A Childhood Memory
John Busby
I heard my mother's footsteps on the stairs. Any moment now she would appear. She would be tired. She was always tired. Tired of trying to make ends meet, tired of the rationing and the eternal queuing and the ever present problem of providing for the four of us.
Dad was in the army, like everyone else's Dad. I only knew him vaguely, having seen him once or twice before he went abroad. James could not even remember him and like the girls knew him only as a picture on the wall. There were in fact two pictures, one on either side of the room. The one which hung above the mantelshelf showed him in full highland dress, sitting upon a chair, with a little west highland terrier at his feet. The other which stood on the utility sideboard, was a portrait which had been very badly tinted. When asked where his Daddy was, James would point above the fireplace, while Isobel would point to the sideboard. For all they knew of him, he could have been two different people.
The key turned in the lock and she entered. She was tired and looked it. She was also breathless, though not from asthma like I was, but from the exertion of carting her burden of groceries up three flights of stairs to our tenement flat. Not giving herself time to recover, she laid down her shopping and made straight for the sink, with its eternal pile of dishes stacked untidily in the chipped enamel basin. She lifted the kettle from the wooden draining board and filled it from the single cold water tap. Laying it down again and with her back still turned to me, she said "I've some news for you. You're to go to a home again" and before I could protest, added "the doctor said it will do you good." "But I don't want to go to another home; the last one never cured me did it?" "You'1l do what the doctor says and like it, at least you'll be out of this dreadful hole for a while. I wish to God I had your chance." I did not argue any further, knowing that beneath her unsympathetic manner, she only wanted what was best for me. "Where are they sending me this time?" I asked. "It's at the seaside, Argyllshire, I think." There was a long silence, during which time I decided that I was going to have to like it. "Mum, will you come see me sometimes? You didn't come very often the last time I was away." She had, in fact, only managed to come and visit me once on that occasion. I remember that day so clearly. How proud I had been to show her off to all the other boys yet how possessive I was, trying not to let her spend too long with any one of them. We walked to the village and bought some food with the intention of having a picnic on the beach. It began to rain however so we had our meal in the bus shelter instead. I have never enjoyed a meal so much since, nor found a finer place in which to eat it. The rain went off and we made our way back to the home by way of the beach.
I often wonder how we ever got there, so eager was I to demonstrate my new skills, playing ducks and drakes with flat stones, which I would send skimming across the water with such dexterity that each one could be made to touch the surface and rise again six or seven times before finally succumbing to the depths and catching shrimps in the rock pools, taking pleasure in my mother's inability to distinguish their camouflage from the sand beneath them. We dug for cockles and saw a hermit crab scuttle awkwardly beneath the seaweed, to avoid our probing fingers. All too soon we arrived back and it was time for her to go. There were no hugs and kisses. She just told me to behave myself and said she'd left a parcel on the bed.
How well I remember the parcel. The shape and size of it, the feel of it, how it was wrapped in thick brown paper and tied with hairy string with blobs of crimson sealing wax where the sting crossed over. I didn't open it until all the boys had crowded round me, as it was custom on such a great occasion. I took my time although someone offered me a pocket knife, I insisted on undoing the knots, sealing wax and all. When I was quite sure that almost every boy in the school was looking on, I unfolded the wrappings and exposed the contents for all so see. Four comics, two sticks of barley sugar, a packet of custard creams, a big bag of liquorice allsorts, two pairs of socks and a woollen vest. The vest and the socks aside, everyone agreed it as good a parcel as they had seen. I had only been seven then, but old beyond my years and aware of what it must have cost my mother in sacrifices to come and visit me. The day had been a mixture of joy and sadness and even in my premature wisdom could not comprehend. Than night I cried myself to sleep.
When I came out of my reverie, I asked again "Mum, will you come? If you don't promise to come and see me I'll not go." She turned towards me, but refusing to allow herself to look me straight in the eye, said "well, I'll do my best." I knew that was as good a promise as I was likely to get.
