by Julian Clary
That, it seemed, was all the explanation I would get.
I stayed for what seemed like months at my grandmother’s house. Life in Blackheath was formal but unhurried. Grandma Rita had a butler, a cook and a housekeeper as well as Andrew the chauffeur, and everything ran like clockwork. She even hired a private tutor to make sure I didn’t fall behind with my schoolwork. At dinner each night she gave me a brief report on my mother’s progress.
‘Alice had her restraints removed for fifteen minutes today. Apart from the chewed skirting-board there was remarkably little damage. Her doctor thinks this is splendid news.’
After lessons in the morning, I would join Grandma Rita for lunch in the conservatory, where she would ask how my studies were going. In the afternoon I would read, explore the house or go out for a long walk, discovering Greenwich Park, Deptford market and beyond, once I’d got the hang of the buses, to Peckham and Camberwell. Slowly I discovered London Town, and was dazzled by all it had to offer. I wandered wide-eyed, through the dark autumn evenings, past the bright lights of Shaftesbury Avenue and in colourful Chinatown. Strangely, my grandmother didn’t restrict my movements. She gave me five pounds’ pocket money each week. As long as I was home in time to change for dinner, she showed no sign of disapproval. Over dinner she would enquire about my activities and listen as I told her everything I had discovered.
‘You’ve been to Trafalgar Square and didn’t pop into the National Portrait Gallery? That’s like going to Woolwich and not getting mugged. Shame on you!’
Slowly she thawed and we started to enjoy our time together.
‘You have brought great joy into my life,’ she said once, head cocked to one side. ‘Yes. Joy is the word, I think. Such enthusiasm about the Cutty Sark … It’s most refreshing.’
As it happened, my thirteenth birthday fell during this time. I was hopeful of a card from my mother, but it wasn’t to be.
‘There was one,’ said Grandma Rita, that morning, ‘but I didn’t consider the contents appropriate.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘She’s still not at all well, poor Alice.’ Then she smiled. ‘Happy birthday, anyway, from me and your mother. Maria has made kedgeree to mark the occasion.
‘It was the sixties that did for Alice,’ she continued unexpectedly. ‘All that permissiveness and whatever … it unleashed a great deal of trouble, unfortunately, and she is the consequence. A product of her time.’ She seemed to be thinking aloud. I didn’t make a sound for fear of stopping her. This was a rare insight into the past and their relationship. ‘I should never have let her go to that music festival when she was seventeen. Before that she was quite a nice girl to have about the place. Clean and well spoken. Then, suddenly, it was marigolds in her hair and unexplained laughter in the middle of the night.’
Just then Maria knocked at the door and entered, carrying a steaming offering that smelt of fish in an elaborate Victorian dish. My grandmother snapped out of her thoughts and said, ‘Ah, kedgeree! What a treat!’
Before it was dished up they both sang a high-pitched, vibrato version of ‘Happy Birthday’ with shrill harmonies for the last, prolonged ‘you!’.
‘Happy birthday, Johnny,’ said Maria, once they’d done. ‘You have a lovely day now.’
When she had gone my grandmother dished up the kedgeree, saying, ‘This’ll put a spring in your step.’
We ate a few mouthfuls, regarding each other as we chewed.
‘Lovely,’ I said truthfully. Kedgeree was delicious. It tumbled about my mouth, hot and salty, another new experience for me. So far, being a teenager was great.
Grandma Rita looked a little uncomfortable, then took a small box from her handbag and pushed it across the polished table to me. ‘This is from me. I hope you like it.’
The box was made of worn tan leather. I picked it up and opened it. Inside, it was lined with grey silk, and nestling in the folds was a fine gold chain with a circular gold pendant about the size of a five-pence piece. On one side was St Christopher and on the reverse the Virgin Mary.
‘It was your grandfather’s and I’d like you to have it.’
‘Thank you, Grandma!’ I’d never had anything gold before.
