Call Her Thursday

CHAPTER 1

PART 1

Aunty Phil

I’d like to tell you about my Aunty Phil. Aunty Phil was an unsung hero in my eyes. She was totally selfless. I loved her so much. Everyone ought to have an Aunty Phil—it should be law.

I remember being at her house when I was quite young—maybe when my mother had the twins, whatever? I was taken up to Aunty Phil’s and pampered. She did every thing for me: warmed my socks, chatted to me, asked me what I’d like to eat. She coddled me. Oh what bliss! She was married to Bill and they had two children. Audrey was the eldest and was in her teens when I stayed there. I thought she was beautiful, and she was. Then there was Dennis, a young lad who played snap with me, letting me look at the pictures on the cards. He had curly hair and looked like his mum. I was very happy to be staying there. Aunty Phil would get my breakfast boiled eggs with soldiers. She would say, ‘Come on, eat your eggy butt-butt!’ I don’t think it worried me at all and I did eat it. I love it to this day. However when I asked for it by that name at home, I thought my mother was going to have a blue fit. So another lesson I learnt the hard way was, never, never talk baby-talk.

So it was that I would run to my Aunty Phil’s for my comforts even as a grown up. I would like you to have tasted her lovely toasted teacakes on a cold day. I’d walk up to her house, where she would warm my hands and sit me by the fire; and she would always ask me if Id like a toasted teacake. She must have kept them in for me, as she never failed to provide me with them.

Sitting by the fire, beautifully clean and tidy, sat an old lady. She was very small in height, quite round, and she wore small round glasses. Her hair was snow white and straight, quite short with a side parting. She was Aunty Phil’s mother, although I would refer to her as Granny Homburg. I don’t think she ever spoke to me. A clue is in her name: she was German by birth. Aunty Phil kept her beautifully; I can see her now, combing Granny’s hair, which felt like silk. It fell just on to her shoulders. Never once did she complain.

So why did my Aunty Phil have so much to bear? My mother had a lot of respect for her and she was a frequent visitor. Both of them attended the Spiritualist Church, where they’d met and become very good friends. As I’ve already mentioned, I was taken care of by Aunty Phil for a time. I’m thinking—maybe it was when my mother lost the twins. As a child, things happen and you pick up on the feeling around you, but have no idea what has happened. There came such a time. My mother suddenly became upset. Lots of tears and Aunty Phil’s name kept cropping up; also ‘Dennis’ was mentioned. Now, I was born in the era when children were seen and not heard, but I must have been around ten years of age. My Aunty hadn’t been down for what seemed like an age. And I finally gleaned that Dennis was dead. His photo appeared in the paper and I read it. Mother and Dad were upset. I was devastated. I kept reading the paper:

A young man called Dennis Bell had ridden to an elderly lady’s house, doing gardening for her. When he was riding home, something flew into his eyes causing him to shake his head. Now, he’d tied his spade to his crossbar, which stopped his handlebars from turning, which caused him to run into a lamppost. He died a few hours later in the Leicester Royal Infirmary aged sixteen years old. They were devastated. Aunty Phil and Uncle Bill were with Dennis when he passed away. Why?

The months after were terrible for the family to cope with. To be honest, I don’t think they ever got over it—ever. A few months afterwards, Audrey was admitted to the towers hospital. Having had some personal problems of her own to deal with, the death of her brother tipped her over the edge, So Aunty Phil then had another problem, going to the hospital every day via two buses. She had her mother to take care of, she had her husband to look after, she walked dogs for the elderly who couldn’t cope, and she had Tess to take for walks. Tess was a lovely Airedale dog. And she had me to cope with. And she did it all with such dignity. Not ever did she complain. She did cry sometimes, for Dennis, and my mother was a great comfort to her. After all, she had lost four children herself, and she felt her grief. She carried on doing her kind deeds and Dennis’s photo stayed on the sideboard with his metalwork treasures he’d made at school. She was my rock. She was and always will be MY Aunty Phil. Granny Homburg lived to be in her nineties and Uncle Bill’s mum, who also came to live with them, was well into her eighties. I took my baby to show her and she talked to her as she had spoken to me, yes, baby-talk (don’t tell my mother!)

I salute you, Aunty Phil and Thank you. You were simply the best.

PART 2

Time for a Tonsillectomy

During my third and fourth year I was a sickly child: throat infections, anemia, conjunctivitis, you name it I had it. Some time during that era my mother had carried and lost twins, so it wasn’t an easy time for her—far from it. Dad had been away for twelve months; the war was on. I have every sympathy for her.

Just a cuddle away was a little girl who would have loved her so much. I can remember being in my cot downstairs and a nurse coming in and putting a tube down my very painful throat. She was feeding me. I also remember my dad piggybacking me down the stairs and my eyes were glued together with conjunctivitis. I can feel it now, coming down, knowing there was a sloping wall above the treads and my head sinking as low as it could, holding on tight. Ian’s cot had been taken downstairs to keep me in, while the nurse was in and out. It was in the back room near the fireplace and I had to wait to have my eyes unglued.

