Invisible Child

by Mary Hayward

  I was so pleased to see her back and she seemed to look much better and had put on a bit of weight. I rushed to put the kettle on and make her a cup of tea and Dad was fussing about unpacking her bags. She didn’t see me cry silently on the inside. She didn’t know the immense relief and the burden that was suddenly lifted from me. She never knew the full horror and trauma that I had been through.

  Mum had been very lucky and allocated a home help. Jesse, her name was. She would come in, do all the housework and clean the place up so that Mum could rest a little and concentrate on getting her strength back.

  Jesse lived in our street and Mum knew and trusted her. The good thing for us was that Dad had to keep giving us food money, and for a while it stopped him drinking so much. He was working nights, and sleeping during the day when Jesse was there. He knew that if he didn’t behave, the authorities would find out: Jesse would tell them.

  Dad was pleased to have Mum home, but at the same time he was expecting a bit of a problem when she read the notices to quit. Well, I wasn’t wrong—when Mum saw them she went ballistic and they were at it hammer and tongs, shouting and screaming at each other.

  Mum had to go and see the council and sort out what she could do. They were sympathetic and listened to her tell them that she had been in hospital with TB and that she hadn’t any money. She seemed to be good at sorting it out, and life soon returned to the same old routine. When the home help stopped, Dad would be off down the pub, but at least the bills got paid and we got fed on a regular basis.

  Was I the same after that? No—I didn’t think I could ever be. My life was forever changed. I had joined a very select club of children who had known real hunger and this was in 1960’s England.

  When I asked Mother about her TB and her time in hospital, she recalled the visit I made. She told me she remembered that I had walked all the way, and that she had parted with her last two and six pence (Half a Crown) for me to get the bus home. I was so successful in those three months in shielding Jane from the horror of it all, that she recalled nothing of the hardship.

  Was I abused? I didn’t think so at the time. I wasn’t physically beaten or attacked and Dad didn’t belt or threaten me. Mum could slap me at times, but it was relatively rare.

  I don’t know what would have happened in a Care Home. Perhaps it would have been worse at the hands of a stranger, for all I knew. At home, at least I had the freedom to do something about it.

  I could have run away. That would have been the easy way, but I chose to stay. It wasn’t about me or my needs anymore, it was about staying together. I couldn’t abandon Jane—we were like two little soldiers, and we had to carry on.

  16

  Books and Orphans

  IT WAS A SUNNY DAY in July 1961 when the school holidays started. I was twelve, as I recall when Mum first got a job at the Orphanage in Bush Hill Park, cleaning. Each day she would take me there, drop Jane, now five years old, at her friend’s house, leaving me to play with a little orphan girl called Katherine. She had short club cut straight hair, like a basin cut all the way round, fresh faced, dressed in a mauve and white checked dress, with a little white Peter Pan collar.

  The tall ruddy faced woman who ran the Orphanage was called Mrs T—I didn’t know her real name. She wore a white blouse, bottle green cardigan and pleated skirt, her hair in a fringe and bun at the back.

  I hadn’t seen a woman with a moustache before and I found myself staring up at her all the time. Perhaps I was a little afraid of her when she asked me to stay for lunch, although I felt I dared not refuse.

  A long dining room was fitted with two trestle tables, each with a white tablecloth and napkins. There were eight wooden chairs placed on either side for the children. It looked so lovely, each place laid out with cutlery and a glass of water.

  “Come on,” Mrs T walked Katherine into the room, and I respectfully followed.

  “Sit down Mary,” Mrs T pointed to a chair. Katherine sat on my right, and we waited quietly.

  “Hello girls,” someone opposite called.

  We both nodded.

  “Hello,” Katherine said.

  Soon the room filled as children streamed in, sitting down at the table quietly waiting for lunch to commence. I expected the children to be chattering, but they appeared to be muted in the company of Mrs T.

  I glanced up to see hot plates being brought in. Mrs T carried two herself. I was dreading it, until a huge plate of roast lamb, boiled potatoes, carrots and peas suddenly appeared, and was placed down in front of me.

  I just looked at it and dared not move, thinking it was surely for someone else. I looked up at her, puzzled.

  “No, this is for you,” Mrs T said. “Go ahead.”

  I felt like I had been commanded to eat. I glanced up at her. “Thank you,” I said, hoping my eyes didn’t give me away, for they must have been as big as saucers—and I swear I was dribbling at the sight of it all! Steam rose like smoke from a cigarette and my tummy couldn’t wait to start. It was like Christmas had arrived for the first time, and I began to wonder how long Mum would stay at this job. As far as I was concerned, she could have stayed for ever.

  I cannot tell how wonderful it was—such happiness all in one day: food piping hot, and… with gravy!

  “What’s that?” I pointed to some green liquid. It was sitting in little pot with a spoon sticking out of the lid.

  “That’s mint sauce, isn’t it Kathy?” a boy opposite shouted.

  “What’s yer name?”

  “Mary,” I said quietly. I was shy.

  “My name’s Kevin, and that’s Kathy; her real name is Katherine, but we all call her Kathy.” He pointed to Katherine who was sitting on my right.

