were so many presents, but which ones came from which trip is rather a blur now. I remember Chinese silk pyjamas and a monkey that you wound up and he clapped his cymbals.

Of course there was no puppy but the ‘sort of’ was every little girl’s dream. It was a battery dog that sat, wagged its tail, walked and barked. Quite a fete for the fifties but they’re clever buggers these Chinese. I naturally named him Buddy and kept him for over twenty years until he was just a piece of cloth covering over an old rusty metal frame. I still couldn’t bear to part with him and there was no way I was chucking him in the dustbin, so much to mother’s bemusement and father’s amusement we buried him in their back garden under an apple tree. Mother stood shaking her head. ‘Dear God, I hope the neighbours can’t see! That girl will never change!’

‘Margaret, if you don’t want this coconut Ruth can take it home for John. Do you understand me?’

‘S’not fair, she’s already got one!’

I was still kicking and screaming with half the crowd at the funfair staring when dad finally relented for peace and quiet and dragged me off to the goldfish stall. It would have been a different kettle of fish altogether if mum had been there. I’d have been taken firmly round the back of the nearest stall and my bum spanked so good and hard I wouldn’t have sat down for a week! After god knows how many attempts at throwing rubber rings over glass bowls dear old dad finally won me what I wanted. I immediately dried my crocodile tears and we made our way home with one goldfish gasping away in his little plastic bag plus one glass bowl, a box of fish food and two coconuts and the telltale signs of candyfloss sticking to our faces. I was so pleased with ‘Goldie’ I begrudgingly let Ruth take the other coconut home for John, her dreadful brother who’s soul ambition in life was to plague ours to bits!

‘Mummy, can I keep Goldie in my room pleeese?’

‘So long as you don’t over feed him. Promise me?’

‘I promise.’ To make doubly sure I didn’t mum put the potentially lethal overdose of fish food high out the reach of four year old hands which undoubtedly have tipped the lot in given half the chance. The following day dad bundled me into the car and off we went to the pet shop in Linacre Road and bought Goldie a coloured arch, weeds and multi-coloured stones. Goldie was the last thing I saw before falling asleep at night and the first thing I saw every morning. After I’d had Goldie about a week I woke one morning to find him floating on the surface. Convinced there was something drastically wrong with him I screamed out in my true drama-queen fashion for mum. ‘mummee, mummee come quickly Goldie’s not moving!’ Mum took in the tragic scene and obviously did a bit of quick thinking, something I must have inherited from her and which has got me out of numerous scrapes over the years.

Putting her finger to her lips she whispered, ‘sshh, he’s only asleep, you don’t want to wake him, you lie on your side when you’re asleep, don’t you?’ I nodded. ‘Right now young madam let’s get you washed and dressed because have you forgotten Auntie Ruth’s taking you to see Ruth in school this morning?’ I missed Ruth during the day and didn’t think life very fair that she had to go to school and I couldn’t. ‘Oh, you’ll be there soon enough young lady, I can promise you that!

I soon had different ideas about this school business after sitting in Ruth’s classroom for a morning. I hated Beech Road school on sight, the whole dismal Victorian building was enough to scare the shit out of any four year old who, apart from when I stayed at Nana’s I’d never been away from mum. I remember watching Ruth drawing and painting with all the other kids, there seemed to be hundreds of them and Ruth was my friend not theirs. I clung onto Auntie Ruth’s hand, sniffing silently, refusing to draw with crayons, shrinking back even when asked if I’d like to help mix the powdered paints until she finally got the hint and we walked home in silence.

‘Well, did you like it?’ Mum asked, all hopeful that I’d come back all smiles, making her life a hell of a lot easier when the dreaded day of taking her only infant for a lifetime of learning loomed. The trip to see Ruth enjoying school had just been a devious ploy to get me used to these bloody awful places and to groom me for dismal things yet to come. ‘Not going there, mummy it was horrid!’ If only I knew in twelve short months my short little life would soon change.

‘Well, why don’t you go upstairs and play?’

‘Mummy, mummy, come quick, Goldie’s awake!’ This was a scenario that was to be repeated quite regularly over the next three or four years! Exactly how many Goldie’s nodded off to sleep and miraculously woke up again I shall never know!

