Of all the people I least like to remember, I think Auntie
Bronwen is at the top of the heap. Reluctant as I am to celebrate her existence
in any form, I am duty bound to include her in my ramblings, not least because
of the cutting remarks, her favoured form of communication, that still ring in
my ears, reminding me of my mortality, frailty, or stupidity, as appropriate.
She is the eldest child of my grandparents, the youngest
being Mama, and fourteen years separate them. Born in or around 1890, she
trained as a nurse and presumably saw (and dealt with) a lot of suffering.
Eventually she took up mental nursing despite her inability or was it
unwillingness to discern who was and who was not sane. This resulted in
uncomfortable dealings with family and friends, who invariably breathed a deep
sigh of relief when, after the front door had closed with her on the outside,
she went back “on duty” and only the even less discerning were at her mercy.
Her relationship with Mama was anything but harmonious.
After Auntie Bronwen’s efforts to help Mama get into nursing, which were
thwarted by Mama’s timidity and inability to stand up for herself, for the rest
of their lives communication between the two sisters was strained. And anyway,
Auntie Bronwen’s pseudo kindness had never fooled anyone, least of all Mama,
which only goes to show how desperate Mama must have been to get away from the
family.
Although in our house certain topics were taboo and
certainly not mentioned in my vicinity, I found out by stealth that Auntie
Bronwen had been ‘quite a girl’ in her youth and even got herself into trouble,
which I now knew had something to do with not being good or careful.
“What kind of trouble?” I would tease.
“None of your business,” was the inevitable retort.
Sadly, the ‘trouble’ did not survive to tell the tale.
At thirty-three she married a vicar who had a parish in
Lancashire and was a widower with two small children. The liaison came as such a
surprise to the family that they didn’t even have time to warn him off. I never
found out if that vicar was the author of the ‘trouble’ she had brought on
herself.
If there was anyone unfit to be a stepmother it was Auntie
Bronwen. She stepped lightly but tightly into the shoes vacated by the vicar’s
first wife, who had conveniently committed suicide by walking into a deep pool
near the house until she submerged.
On the other hand, if ever there was an ideal vicar’s wife,
it must be holier than thou Auntie Bronwen, for whom the role must have been a
piece of cake after presiding over a mental institution. Matron now became
Mother; the two motherless souls left bereft and doubtless puzzled by her
sudden appearance in the wake of their beloved mother were severely disciplined
and coerced into putting behind childish things (at five and seven), and instead
taught behavioural skills such as washing, ironing, cleaning and cooking. What
Auntie Bronwen did while her charges were beavering away is not recorded.
Auntie Bronwen became virtuous with a vengeance. Her dubious
past was seemingly cancelled out by this single act of Christian charity – as
she saw her new status – and she never tired of telling all and sundry that she
had rescued the vicar and his offspring from a fate worse than death.
Unfortunately for me, just as Auntie Bronwen had taken on
the rearing of the two half-orphans years and years ago, she had also
undertaken to provide me – a potential half-orphan, given the gradual
deterioration in my father’s health – with holidays by inviting me to stay at
her house for a week or two in the summer.
By the time I visited her, though, and long before I became
aware of all this family history, Auntie Bronwen had become a melodramatic
widow and the stepchildren stoic young adults. I never met their father, that
paragon of virtue beyond all understanding, who must have had nerves of steel
to stand her. He was always referred to in deferential terms as Mr Roberts,
like in a Victorian novel, and if we hadn’t known that his impoverished
lifestyle had improved beyond recognition thanks to Auntie Bronwen’s not inconsiderable
bottom drawer – augmented as it might have been by bequests from thoughtful
patients - we might have even thought the devotion dedicated to him by Auntie
Bronwen, who had previously not shown any signs of possessing that particular
emotion, was returned.
Auntie Bronwen’s stepson, a likeable young man with a
partiality for alcoholic beverages and later an even greater partialities for a
wife who eventually drank herself to death, had eventually gone into medicine
and done well, but the stepdaughter still lived with Mother and was pursuing an
insignificant career as a clinical clerk and an illicit sexual one with
ambulance drivers and other paramedics.
Auntie Bronwen was blissfully unaware of the nature of her
stepdaughter’s extramural activities. In later years she spoke of her
stepchildren only in terms of high praise. I suppose that is a point in her
favour. I can’t think of any others.
The drive to Lancashire was quite tedious even before the
days of endless traffic jams. Blackpool is a favourite spot for home-grown
tourism. There is an imitation Eiffel Tower complete with lift to the top and a
view for miles around, with entertainment such as dancing and bingo provided in
the main hall between the giant feet of the monumental metal construction. A
splendid organ with rows of keyboards provides robust if trite and rather raucous
musical accompaniment to anything requiring it, such as old-time dancing and
even bingo. The promenade is long and lined with beautiful floral displays and
the beach is a paradise for paddling and sand-castle building. Best of all,
there is an extensive fairground, with adventurous rides and a thousand ways of
frittering away one’s pocket money.
Blackpool is a bus-ride from where Auntie Bronwen lives, but
that is not a hindrance, since I am sent out after breakfast with the return
bus fare supplied by her and strict instructions not to return until teatime.
That is her idea of hospitality.
I don’t mind, though. I don’t really like walking over the
newspapers with which she has covered the carpets and chairs so that I do not
dirty her furnishings. I do not like being shouted at for reading a book
instead of cleaning the kitchen floor, and there is no piano, so I could not practise
even if I wanted to.
