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

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СКАЧАТЬ I’m Dr Johnston,’ she said, touching my shoulder briefly. ‘You must be Antoinette.’

      After talking to my mother for a few minutes she set me a simple reading test, which I read straight through without stumbling once, despite my nerves. When I’d finished she smiled at me warmly.

      ‘Antoinette, you read very well, even though you’ve only been at school a few months. Did your mother teach you?’

      ‘No, Nanny taught me,’ I replied. ‘We used to read Flook cartoons together in the Daily Mail.’ She laughed and asked what else my grandmother had taught me. She seemed amused when I said that I’d learnt to count by playing cards.

      ‘Well, she’s certainly up to standard,’ she reassured my mother. ‘I think she will fit in well here.’

      My mother looked pleased and I was content with her pleasure. After various formalities Dr Johnston gave us a tour around the school. Looking at the groups of children dressed in their green uniforms, playing in their break, I thought I was going to be happy there.

      Armed with lists of what was required, my mother and I walked the short distance into town. First we bought my uniform, green gym tunic, three white shirts and a black and green tie. The last purchase, which my mother told me was a present from my English grandmother, was a smart green blazer with its distinctive white badge on the breast pocket. The next stop was the bookshop.

      Weighed down by all our parcels, we made our way to a nearby tearoom for the promised treat of lunch.

      ‘I think you’re going to like your new school,’ my mother said as soon as our food had arrived. With my mouth full of toasted, buttery crumpet I nodded happily in reply.

      The morning I was due to start I jumped eagerly out of bed and rushed downstairs to wash and eat the breakfast my grandmother had already cooked for me. My father had left for work and my mother had laid out all my new clothes on their bed. I could smell the newness of them. I dressed myself from my green school knickers to my gym tunic, asking my mother for help with my tie. My hair was brushed, a slide clipped in to hold it into place, then, with my satchel containing all my new books slung across my shoulder, I gave myself a glance in the mirror. A happy child with just a residue of puppy fat smiled confidently back at me. I preened for a moment and then descended the stairs to be hugged by my grandmother before my mother and I left for the walk to school.

      My teacher introduced me to my classmates and sat me beside a friendly blonde-haired girl, whom I was told was named Jenny. The morning passed quickly and I gave thanks for my English grandmother’s extra tuition. I found the reading and arithmetic easy and was rewarded by a smile and words of praise from my teacher.

      At the sound of the bell our class rushed from the schoolroom to the play area where Jenny took me under her wing. Finding my name difficult to pronounce, the children, with peals of laughter, called me ‘Annie-net’. Knowing their laughter was friendly I was happy to feel part of this group and laughed with them. By the end of the day Jenny and I had become best friends. She seemed to like the kudos of looking after a little girl with a strange accent and proudly introduced me to my fellow classmates. Basking in her attention I felt the warmth that sudden friendship brings. The need for a best friend that starts when babyhood ends and childhood begins was fulfilled.

      Two more weeks passed at my grandparents’ house until the day of our moving came. This time I had mixed feelings; I loved being part of such a big family, especially being the youngest member and the centre of attention. I was constantly fussed and petted by them all. Even my taciturn grandfather would chat to me, send me on errands to the tiny local shop to buy cigarettes for him and sweets for me. When nobody was looking he would even make a fuss of Judy. I knew I was going to miss them, but my adventurous side looked forward to living in the countryside and helping my mother with her poultry farm.

      A compromise had been reached to appease both my grandparents and me. It was common then in the rural areas for the buses to run only twice a day, once in the morning to take the workers into town and then in the evening to return them. It was arranged that every school day I would go to my grandparents’ house for tea, then they would take me to my bus and my mother would meet me at the other end. Knowing she was not going to see me until after the Easter holidays, my grandmother prepared a food parcel full of my favourite Irish soda breads and pancakes, which we packed into the car along with saucepans, packets of groceries and fuel.

      Saying tearful goodbyes to my grandmother, we loaded up the car with our suitcases. Then, with Judy and I tightly squeezed into the back, we started our journey to our new house. Behind us followed a van containing our meagre furniture from England, none of which my mother could bear to part with.

      Main roads became country ones, then we drove down a lane where the hedgerows were wilder and gravel replaced the tarmac, until we came to a dirt track leading to double wooden gates.

      My father jumped triumphantly from the car, threw open the gates with a flourish and we saw the thatched house for the first time. It was not what I had expected.

      Back in the hospice cold touched my skin as the memories churned in my head, and I felt incapable of movement. The hardness of the chair prodded me awake; Antoinette was gone and Toni, my adult self, was back in charge.

      I poured myself a vodka from my flask, lit a cigarette and rested my head against the back of the chair to reflect on the happiness of those early years. Why, I wondered, did I feel overcome with feelings of impending doom? There was nothing in this place to scare me.

      ‘Yes there is, Toni,’ came the whisper. ‘You’re scared of me.’

      ‘I’m not,’ I retorted. ‘You’re my past and the past is dealt with.’

      But the denial was hollow. As I looked into the corners of the empty room through my cloud of smoke I felt the power of Antoinette drawing me back through the gates to the thatched house.

       Chapter Four

      In an expanse of gravel liberally studded with dandelions stood a small square house. Peeling white paint exposed grey patches from earlier days and brackish stains ran in streaks from the guttering. There were two water butts held together with rusty iron brackets, a padlocked stable door and four grimy uncurtained windows.

      To the side of the house stood two tumbledown sheds with corrugated iron roofs. A tangle of brambles and nettles barred the double doors of the larger one and missing slats left black gaps in the walls. The door of the smaller shed hung open, revealing yellowing squares of newspaper hanging on string and the worn wooden seat of a chemical lavatory. Planks formed a path almost obliterated by brambles and weeds and damp had rotted away the wooden square in front.

      My mother, I knew, saw the pretty cottages of Kent. Saw her handsome husband and felt the love for a static memory that was locked into her mind. It was that of a dance hall, where she, older than most of the women there, had been danced off her feet by an auburn-haired charmer to the envy of her friends.

      With that picture in her head and her optimism still intact, she started explaining her plans. The large outhouse would be turned into a deep litter barn for chickens, a vegetable garden would be grown at the rear of the house and flowers would be planted underneath the windows. Taking my hand she led me inside.

      The draught from the open door sucked the dust balls from their corners. The last struggles of hundreds of trapped flies had ended in the giant dusty cobwebs that looped СКАЧАТЬ