She picked it up and put it over my head. ‘He wore it all his life, and now you may do the same.’
‘Gosh! Are you sure?’ I felt different, a bit like being confirmed. Or maybe my grandfather’s spirit was paying me a visit.
‘I was looking through his things last night and I suddenly sensed that he wanted you to have it. We never had a son, and he would have spoilt you, I expect. Now you are thirteen it’s time for you to wear it. St Christopher will ensure you arrive safely wherever you go and Mary, the Mother of God — well, she can fill in the gaps Alice might inadvertently have left empty, if you know what I mean.’
‘She does her best, Grandma,’ I said, bristling at any criticism of my mother.
‘Let me put it another way. Mary will take care of your spiritual well-being,’ she compromised.
‘Good. I feel indestructible now!’ I said, clenching my fists and raising my arms in a heroic pose.
She smiled at me affectionately. Her eyes weren’t exactly brimming with tears, but they were full of emotion. ‘You’re a very pleasing young man,’ she announced.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And you’re a very pleasing grandmother.’
‘Shall we go to the theatre on Saturday? Would you enjoy that?’ For a split second she looked and sounded a bit like my mother.
‘Yes, please!’ I had never been to the theatre before, apart from amateur pantomimes at Dymchurch town hall, and since I’d embarked on my afternoon trips to wander around theatreland, I’d been desperate to see a proper professional show.
‘Jolly good. I’ll have a look in the evening paper and see what is suitable.’
She picked up the small copper bell she kept beside her wine glass and flicked it twice. When the butler had delivered the paper she perused the offerings in the West End. ‘Hair is on, but I fear the nakedness on display may remind us of your poor mother’s appearance in Hythe, so that would be an unfortunate choice … Hamlet? No — Ophelia. She’s one Liverpudlian short of an armed robbery. Cinderella? No, there’s a clock in it.’
In the end we went to see the Chinese State Circus performing in a tent on the South Bank.
‘As far as I know your mother has steered clear of Chinese men, so there shouldn’t be any upset. We don’t want any reminders of our mutual embarrassment,’ Grandma Rita said, as we travelled up to Waterloo on the train. ‘I’ve always thought that the best thing to do about Alice is not to think of her at all. Her father said that, too, you know, and she was only five at the time.’ She gazed out of the rain-splashed window and said nothing more until we arrived.
‘I hope there aren’t too many children there,’ said Grandma Rita, springing to life as we got off the train and pushed our way through the crowded station.
‘Don’t you like children?’ I asked. She had never seemed to like me much before I came to live with her.
She considered the question seriously, then smiled almost apologetically. ‘Well, if I’m being honest, not little ones, no. I don’t consider you a child any more, by the way. Children expect you to be perfect and the pressure to fulfil this fantasy is too much. After thirteen years with your mother you should have realized the truth.’
The show was an energetic display of gymnastic tumbling and choreographed acrobatics. I was enthralled. From the moment the music started my heart was racing. I couldn’t take my eyes off one particularly handsome young acrobat. I was rather surprised to find that whenever he came on stage I felt an exciting tingle in my loins. He was wonderful, I thought. Not only was he a splendid gymnast but he was very attractive. My eye was never drawn to the girl performers, I noted, no matter how dainty their ankles or bendy their spines.
We clapped and cheered our way through the show. As we watched a female contortionist dangling from a rope, pulling her legs up behind he
r and flipping a calf over each shoulder, Grandma Rita leant over to me and said, ‘Goodness. I can’t even get my tights on in the morning.’
Afterwards we travelled back to Blackheath and sat in the kitchen drinking tea and eating muffins with Parmesan.
‘Mother always says that cheese before we go to bed will make us dream,’ I said.
‘And what will you dream about?’ she asked me.
‘Chinese men bouncing off trampolines,’ I said, without hesitation.
‘Then take off your St Christopher before you go to sleep. You never know where such dreams might lead at your age.’
‘Thank you for a lovely day, Grandma.’