Then the memory goes to my eldest brother giving me a piggyback. We’d been on a bus and were walking along when my eldest brother stopped and showed me a ‘weather house’. It was cute, never to be forgotten: Darby and Joan. He came out when it was raining and she came out for the sunshine. What an adventure! Then we turned into a church-type building where the kitchen had been made into an operating table and the large room was the ward. I was undressed, put into my nightgown, then left. There were a lot of us, some crying, some—like me—trying to get our bearings. A doctor came round and examined us, said something to the nurse and then moved on. That was how it was in the early forties: nobody told you a damn thing. A large trolley came and off went child Number One. Then Number Two. Some cried, some screamed and I needed the toilet. They came to my bed, drew curtains around me, produced a dish of jelly and ice cream then went off, leaving me to eat it. Why on earth did they cry? This was good. I’d seen Darby and Joan, I’d had a bath and been put into my new pajamas—and I’d got jelly and ice cream! All in my own little space.

Later, Mother arrived and she and my eldest brother took me home. Nothing to it. I didn’t know what they had done to the jelly but some of the kids looked really poorly. Anyway, off we went and, to top it all, when I got home the neighbors were putting flags up everywhere, getting the avenue ready for the ending-of-the-war celebrations. Oh! More jelly and ice cream and cakes. I was allowed in the garden to watch the bunting being put up around the avenue Mr. Saunders was knocking flags into a pole near the holly bush; he snatched my flag out of my hand, so I cried. ‘He’s got my flag!’ To which he replied, ‘Shut up, you greedy bugger!’ I was five, I’d just had my tonsils out (at least, I thought I had). Maybe—if he’d asked?—maybe not; it was my flag, after all, and I didn’t get another to wave.

The following days were full of excitement. I never forgave Mr. Saunders but I did have a lovely feast. When the party began there was a huge table down the avenue; people had their radios on high, leaving their windows and doors open to make music for us all, I suspect, Vera Lynn being popular. I couldn’t have told you her name then, but after years of my dad’s rendering of The White Cliffs of Dover, which he would sing along with You Are My Sunshine (every time he washed the pots he would sing his head off), eventually I knew Vera and lots of the oldies. The tables were laden with sandwiches, cakes, everything the ladies could find. Food was still on ration but they did us proud. I suspect there were probably a few drops of alcohol too. But that would be later, when we had gone to bed. Everyone was happy.

We had one soldier still over in the battlefield; his nickname was Bick and he lived next door to my bully friend’s brother. He was the eldest son and both he and Bun, his brother, were soldiers and served abroad. We didn’t know then that Bic would never come home. A few weeks later his truck was blown to pieces as he was helping clear up, trying to leave it reasonably safe. His truck went over a land mine. It was a dreadful day when the telegraph boy called next door. Surely, the war was over?—it could only mean he was on his way home?

It was a very hot day. I remember being in the back garden with the French doors open when Mrs. Earl screamed and screamed. The earth stood still a while for everyone. Pat came out to the fence to tell my mother the news. The tears flowed, one mother grieving for another, knowing the sense of loss that losing a child causes, something my mother knew only too well. It was a dreadful time and everyone grieved. That’s how it was then back in 1945; people really cared.

Many weeks later, I was taken to see Derby and Joan once again; only this time I too went on the trolley. I had a swimming hat on my head with my hair tucked in. ‘This is new,’ I thought. I was taken into the kitchen and a man with a green hat, green apron and green wellies—I know it was green ’cos it’s my favorite color—put a black rubber thing over my mouth. It looked like a sink plunger. Anyhow, I was told to breathe. It smelt dreadful and I felt afraid but I went off to sleep.

Coming round—I don’t know when—felt dreadful. An enamel bowl was placed by my bed and every now and then a lady dressed like a nurse would come and look over me before moving to the next person. There was a little girl the other side of the room who cried and cried before the op—and she was crying after too. And the fuss the nurses made of her! When I cried, I was told to shush. We were offered jelly and ice cream again, but not many of us ate it—throats too sore. Eventually we were toileted and covered up to go to sleep. During the night I woke up being sick; well, not sick, it was blood and I was scared. So I cried. I needed the toilet. The night sister—may she rot in hell!—came over to my bed, smacked me hard and sent me off to the toilet (it was church rooms and in the good old days the toilets were outside). I was five years old, I was choking on the blood coming from my throat—and she smacked my bottom because it had gone all over the bed!

I was so glad to see my brother the next day when they came to fetch me. I hoped I’d never come to have my tonsils out again. It was so much nicer the first time. Later, I was told that the first time my temperature had been so high they couldn’t operate. I don’t think I cared now whether Darby or Joan was in or out. Never was I so glad to be home. The end of the war, but it certainly wasn’t mine.