Granddad Bill came home again that Christmas. I can remember it as if it was yesterday; being lifted out of bed in what I thought was the middle of the night but in reality was probably only about eight o’clock; mum dressing her grumpy little offspring in layers of woollies then dad carrying me out to the car and a big, thick car rug being wrapped round me as I curled up on the back seat of the car with mum. Very few cars had heaters in the fifties and our’s was certainly not one of them. By the time we were on Linacre Road I was wide awake. The excitement was all too much; everything in a four year old’s life one big adventure. The only times I could ever remember being in the car late at night on a long journey, snuggled up in a blanket was when we used to go over the water to New Brighton on Boxing Day to visit mum’s aunt Dorothy and her cousin Vera (whom I always considered to be terribly posh just because she wore high heels sharp enough to do some serious damage to the Axminster.) and leave in the pitch dark for the Birkenhead Tunnel which I loved. Instead of nodding off to sleep on the back seat I was always bouncing up and down like a bloody yoyo waiting for dad to point out the halfway signs which told us where Birkenhead ended and Liverpool began.

No matter how many inquisitive questions I persistently asked, the only answers I got were; wait and see; don’t be nosey; you’ll see. Now this was really starting to piss me off, I can tell you. I could feel a paddy coming on, so could mum. ‘If you must know Miss Nosey Parker this time I’m really seriously thinking about the orphanage. Mum hugged me and I giggled but it certainly shut me up! But only for a short while. I must suddenly have had a bright idea as we headed towards Stanley Road; even at such a young age I already knew quite a few names of the streets around Liverpool, never failing to point out the old red brick building on Stanley Road which had once been Daisy Street Orphanage where Granddad Bill and his two brothers had been brought up.

‘Mummy, I know where we’re going!’

‘Do you really Miss Cleverclogs?’

‘We’re going to meet the HIMALAYA!’

‘No love, ‘fraid not, not this time.’

I supposed I should have realised we weren’t heading for Princes Dock when dad carried on driving down Scotland Road, heading straight for the City. I had another guess but for once kept it to myself. Grown ups could get so easily pissed off if they thought you’d thwarted their plans. I bet we were going window shopping. Not that I minded, Christmas window shopping was something I always loved right up into adulthood; trudging through snow covered streets, gazing awestruck at the grand displays in the department store windows, especially Blacklers which is sadly no longer there; eating hot chestnuts from paper bags and listening to carols by the gigantic tree in Clayton Square; dad sneaking off into George Henry Lee’s to buy me whatever I’d set my heart on from the fabulous display of toys in the window. One year I’d desperately wanted a huge, fluffy cat I’d seen turning slowly on the elaborately decorated merry-go-round along with other furry toys of all shapes and sizes. And then I spotted him; a tiny koala bear sitting right behind all the bigger, plusher ones. Whoever had done the window dressing that year obviously didn’t think he was worth bothering with. I felt so desperately sorry for him and twenty minutes later, he was mine. I think mum and dad were slightly taken aback that I hadn’t chosen one of the larger, more expensive ones but I think dad’s wallet was pleased.

The Christmas window shopping became a ritual and family joke that lasted for years; even after I married, my very own Santa Claus would take us all into Liverpool just before Christmas, get me to make a wish, close my eyes whilst he sneaked off, it was like I was four years old again, except by that time in my life it was no longer teddy bears, it was something so boringly practical like a set of saucepans or an electric whisk! But dad never failed to surprise me. In the meantime mum, John and I took refuge in the perfumery department which suited me down to the ground. Whilst we were waiting for dad, mum actually persuaded John to buy me a bottle of perfume. He chose Chanel 19; a bonus! Can’t say I was really over the moon about it, for some strange reason the smell reminded me of stables, leather and horses, and John having once had co-ownership in a horse called Annie when we lived in Nutffield in Surry must have had an instant affinity with the pong. Probably the smell made him feel homesick for the good old days when we were happy and he could afford a horse and was mortgage free. At least the perfume somehow made up for ‘Mary Queen Of Scots’, one of the most boring books I’ve ever read in my entire life. It was our first Christmas together and for some Godforsaken reason, John honestly thought I’d love it. When he wasn’t looking I’d discreetly turn over fifty pages at a time hoping he’d think I was a fast reader!

