Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal. Toni Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ down my throat I would play the same game we played every time.

      ‘Mrs Trivett, what are little girls made of?’

      I never grew tired of her reply.

      ‘Why Antoinette, how many times do I have to tell you? Sugar and spice, of course, and all things nice!’

      I would giggle happily and she would reward me with another sweet.

      On other days my mother showed me the games she’d enjoyed playing as a child; the sort of games passed down through the decades, from generation to generation. We dressed dolls and made mud pies with a small bucket and spade. But my favourite one involved using a tea set my grandmother had given me to give pretend tea parties. First I would arrange the tiny cups and saucers on a cloth, beside them the teapot and miniature milk jug. Then the matching plates would be laid in a neat row. When the cloth table was ready to my satisfaction small pebbles or flowers would take the place of sandwiches and cakes, which would then be offered to my adult playmates or my collection of dolls. Imaginary tea would be poured and passed round and dolls’ faces wiped clean of invisible crumbs.

      Not only did my mother have unlimited time to show me childhood games, she used to love dressing me in pretty clothes, many of which she made herself, taking hours over the hand-stitched smocking which went across the bodice as was the fashion then.

      She had a professional photograph taken of me in one of them when I was three, wearing a gingham dress edged in white with one plump leg crossed over the other, smiling confidently into the camera. I looked the loved child I knew I was.

      My mother entered me for a ‘Miss Pears’ competition and to her joy I was one of the runners-up. A small, framed photograph took pride of place on the mantelshelf.

      But those happy days, when we were a family of two, were numbered. For years I dreamed of them returning, but over ten years later, when they finally did, they brought no happiness.

      My father stayed in the army for several years after the war and only visited us sporadically, stirring the house into an uproar for the short time he was there. To me he seemed more like an important visitor than a parent. Days before his arrival there would be a flurry of housework, cushions would be shaken, furniture polished and floors mopped. A warm smell of baking would fill the house as his favourite biscuits and cakes were made, then, on the long-awaited day, my mother would dress me in my best outfit while her prettiest was donned. Constantly gazing impatiently out of the window, we would wait for the gate to open and a loud greeting to be called, upon which my mother would rush to the door and into his outstretched arms.

      My impression was of a big handsome man who made my mother laugh with happiness while a pink glow suffused her face. Presents such as silk stockings for her and chocolate for me always accompanied his arrival. My mother would unwrap hers patiently, meticulously folding the paper for future use, whilst I ripped mine open with squeals of delight. He, the benevolent visitor, would sit in the most comfortable chair and smile at our pleasure.

      For my fourth birthday a bulky parcel had been torn open to reveal a large, red, stuffed felt elephant. Picking her up I thought she was more beautiful than any doll. I christened her Jumbo and for several months refused to be parted from her. Holding Jumbo by the trunk I trailed her around the house, insisting she shared my bed and taking her with me on visits.

      A few months after that birthday my father announced that the idea of civilian life appealed to him. He wanted, he said, to spend more time with his wife and daughter. When my mother heard those words her face lit up and for the next few weeks I could sense her exhilaration as she waited for him to return, this time to stay.

      I knew the day he was expected from the smells of baking and frantic housework, but it was another three days before he finally arrived. This time there were no presents after the shouted greeting and within hours the carefree atmosphere in our home changed for ever. The build-up of tension had begun.

      After I was put to bed clutching my much-loved elephant, the first row I’d heard between my parents penetrated my sleep. I felt unsettled. Up to then I’d hardly heard a voice raised in anger. I hugged Jumbo a little tighter, hoping they would stop, and eventually fell uneasily back to sleep.

      A long time later my mother told me it was because of my father’s drinking and gambling. I knew nothing of the causes; I just knew the result made me uncomfortable. Upon leaving the army with his severance pay he had not returned home until every penny of it had been lost on a poker table and my mother’s hopes of buying a house that she could turn into a home for us were dashed. It was clear to me, as she talked in one of the rare intimate moments we had, that it was only the first of many disappointments to come.

      My mother realized that with a growing child and no lump sum to fall back on, if she was ever going to achieve her ambition of owning her home, she would have to work. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Not only was there no equal pay for women in the decade after the war, there was very little work. Victorious servicemen who had remained in the army to help rebuild a devastated Germany had returned to face massive unemployment, substandard accommodation and rationing. With a grim determination that was an integral part of her character, my mother was never going to admit defeat and eventually her persistence was rewarded. She found employment at a garage several miles away as a night-shift cashier, where a small, dark, rent-free family flat made up part of her wages.

      My father also found obtaining work difficult. Although he was a trained mechanic the only position he could find was in a factory, also on night shifts. With no alternative on offer he took it.

      Our lives then settled into a different pattern, with him returning home each morning grumbling about tiredness and going straight to bed, whilst my mother, who had a home to run and a small child to look after, snatched sleep whenever she could.

      Although my grandmother sometimes arranged to collect me for an outing, she seldom visited us and the days of spending time with my mother alone also came to an end. I would wake up in the little flat, clutch Jumbo for support and go in search of her. Finding the flat empty I would wander down to the garage in my nightclothes, still half asleep, seeking her company. In those early days she never got angry with me, just picked my still sleepy body up, laughed, took me upstairs and tucked me back into bed.

      A few months before my fifth birthday we moved again, this time to a small terraced house with a garden. My father had just received a promotion that meant permanent work with more pay and better hours. Night work was tiring for my mother, and now for the first time since her husband’s return she felt she could become a full-time housewife.

      The night before my birthday I lay awake, wondering what present I would be given. All through the previous week I’d nagged my mother to tell me. Immune to my pleas she laughed and told me I would have to curb my curiosity and wait until the day to find out.

      Waking early I rushed downstairs, remembering the arrival of Jumbo a year before, and scanned the sitting room. I couldn’t see anything. Seeing the look of disappointment on my face, my mother told me we were going to visit someone, and I would be given my present there.

      As soon as I had excitedly gulped my breakfast down I was buttoned into my coat and I skipped along, holding my mother’s hand as we made our way to the bus stop. A red double-decker bus took us several miles to the next village. Alighting, we walked a short distance to a house I’d never seen before. I was puzzled. I had no idea what my present could possibly be. Presents, I knew, were bought in shops.

      On my mother’s knock I heard the shrill barking of several dogs. My excitement mounted. Jumbo, though still much loved, was beginning to lose her attraction for me. What I now wanted more than anything was a puppy of my СКАЧАТЬ