  “Is that what they call you?” My question went unanswered.

  “Would you like some?” Kathy pushed the mint sauce toward me.

  Taking the little spoon, she dropped a little of the sauce on the side of my plate, and then she carefully replaced the spoon in the pot.

  “Thanks.” I tried it.

  They both stared at me, waiting to see my reaction.

  “Brilliant!” I turned to Kathy, my face beaming.

  She passed the pot over to me. I took some before passing it over to the next child.

  It wasn’t long before the room was full of chatter and clatter as knives and forks tucked into crisp roast potatoes and gravy. Oh, Bisto! This was proper food! I so wished I could have been an orphan if they were all like this one.

  As I got to know Mrs T, I found that she was not so frightening. She was so organised, and I guess that with so many children it would have been difficult to accommodate all their individual needs.

  Kathy and I used to run all around, into every nook and cranny, and even the washroom, with its overwhelming scent of green Palmolive soap. I marvelled at the facilities they had, their little sinks, their names labelled above their own little coat pegs; individual cleaning kits; the little round tub of Gibbs Tooth Paste; little tooth brush; all neatly set out for each child; an identical life in an identical world.

  We didn’t have toothpaste at home. I had to use salt and water with my fingers.

  They had clean clothes, nice meals and although they had chores to do, I could see how clean the place was kept, and how well it was organised. It was a home, and I began to realise the difference between a home and a house.

  How heavenly it must have been, to be cared for in that way. The smell of the dormitory, its freshly changed beds all lined up like chocolate soldiers on parade. To me, well, all I could see was love and care.

  I started to wish more than anything else I could be an orphan too. Had I lived in the Home, perhaps I would have seen a different side and envied people with parents; but then children at the Home had no idea what life was like for me; their expectation would be much greater.

  The following week my little friend Kathy, with whom I had become quite attached, had an interview for adoption. It saddened me that she had been taken away,
especially as I found out later she was split up from her younger brother, but I never did find out what happened.

  Shortly after that Mum got a full-time job at the Jameson sweet factory, and the world of the Orphanage was swept aside. She didn’t stick at the sweet factory for more than a few weeks before leaving. I think she found full-time work too demanding. She got a job working for Page’s Paints, but it was only part time and she didn’t get the same money she got at the sweet factory. By the time she had taken out her fag money, there wasn’t a great deal left. Certainly not enough to cover the electricity and gas, and they continued to be cut off from time to time. When we had no gas, she would put money in the gas meter, and then I would have to get food, begging from the shops again.

  I had done a lot of growing up, and I guess I had enough of scrounging for food on tick. I refused to go to the corner shop. Mum asked Jane, but she was so stubborn she flatly refused to do it, and that was that. I had to back down and go myself, but I had made my stand, and I let them know I wasn’t going to do this any longer.

  I joined the Girl Guides at the Salvation Army Citadel at Upper Edmonton, and I used to get the bus there, when I had money. Or if I were hard up, then I would walk with another girl, Anita, who lived three doors along.

  The bus stopped by the sweet shop as I recall, and sometimes I popped in there if I was early. On one occasion it was raining, and when I looked up something caught my eye. It was a tall imposing building next door. It had a big sign—‘LIBRARY.’ I had never been in a Library before. We had one at school, a small affair, so I knew what a library was. Mother didn’t have books at home, and I wasn’t sure that my mother would know what to do with a book because I never saw her with one.

  I went in—wow, it was massive! I found it overwhelming. The smell of wood polish and the lovely smell of the books! Perhaps it was the glue used in the book bindings that I could smell. The mustiness of old paper, subtly blended with the pungent aroma of the shoe-squeaking highly polished floor, seemed to waft up into every corner of the large room. There were hundreds of books on shelves, and shelves up on shelves all the way around the room.

  Stunned, I couldn’t believe what I had found. Not only was it warm, cosy, and inviting, but very quiet. I found the whole atmosphere intoxicating. Their sheer number stifled even the noise of the librarian stamping the books; it was as if this was the temple of books—cathedral-like, silent and revered. It seemed to me the books were held up to be worshipped. So many books—walls and walls covered in them! Oh, I was in heaven—what joy! I couldn’t get over it—the sheer excitement of it all.

  Enid Blyton and The Famous Five, Just William, Heidi, the Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn—it was overwhelming! I had never seen so many books. I started to devour books as if I had been starved of stories all those years, and I marvelled at the lives of those fictional characters.

  On returning home, through my excitement, I couldn’t wait to tell Mum that I had found a library. I shouldn’t have been surprised by her response. She said we don’t have books in this house and that was it.

  I never saw either of my parents read a book until the day they died, although Dad would read a newspaper. It wasn’t because they couldn’t write—they could both read and write quite well, and Mum in later life took a great interest in politics, but still never ever read a book. I found that very strange. I never questioned it again.

  I spoke to the librarian on my next visit and she seemed to take an interest in me. She didn’t have a moustache! Instead, she was a small woman with spectacles, and a slim boyish figure. She spoke very posh, like the teachers did at school and very particular as I recall. Fussing about the bindings of the books, she examined every tear as if they were as precious as petals on a rose. Olive Drab, I think her name was; I had to laugh, when she told me. I thought the name suited her—like some comic strip joke.