The snow had started falling quite heavily by the time we reached Lime Street Station. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to scare the shit out of me it was the loud hissing of the steam trains. I was petrified of them. Now I’d give anything to see those majestic old gentlemen of the tracks back in service again. Dad carried me, my head buried in his shoulder, my hands clamped firmly over my ears as he strode along the platform, mum hurrying at his side. Perhaps they were going to send me away after all; stick me in a carriage, slip the guard a bob or two then do a runner. Mind you, if I’d have had a little sod like me she’d have been lucky to see her next birthday! There were porters pushing through the crowds, pulling carts piled high with luggage, people shouting and shoving and the deafening sound of the steam. I just wanted to go home. Then I heard his familiar voice. ‘Where’s my little queen?’ It was my beloved granddad. He scooped me up in his arms and held me so tight I thought I’d die but there was never a happier four year old in the whole world.

The HIMALAYA had completed her final voyage and so had Granddad. That grand old lady had finally docked at Southampton for the last time. And Granddad had come home for good. It didn’t take long for it to dawn on me that this would be the last batch of pressies I got from the Far East.

Shit, there’s always a downside to life!

CHAPTER 2

‘Shall I help you with your tie love?’ Mum was having a real battle tying my wayward hair into bunches with dark green ribbon. Yes, the dreaded day had finally arrived one sunny Monday morning in September. I was finally starting bloody school ‘No. I can do it all by myself.’ I said petulantly. Dad had spent hours patiently showing me how to master the art of left over right then up tuck in and down. Or should that have been right over left? I wouldn’t like to be put to the test of tie tying today. Instead of my usual weekday play clothes I found myself being togged out in a cream shirt and revolting bottle green Skirt. Next to be donned was the blazer, complete with the logo: L.M.P.S. (Litherland Moss Primary School) but Daddy Alec always insisted it stood for Little Monkey’s Playing School. He was probably right. At least it wasn’t Beach Road and only a short walk from home; short enough for me to do a runner if I wanted to. Oh yes, I’d got the lay of the land sussed out, believe you me. The end of my cosseted life was just about to begin.

I’d wanted Granddad Bill to come along as well. Apart from being a great believer in safety in numbers I half hoped he’d persuade them to release me after an hour or so but after retiring from sailing the Seven Seas he’d taken a job as a chef at Woolies up London Road and duty called.

‘Come on now love, we don’t want to be late, do we?’ Didn’t we?. ‘And don’t forget Dad’s coming home extra early tonight so you can tell him all about your first special day. Won’t that be nice?’ Bloody Great!

I clung on to mum’s hand for dear life as we joined a throng of other mothers with their reluctant offspring milling around a long corridor which smelled of disinfectant and cheap polish. Only one in the thirty or so of us, lined up like lambs to the slaughter, seemed totally over the moon to be there. She had yellow hair and a larger than life squeaky voice, and was swinging Tarzan style from the coat pegs above the wooden lockers that all had our names on. Well, she’d better not bounce onto mine.

‘She’s been so keen for today to start. All we’ve had from her for weeks is: school, school, school. Totally driven Tony and me halfway up the wall.’ Yellow Hair’s mother introduced herself to mum. ‘Laura Winters, pleased to meet you. And who do we have here?’ she asked giving me the lowdown.

‘This is Margaret.’ Mum said, almost as if it was an apology. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t had quite the same enthusiasm.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Mrs. Winters looked rather taken aback. ‘Well perhaps she and Christine will become the best of friends and then maybe things won’t seem so bad.’ She gave me one of those pitiful looks that said she basically couldn’t understand why I’d been hatched in the first place. ‘Christine! Christine darling, please stop that now and come and meet Margaret.’

Yellow Hair danced across to us and wrapped an arm around me. ‘You can be my new best friend if you like. ‘I’m Christine, Marie, Edwina, Winters. I do ballet, do you? Mummy’s teaching me tennis and I’ve got a Siamese cat called Simon and I’ve got a dog called Pepe, he’s a French poodle. Have you got a cat and a dog? What are their names?

Christine, fuck off!

Miss Wilde, who was apparently going to be our new teacher introduced herself to all the mothers and then without further ado marched us all into the classroom giving orders as to where we should all sit. As Christine had been holding tightly to my hand Miss (poor disillusioned ) Wilde obviously thought we were bosom buddies and sat us both next to each other. Well I can tell you, it didn’t take too long for the dry, heaving sobs to give way to full blown floodgates once we were seated at our tables. ‘I want my mummee, I want my mummee’. I sobbed..

‘You’ll see your mummy at 4.o.clock just like everyone else’. Oh, there was no breaking you in gradually with the odd few hours here and there every other day or so, to get you acclimatised. It was straight in at the deep end at 9.00 a.m. and resurfacing at 4.p.m. ‘And Margaret if you don’t stop all this silly crying right now I shall spank your bottom’. Miss Wilde shouted. Sadistic bitch!