‘You’re very good company, Johnny. I shall be sorry when you go. The doctors say your mother’s almost better. You’ll be able to go home soon, it seems.’
She looked so sad it didn’t seem right to be too thrilled at the news, but I was glad to hear I’d soon be seeing my mother again. I’d missed her desperately, despite the security, comfort and stability of life in Blackheath. ‘Really? I can go home?’ I thought of the cottage and my little bedroom, and longed to see them again.
‘In about a week.’ She reached across the kitchen counter and took my hand. ‘I shall miss you. For all her faults, you’re a credit to her.’
I saw my opportunity. This was the moment to ask the question that was never far from my thoughts. My heart thumping, I said, ‘Am I a credit to my father, too?’
Grandma Rita stroked my hair, as if she were contemplating the purchase of an expensive fabric. ‘Well, any man would be proud to have you as a son, I’d have thought.’
‘Who was my father?’ I spoke quietly and clearly, but my voice trembled.
‘As far as his identity is concerned … we have narrowed it down to Kent, but there are the cross-Channel ferries, you understand. We can’t rule out a European kitchen hand.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
I covered my eyes with thumb and forefinger and pressed hard, willing the tears away. ‘You really don’t know?’ It sounded more like a plea than I had intended.
‘No. I don’t.’ She stood up and draped her arm rather awkwardly across my back. I could feel her bony forearm resting on my spine. She attempted a trio of comforting rubs, but I think it bruised her a bit because she stopped. ‘Sometimes it’s better not to know.’
She was thinking of the kitchen hand, I imagined, and tried not to feel too disappointed.
It seemed that my paternity was destined to remain a mystery.
By the time my mother’s malaise had passed and I went home, I had been away almost two months. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in all that time, and our quaint country life had seemed a world away. I had become used to formal dinners with my grandmother, polite enquiries about each other’s health and bland comments regarding the weather. I felt older and more grown-up. I had seen television, newspapers, the great metropolis. I knew of life outside our village.
As a mark of my new maturity I arrived by train, via Ashford. I was to get a taxi from there. ‘Don’t hang about in Ashford, whatever you do,’ warned Grandma Rita firmly, as she saw me into the train at Charing Cross. ‘You might slip into a coma. People do, you know. It’s a well-known fact.’
I kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ll see you soon, Grandma, and thank you!’ I didn’t stop to discover if she was upset by my departure, but hurried to my seat on the train that would take me back to Kent. I couldn’t wait to get home: would my mother notice my new-found maturity?
As it turned out, my mother wasn’t the same either. When the taxi drew up outside our cottage, I was disappointed not to see her standing on the doorstep waiting to greet me. Perhaps she’s busy in the kitchen making our celebratory tea, I thought, as I paid the driver. I hurried down the side path and barged in through the kitchen door. The first thing I saw was that the plants on the window-sill were dead from neglect.
I found my mother in the lounge, wrapped in her overcoat before an empty hearth. She looked up as I tumbled into the room and smiled weakly. ‘There you are, Johnny! Is the taxi driver still here? Why not invite him in?’ She was pale and thinner than before.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘The driver’s gone, silly.’ I kissed her forehead. There was an antiseptic, hospital smell about her. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Clean and scrubbed up. Full of antidepressants, antibiotics, and anything else with “anti” on the bottle.’
‘Shall I light the fire to warm you up a bit?’ I asked. My mother’s robustness had gone, she seemed delicate and uncharacteristically bitter.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she said, casting a bewildered glance round the room. ‘Look at all the dust and cobwebs. And the garden! I know it’s winter but it’s so dismal. The birds have gone feral. Not one of them came when I called.’
‘We’ll soon get everything back to normal, don’t you worry,’ I reassured her, as I rolled up some newspaper to build a fire.
