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

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      A small, plump, grey-haired woman opened the door. Scampering around her feet were several black-and-tan wirehaired terriers, wagging their tails as they jumped up to welcome us. Trying to quieten their boisterous greeting, she ushered us quickly into a large kitchen. My excitement grew when I saw in front of the stove a basket filled with several sleeping puppies. Just outside it a fluffy little creature, with the black-and-tan markings of the adult dogs and bright mischievous eyes, stumbled around on legs still shaky, sniffing the air with her black button of a nose.

      Before my mother had time to ask the lady to show me the others, I’d rushed to the adventurous one and knelt down. I knew instantly she wanted me as her owner. Picking her up, breathing in that warm puppy smell, feeling small quick licks from her rough pink tongue on my face as she wriggled in my arms, the bond was formed; she became the greatest friend of my childhood.

      ‘Is that the one you like the most?’ my mother asked.

      My radiant face was all the answer she needed.

      ‘Then she’s yours. She’s your birthday present.’

      I gasped with pure pleasure as I realized my greatest wish had just been granted. I kissed the little dog on top of her fluffy black and tan head, and with that display of five-year-old maternal love I showed her she was mine.

      ‘What are you going to call her?’ my mother asked.

      The memory of another small, determined figure came into my head, a figure I’d seen when I’d spent a magical day at the beach earlier that year. My grandmother had taken me by train to the seaside town of Ramsgate on the Kent coast. Clutching a large ice-cream cone I’d seen a circle of laughing children sitting transfixed in the warm sun, their eyes fixed on something out of my vision. Tugging impatiently at my grandmother’s hand to pull her forward, looking in the same direction as the other children, the two figures of Punch and Judy came into view. My forgotten ice cream melted and trickled down my hand as I stood rooted to the spot, enthralled by their antics. I booed when Punch attacked Judy and cheered with the other children when Judy lambasted him back. Even when the puppeteer came round with his collection box the mystery of the two miniature figures remained unexplained and my ever-patient grandmother was subjected to a stream of questions about the fighting dolls.

      ‘I’m going to call her Judy,’ I replied.

      That birthday was to remain the happiest memory of my childhood.

      My mother had enrolled me at a small private school. Each morning she would take me and every afternoon she would be waiting at the school gates with a warm smile. I felt very grown up wearing my uniform, with my pencils, eraser and first learning books carefully placed in a canvas satchel that hung over my shoulder. Even though I liked those early days of learning, I spent most of each day with bated breath, visualizing Judy in my mind, longing for the final bell. I would hurriedly swallow the milk and sandwiches, which would be given to me after I’d changed out of my navy-blue gym tunic. Only when I’d finished both would I be allowed outside to play ball with Judy for an hour. When my mother thought enough energy had been burnt up for us both to settle down quietly she would open the kitchen door and call us in. A reading book, where new words were learnt every day, or a counting one where I was learning to tell the time, would be removed from my satchel.

      I would work at the table while my mother made supper and Judy lay exhausted at my feet.

      For Christmas, when she was turning from puppy to small dog, I used my saved-up pocket money to buy a smart red lead with matching collar. Now, proudly buttoned up in my warm navy winter coat, with Judy prancing beside me impervious to the cold in her natural fur, I would take her for walks, beaming with pleasure every time someone stopped to admire her. My happiness was completed when my grandmother started to visit again. No explanation had ever been given as to why she had stopped. Years later she admitted to me she had been appalled at us living above the garage, had never liked my father and had never thought him good enough for my mother. Whilst by then I more than agreed with her, it was too late to comment.

      She, like me, adored Judy, who always greeted her rapturously. My grandmother would pick her up, tickle her stomach and be rewarded by licks that removed her perfumed face powder.

      With my grandmother’s visits would come presents, mainly of books which, when my mother was busy, my grandmother would always find time to read to me.

      When my parents informed me in February that we were going to move to Northern Ireland, where my father came from, my pleasure was only spoilt by the thought of not being able to see so much of my grandmother. Her many reassurances of numerous visits, however, made my fears disappear.

      In fact, six years were to pass before I saw her again.

      We sent regular letters, which hid the truth of our family life. She never forgot birthdays and Christmases, but the hoped-for letter announcing a visit never arrived. Unaware then of the many excuses my mother was making to her, my grandmother gradually faded in my life to become someone who had once loved me.

       Chapter Three

      Three thin wooden tea chests and one suitcase stood on our sitting-room floor, containing the accumulated chattels of a marriage. Over the next ten years I saw them packed and unpacked many times until they became a symbol to me of defeated optimism. At five and a half, however, I saw them as the start of an exciting adventure. My mother had triumphantly nailed the third one shut the preceding night and once a van arrived to collect them our journey was to begin.

      My father, who had already been in Northern Ireland for several weeks looking for suitable accommodation, had finally sent for us. His longed-for letter had arrived a week earlier and my mother had read parts out to me. He had, she told me enthusiastically, found a house for us in the country. First, however, we were to visit his family, who were eagerly awaiting our arrival. We would stay with them for a fortnight until our chests and furniture arrived, at which time we would move to our new home.

      My mother told me time and again how much I would love Ireland, how it would be a good life and how I would enjoy meeting all my new relatives. She talked excitedly of her future plans; we were going to live in the country, start a poultry farm and grow our own vegetables. Envisioning Easter-card yellow fluffy chicks my enthusiasm grew to match hers. I listened to the extracts of my father’s letter that she read out to me about my cousins, about the house in the country and about how much he was missing us. Her happiness was infectious as she described a future idyllic life.

      When the van had left with our chests and furniture I looked at our bare rooms with a mixture of emotions: nervous at leaving everything that was familiar, but excited at going to a new country.

      My mother picked up our hand luggage and I took a firm hold of Judy’s lead as we started our twenty-four-hour journey. What to me seemed like an adventure, to my mother must have felt like a gruelling ordeal. Not only did she have our bags and me to look after, but also Judy, who by now had grown from a puppy into a small, bright-eyed, mischievous terrier.

      A bus took us to the railway station, with its tubs of flowers and friendly porters. We caught a train to the Midlands, then the connecting train to Crewe. I sat in the compartment watching the steam floating in smoky clouds back from the engine, listening to the wheels making their clickety-clack clickety-clack noise, which sounded to me like ‘we’re going to Northern Ireland, we’re going to Northern Ireland’.

      I could hardly sit still, but the excitement did not curb my appetite. Mindful of our budget, my mother had СКАЧАТЬ