That did it. Half the class started bawling; Brian and Neville for starters; not because they missed their mums; they’d pissed themselves. Brian and I still laugh about it to this day. He’s a sea captain now; a grandfather and still in denial of our first day at school!

‘Brian, Neville go into the stockroom now and take your pants off.’ Miss Wilde instructed. They emerged a few moments later, looking like two underage flashers; wearing nothing but their bottle green macs to hide their bare bums.

Could you imagine that scenario today? Go into my stockroom little boys and take your pants down!

‘Right, now you all know my name and I know a few of yours.’ She looked straight at me. ‘But for the next few days I’d like you all to wear one of these so I can get to know you all properly. When I call your name I want you to come up to my desk. One by one we trooped up to be issued with a yellow star with our names printed on. A bit like the stars the Nazi’s forced the jews to wear during World War 11. ‘Well, shall we start our first day by each of you telling me and the class a little about yourself? Who’d like to go first?’ Guess who?

‘My name’s Christine, Marie, Edwina, Winters. I live with my mummy and daddy and I have a French poodle called Pepe and we go to Frarnce every year for a holiday.’ And so it went on; some had rabbits, some had cats and a few lucky ones had dogs. One poor, scruffy looking little bugger with a permanent snotty nose told us he lived with his mam and four brothers; his da was away working. More likely sewing mail bags in Walton Jail! They hadn’t got a dog but they’d loads of mice which his mam kept saying she’d batter if she had time ter catch them. When it got to my turn I was so proud to tell everyone about the best goldfish in the whole wide world until Christine, Marie, Edwina, bloody Winters whispered, ‘But you can’t walk a fish Silly! Never mind, you can share Pepe.’ Sod off Miss Fancy Pants.

‘Well, how did the first day go then?’ Mrs. MacLelland, who’s garden backed on to ours was chatting to mum over the fence.

‘Oh, not bad but not brilliant. I think she’s made a few new friends but I’ve a feeling we’ll have a battle on our hands for a while. Hasn’t helped that some precocious kid’s done nothing but go on about her dog all day. And you know what Madam’s like?’

‘D’you think it might help if she saw, you know… ?’ Mrs MacLelland nodded her head in the direction of her house. ‘When all said and done, she’s only going to get to see them one day soon any road up.’

I was standing close enough to know they were talking about me in tight whispers but not that close to hear what they were on about. Adult conspiracy again! ‘So long as she doesn’t get any fancy ideas! Margaret, come here a minute love, Mrs. Mac wants a word.’

‘I suppose you’ve been wondering why you haven’t seen our Bella around for a while?’ Bella was the MacLellands big, slobbery Boxer who’d lick me half to death whenever we were both in the garden. Bella would get a telling off for slobbering over me and I’d get a right bollocking for trampling on dad’s flower beds. Who cared? ‘Hang on a tick.’ Mrs. Mac soon reappeared with two wriggling pups in her arms. I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven! For some reason known only to me I named them Sherbet and Herbert and it became a ritual over the next few weeks that occasionally after school I was allowed to borrow them; playing endlessly with them in my tent which was still pitched on dad’s lawn. Stick that where the sun don’t shine Christine! It had had to be firmly instilled into me that Sherbet and Herbert would soon be going to new homes but at least for a while I could pretend they were really mine. To this day I’ll never forget that delicious smell that’s totally unique to puppies. Forget Chanel No 5. If I could bottle that scent I’d be dabbing it all over me twice a day. Now my knowledge of dogs is slightly more advanced with age I realise that eau de chein is that wonderful mix of mother’s milk and puppy pee.

‘Dad’s home!’ mum called to me from the kitchen but he’d already beaten her to it, striding down the garden path to see how his little darling had survived her first day of incarceration.

‘Come on love, let’s hand these two little fellas back to Mrs. Mac now, poor old Bella must be wondering where they’ve got to. Then I want to hear all about school. Did you like it? You didn’t cry, did you?’ I shook my head to both questions. ‘So you were good then?’ I nodded. No doubt he’d get the truth from mum later who no doubt had heard it all from Miss Wilde. ‘That’s just as well then because we’ve got you a surprise!’ We were standing outside the sitting room door. ‘Now close your eyes and stay very quiet.’ I knew it, I just knew it, they’d bought me a puppy! I was so happy I couldn’t wait to burst through the door, pick him up, hold him close and cuddle him forever. But no, it wasn’t a puppy, instead, there, in a cage on the tea trolley in the corner was the most beautiful green and yellow budgie in the whole wide world. I called him Toby.