Blackpool can be scary for a youngster out on her own, but I
keep to places frequented by laughing families and friendly grannies. I wander
around Woolworth’s, Littlewood’s and Marks & Spencer’s, eat toasted teacake
at Forte’s for lunch and chips in a bag whenever I’m hungry. I walk as far as
the tower and tag on to a family to get in without paying. I sit in the
auditorium and listen to the jolly organ strains:
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside,’
Oh I do like to be beside the sea ta tum ta tum…..
Oh I do like to be beside the sea ta tum ta tum…..
And I ask myself if I like being beside this seaside, beside
this sea, or would I prefer to be at home with Dada. I can practise feeling
sorry for myself without any fear of interruption. The afternoon dancers on the
polished wooden tower floor twist and turn to the music. I sit and watch them,
my eyes glazed over with self-pity. I never saw Dada and Mama dancing.
Round about 4 o’clock it is time to get back to the bus
station. I know my way around Blackpool since I’m here every day. Every day is
usually enjoyable as days go and certainly preferable to domesticity or
gardening chores such as picking indescribably repulsive creatures off the
bedding plants – something Auntie Blodwen does with her bare hands.
I never look forward to getting off the bus and walking down
the road to the house. Pin-in-paper tidiness wrapped a penetrating stink of
hospital disinfectant is more than anything else reminiscent of the sanatorium
where my father is forced to spend long periods being treated for his lung
complaint. Homes don’t smell like that. I am not welcomed back and Auntie
Bronwen never asks what I have been doing all day.
“Wash your hands and you can have some tea. I’ve made a
cake.”
For a quiet life I do what she says and sit down at the
table. The cake smells strongly of almond flavouring, which is not much better
than the disinfectant. Auntie Bronwen is extremely partial to almond
flavouring. I hate it with the same passion as I hate her.
“I don’t want any cake”.
“Nonsense. Everyone wants cake at teatime”.
“I don’t like cake.”
“Well, that’s all there is.”
There is an undertone of ‘eat it or starve’ in her voice. I
am instantly reminded of the witch in Hansel and Gretel. I devour lumps of cake
by gulping my orange juice flavoured tap water immediately after it and
slushing the mixture round in my mouth. That way I don’t have to chew it.
“Don’t drink and eat at the same time. It’s bad manners,” I
am strictured.
“Sorry…” I splutter.
“And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
It’s impossible to win even a verbal battle against Auntie
Bronwen.
Auntie Bronwen is one of those people who remove your plate
the instant you’ve eaten everything on it. I don’t mind – she’s doing me a
favour if it’s the cake plate, but not being able to have a second helping of
something that really tastes good isn’t very nice. In our house we all eat until
we’ve had enough.
Mama says it’s all to do with Bronwen’s past. Food is rationed
and doled out because that’s how it was in the asylum and that’s how it was
when she was keeping house for the vicar. And that’s how it stays all her life.
Vicars don’t earn much, but this is not a disadvantage if you are mean by
nature and parsimonious by preference. Apart from which, Auntie Bronwen was good
with money. In her establishment the Sunday joint should be called the
Sunday-to-Wednesday joint. A sliver of roast at Sunday dinner, another sliver
with the fried vegetables on a Monday, a sliver with bits of lettuce, tomato
and slivers of cucumber on a Tuesday, and shepherd’s pie on a Wednesday. The
rest of the week was also pre-programmed. On Thursdays there was liver and
bacon, Friday was fish day and Saturday was anyone’s guess.
“And when you’ve finished there’s the ironing to do.”
Forgive me for what happened then, which served its purpose,
however. It’s sometimes useful to have a subconscious.
The ironing board was set up and the electric iron plugged
in. A basket of wrinkled table and other linen appeared as if from nowhere. On
top of the pile there were a few hankies and blouses.
“I expect you’ll manage that while I finish in the garden,”
she said with a hint of friendship in her voice which can only have come from
her wish to coax rather than coerce me into doing that particular chore. After
all, she didn’t want me running home telling tales of child labour.
She left me struggling to flatten a tea towel while she saw
to the compost. The kitchen was blank and immaculate. No sign of supper. I was
glad I had had a second lot of chips on the bus. The cake on offer had been in short
supply and almondy, so it did not count as nourishment.
I laid the white, silky blouse on the ironing board and
looked at it scathingly. White as driven snow, I thought to myself. Like Snow
White’s skin. Not a blemish. The iron ticked the way it does when the metal
starts to react to maximum heat. I glanced out of the window. Auntie Bronwen
was nowhere to be seen. I lifted the iron from its stand and placed it
carefully on the centre front of the blouse. Then I felt this sudden call of
nature and hurried to attend to it.
The next thing that happened was a blood-curdling scream.
I washed my hands slowly.
“What have you done to my best blouse?” Auntie Bronwen was
shouting.
I sauntered back into the kitchen.
“Look at this, you awful girl!”
I looked.
She was holding the blouse up. I could see her floral overall
through the hole.
“I thought the iron was off,” I lied.
“Well, it wasn’t and this blouse is ruined,” she whined.
“And God saw you. God sees everything.”
I didn’t apologize. Why should I? She never apologized for
any of the dreadful things she did.
“Go to bed,” she commanded.
“It’s only seven o’clock and I haven’t had any supper yet.”
“And you’re not getting any, either.”
Surely God must have seen that she was starving an innocent
child.
Next morning I phoned Dada from the phone box on the way to
the bus. Then I went back to my Aunt’s house and said I felt ill. That way I
could get to my room and pack my clothes.
Dada came to collect me that very day. I didn’t go there
again for several years.
As far as I was concerned never would have been too soon.
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