I was happy to be home and overjoyed to see my mother, but she wasn’t her usual self by a long chalk. I was sure that if I could just get our cottage neat and tidy we would both feel more comfortable. I enjoyed the challenge and the responsibility. Mother didn’t have much energy, it seemed, so while she rested I dusted and swept, cleaned windows and made the place as warm and cheerful as I could. I changed the sheets, aired the bedrooms and cycled to the village shop for some provisions.
From time to time I checked on my mother. She wasn’t very chatty, but once she managed to quote Yeats to me:
‘Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.’
It was from ‘Long Legged Fly’ and I couldn’t remember the next line, but I thought it was something to do with being part woman and part child, so I felt it unwise to complete the poem anyway.
By eight o’clock that evening, when we sat down to a bowl of soup and warm toasted rolls, everything was cosy and clean. My mother had had a bath and changed into a cream lace blouse with a ruffled red polka-dot skirt. Sitting by a roaring fire, rubbing her hair dry with a towel, she gave a contented sigh. ‘Ah, thank you, Johnny … thank you.’ Her smile was wide and heartfelt.
I felt the warm glow of satisfaction at a job well done when, after tea, she looked into the fire and recited a poem of lighter sentiment:
‘There is so much good in the worst of us,
And so much bad in the best of us,
That it hardly becomes any of us
To talk about the rest of us.’
I laughed. ‘That’s a new one. Who’s it by?’
‘My favourite,’ said my mother. ‘Anonymous.’
I felt relief wash over me. It seemed the worst might soon be over and we could begin to be happy again.
Over the next few weeks my sole concern was my mother’s recovery. I cooked us a hearty breakfast before I went to school each day and rushed home afterwards. Then we would stay inside in the warm, reading together and occasionally listening to a play on the radio. Like my mother, the house plants filled out slowly and began to flourish again. A social worker from the hospital visited now and then, checking that medication was being taken and that family life was progressing along acceptable lines. I was delighted to see the colour returning to my mother’s cheeks and to hear her laugh once again at the antics of a ladybird or the impertinence of a sparrow.
Outside our happy home, though, things were not so rosy. I already knew from the whispers and titters at school that my mother’s naked ascent of Hythe town-hall clock had not been forgotten.
Boys on the bus, knowing of my fondness for poetry, would sing unkindly:
‘Hickory, dickory, dock,
Whose mum ran up the clock?
Johnny’s ma forgot her bra,
Hickory, dickory, dock!’
Within the village community it was less of a laughing matter. Mental illness was clearly regarded by some with great suspicion.
‘I hear they’ve allowed your
mother home, then,’ said Mrs Brampton, one of our local busybodies, outside the post office one day.
‘Yes, thank you. She’s doing fine.’
‘Don’t thank me, young man. Our Bible-studies group has been praying for her — praying they’d leave her in there and throw away the key!’
I wanted to protect my mother from these malicious remarks, and that was easy while she remained at home in isolation. But within a few months she was as robust as she had ever been, and as spring came and nature began to awaken, there was an added glint in her eye. Late one night I found her standing by an open window, inhaling deeply. She held her breath for thirty seconds, then exhaled through her mouth, letting out an animal groan. ‘Aaaeeuugh!’
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, afraid a relapse was heralded.
‘Never better, sweetness. The marsh … it’s calling me! Listen!’
Indeed, I could hear a strange, goose-like croak in the distance. My mother had always had a passion for Romney Marsh, and didn’t much care for life outside it. Ashford, the nearest town, she declared dull and suburban, and she loathed supermarkets with a passion. We grew our own vegetables and got our eggs from the six new hens that clucked about the garden like mini Dora Bryans. Where possible everything, from logs to loganberries, was born and bred on the marsh. We were organic before the word had been invented.
The next morning Mother dusted down her bicycle and was off, as excited and bubbly as if she were to be reunited with a long-lost love. Our roles now somewhat reversed, I worried about her all day but, flushed and invigorated, she made it home about six o’clock, celery and watercress sprouting from the basket attached to her handlebars. She was back to normal. Or so I thought.