Now call me biased but he really was the most intelligent little bird. He mastered the art of talking quite early on, one of his favourite words being ‘Buggerlugs’ which mum blamed Granddad Bill for, he’d probably taught him that on purpose for the special occasions when Aunt Dorothy and Vera came to afternoon tea.

I’ve never liked to see birds living out their lives in cages with just a mirror and bell for company and I’ve never had a bird since, but Toby was a fortunate little chap; once windows and doors were shut and the fireguard in place he had the freedom of the lounge to fly around to his hearts content. Not even mum complained when he pooed for Britain, sometimes on our heads! He’d sit on our shoulders at night and I swear blind he watched the telly. He soon picked up the habit of chirping away to Huckleberry Hound, one of my favourite cartoons in the fifties until one evening there was total silence. My beloved Toby had finally fallen of his perch at the age of six. It was only my second real encounter with the loss of a pet, the first being my beloved Buddy three years earlier. I can still remember that awful feeling of sheer raw pain and grief I thought only I as a child suffered. Little did I know I’d experience it many more times during my lifetime.

A few weeks ago I was talking to an old workmate of my father’s (they’re both in their nineties now!) and we were talking about the old days and how every year at the English Electric flower show on Dunningsbridge Road Toby always won first prize for being the best budgie. Phil roared laughing and finally told me after all these years, ‘Of course he did, I was the judge!’

CHAPTER 3

‘But why is Grandpa Graham having to come and live with us?’ I really was in a bloody awful petulant mood. And who could blame me?

This Grandpa who I hardly knew was coming here and I didn’t want him! From what I could remember of him, he was a tall, rather stately looking old man, (and I mean old) with a thick thatch of snow white hair and a moustache to match. He lived in a rather grand three story Victorian house in Enfield with dad’s much older spinster sister, my Aunt Elsie and from what I could remember of her from our annual (duty) visits to Middlesex she looked as old as Methuselah.

‘Because he’s an old man love and we’re going to look after him and I want you to try your best to be very nice to him.’

You are joking!

‘But Auntie Elsie looks after him, you know she does, so why is he coming here?’ I could feel a stamping of the foot tantrum coming on. ‘I hope she’s not coming too!’

‘Don’t be silly, of course she’s not. Now Margaret, listen to me,’ (as if I had any choice!) Grandpa is going to have to live with us because your Aunt Elsie has met a man and they’re going to get married and go and live in Kent.’

Was the poor sod blind?

‘Well why can’t he go too?’ I interrupted.

‘Love it’s not that simple. Look love, you’ll understand one day. Old people can sometimes be very stubborn and Grandpa simply doesn’t want to go, so we really don’t have much choice, do we?’

Oh yes we did!

It was only when I was a much older and mum and I were talking about the old sod that she explained the real reason why Grandpa hadn’t gone of to live in Kent; Aunt Elsie had had enough of being at his beck and call and this George geezer she was marrying and Grandpa shared a mutual loathing for each other.

‘Well, if he comes here I’m going to run away and live with Aunt Edda! So there!’

‘So there, to you too Madam!’ I heard mum chunter under breath.

We’d just returned from the most wonderful holiday any animal crazy six year old could wish for when this bombshell was suddenly dropped on me like a bloody great ton of bricks. It had been my holiday made in Heaven, mum’s made in Hell.

The farm in St. Genis had been recommended to my parents by some distant cousins.

‘You’ll think you’re in another world, just like going back in time.’ They’d said. I don’t think mum ever spoke to them again! I was in paradise. Mum hated it on sight. There could be, on certain occasions an element of the Hyacinth Buckets of this world in her. This was definitely one of them!

The farm was up a long muddy lane and looked virtually derelict from the outside; chickens and squealing piglets ran freely across the yard which was covered in cow pats and weeds. I loved it on sight. I couldn’t wait a minute longer to get out of the car and go off exploring round the sheds and barns. I’d got the door half open, eager to get out when mum slammed it shut and nervously looked at the map and holiday brochure. ‘Jack, this isn’t the right place. It can’t be!’ She breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Let’s take a decko.’ Dad looked at the brochure, then at the farm then back to the brochure. ‘No I think this is the place love. We’ll ask this lady anyway, just to make sure.’

A rather stout woman wearing a