  She started to show me how to find the books by using the Dewey index. Locating my favourite authors became my passion, and soon I started to devour them like a swarm of hungry locusts finding a field of wheat. From the stories I read, I got an insight into the lives of people. It might have been the Famous Five or perhaps Just William, but in all these stories the child characters were always ‘looked after’, and kept from harm. They were always ‘called in for dinner’ and were ‘tucked up in bed’. Those make believe children never ever went hungry like Jane and I did, and despite all their adventures, there was always the sense they were loved.

  Each time I came the librarian told me how I could join the Library and borrow books. She asked if I wanted to join.

  “I don’t know,” I said nervously.

  “Well,” she said, “you get four books for three weeks and then you can bring them back and get them renewed.”

  “What if I don’t bring them back in time?”

  “You get a small fine for each day that it is late,” she said.

  I thought for a moment. Could I trust my family? I didn’t think so. I worried that Dad would take it, to what he called, the pawnshop, or chuck it out and then I would have to pay a fine.

  “No,” I said, “I’ll just come and read the books here if you don’t mind.”

  “All right,” she smiled. “Let me know if you change your mind.” She carried on stamping books. I could see she was disappointed. I was too.

  I had to keep my world separate from my parents, and I hated that, but it was the only way I could become myself. I wasn’t like them, and I began to think I was an orphan, adopted by this family, as if I had been found alone in the street. I might have parents and live in a house with them, and to all appearances I was a child in a family, but to me it felt like I was alone.

  17

  Clacton

  I FIRST BUMPED INTO LINDA when I was thirteen. She got off the bus outside Woolworth’s when I was walking home from school with Jane. We started chatting, and talking ten to the dozen, as we walked the same way home. I found out she went to a different school to me, but she used to get off the bus in the High Street outside Woolworth’s. I recognised her.

  “You live in the house above me, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Linda.”

  “I go to Raynham Road School. What school do you go to?”

  Each house in the block of Maisonettes would have an identical layout, and so Linda’s house was the same as ours, the main difference being the way it was furnished. As soon as you walked into her house, the smell of freshly cut flowers drifted along the hallway, making the house so bright and sunny. The house always seemed happy, and entering it was like walking into a dream.

  The living room had a thick pile carpet, a sideboard of polished wood stood by the french windows. It was decorated with framed photographs of Linda, her brother and other family members. They were neatly positioned between pretty porcelain figurines, each placed on a neat lace doily.

  In the corner was a matching display cabinet with ornaments and crystal glasses. A smart radiogram was positioned along the wall on the right-hand side. It had two cupboards, one in which the records were kept, the other filled with bottles of drink. She took out some of the records—her records from amongst all the others that were stored there. I could see that her family all enjoyed music.

  What was it like in my house at this time?

  I lived behind closed curtains, where naked bulbs of meagre light glimmered in the darkness. Linoleum spread throughout the house like lilies on a pond, exposing large patches of raw floorboards extending onto the landing and stairs. The living room, an oasis of comfort, had a lonely shrunken rug by the fire. We had a radiogram, like Linda’s, but ours came from the junk shop, and the record player didn’t work. It didn’t bother me; we didn’t have any records.

  Linda was a little chatterbox of a girl, with lightly streaked curly brown hair that just covered her ears.

  I really liked going to her house; she had a gramophone. We wer
e dancing to ‘Poetry in Motion’ when her mum popped her head around the door. She was dressed in a freshly starched white apron worn over a bright flowered dress.

  “We’re going to Clacton on Saturday, Linda,” she shouted above the music with a cheery smile.

  “Do we have to?” I think Linda wanted to stay at home and go out with me.

  She didn’t turn the music down and went to carry on dancing, when her mum turned to me. I felt a little awkward, and stopped dancing for a moment. The music continued blaring out.

  “Do you want to come with us, Mary?”

  “Yes please,” I nodded and glanced back at Linda.

  Her face screwed up like a squirrel finding nuts.

  “Oh great, yes okay!” She jumped up and down, grabbed both my hands in hers, and pulled me towards her, nodding frantically.

  “We’ll have such fun together, won’t we Mary?” We both jumped up and down.

  “Okay, that’s arranged then.” Her mum closed the door and we carried on dancing.

  I understood Linda’s parents were going to meet with friends at Clacton-on-Sea and they probably wanted someone to be company for Linda whilst all the adults talked.

  Saturday morning arrived; I got ready, and knocked for Linda at about 8 o’clock. Her dad answered the door and left it open for Linda.

  “Linda!” he called. “She won’t be a moment.” He turned and left me standing on the step.

  Mr Bistow was a very tall man, slim build and broad shoulders. I thought he looked a little strange with his balding dark hair, and his face framed with spectacles, but he was really very nice. Her mum was well rounded, motherly, and she wore a starched pink and blue flowery dress.

  Linda ran up to the open door and pulled me into the living room. We sat down on the sofa, chatting about the trip as the adults fussed to get ready.