PS. I’m going to have to forgive that nurse some time. But not just now—later, perhaps

PART 3

My New Shoes

I was about five years old when my cousin Peter came to stay for a few days. He was in the RAF and looked handsome in his uniform. His mother was my Aunty Nance who had recently passed away. He came to show his Aunty Beatty his uniform (he would, wouldn’t he, having just lost his mum). Well the arrival of Peter gave my mother an excuse: we’d go out for the day. Belvoir Castle was chosen. And what an adventure that turned out to be (I don’t think!)

Maybe I was evil or the devil incarnate. As sure as I sit here typing this letter, I never meant to spoil the day. But I did, I confess I did . . .

So, we were to go on this journey, my mother and baby brother and my cousin. My mother said we couldn’t go until she’d bought me some new shoes. Oh what joy! We walked a long way down Narborough Road—almost half the length of it. We could have caught a bus, but it was cheaper to walk and she had to get me some new shoes. Corrigan’s Shoe Shop—don’t you remember the name? Well, before we went into the shop we looked into the window and guess what, there were the most, the prettiest shoes in all the world. A lovely creamy beige, they were a sandal-type shoe—bar across, one button. But the best bit: there over the front of the shoes were lovely red flower-like inserts. Never, never had shoes like those been seen by me before. I bided my time. Experience told me not to say I liked anything, for as sure as God made little acorns I would never have been allowed to have them.

It was a man that served us. My mother told him what was required and gave him my shoe size and off he went. He brought back a few boxes and started to show Mother each one’s merits. Plus price. I tried on some sandals and some lace ups. Well, you’ll never guess! He had brought my favorite shoes! Out they came, out of the box. I remember feeling quite sick with excitement. Now, my lovely creamy beige with the red pattern—I couldn’t help but smile. Oh they were lovely!

However, they pinched a bit. In fact, quite a bit. But I knew I couldn’t have them if I told. So I didn’t and my mother asked me over and over if they fitted OK and I kept nodding my head. So she paid for them, put my old ones into the box and we returned whence we came. Back to the house. At this point, I should have said, ‘My shoes are hurting me,’ but I didn’t.

Before we set off for Belvoir Castle, I wanted to show my Dad my new shoes. He was asleep, having been on night duty. So I went up the stairs and woke him up. He wasn’t as thrilled about my shoes as I was, but he did agree they were very nice. And then it was that my new shoes with their shiny soles sent me head over heels down the stairs. I was unconscious. I don’t know how long we were, sorting me out. It really wasn’t a good day.

When they were sure I’d cope, and my nose had stopped bleeding, we set out for the trip to Belvoir Castle. I really can’t remember how long I put up with the pain. I do know we had two bus journeys to get to the castle, by which time my feet were very swollen and I couldn’t walk at all. Oh boy, did I get told off, and rightly so. I had blisters and I remember the swollen part of my foot coming up through the sandal bar strap. I had no comprehension of the cost: the shoes, all the food for the picnic, the bus fares. And the worst thing: spoiling a day that meant so much for my cousin and my mother. Why oh why hadn’t I told them in the shop? He would have given me a bigger size. My only excuse is that I thought they were the only pair like it. My cousin had to piggyback me everywhere, all around the Castle grounds. I quite liked that, mind you, but it did spoil my and every one’s day. The very worst thing in all the world was my mother giving my beautiful shoes to the girl next door . . .

And (not quite as morally painful) I’d broken my nose in the fall down the stairs. I had to live with that until, as grandmother to five grandchildren, I was fifty-three. Then my second in line, Johanne, mended my broken nose with a blow to it with a Club Star Wars toy. It had a very heavy head on it and, whilst wrestling this from my grandson James, Johanne was pulling and James let go. The club hit me on the side of my nose. The pain was horrific, my nose bled, I felt I was blacking out. But on the point of impact there was a crack and, by jingo, a few weeks later the bruises had gone and so had the crack I’d lived with for about fifty years. It was instant cosmetic surgery—though not to be recommended as it could have killed me had it hit me anywhere else. But it didn’t. I do get nose bleeds at the slightest knock, but my glasses now sit properly on my nose and no need to slant my head on one side when having my photo taken.

And it all started with my oh-so-pretty shoes.

PART 4

First Touch With Death

I was about five and a half years old when I was initiated into the grown-up world by watching my aunty suffering in her last days. My Aunty Nance was my mother’s sister and as they were the youngest girls they had a close relationship. I can’t say I remember her visits to our house or anything, except for the last time I saw her. She was a very important aunt as she actually loved me (there’s a first!). Apparently when she visited she liked to spoil me. She loved my hair when it eventually grew, curly and a rich brown colour. Couple that with my large, odd eyes—one more brown and the other blueish—and I was quite an oddball. This is all hearsay because, in the confusion of the war with people coming and going, it was hard to place my aunty. She was a very special lady. She was in the Red Cross and attached to the Bolsover First aid post when war broke out. After twelve months there she volunteered and was accepted for service in London during the blitz. She also served in other towns during the air raids, and continued her profession as a nurse until her last illness. My Aunty Nance had a busy life and was a very respected lady.

My mother was crying a lot. I found myself sitting in a train, just me and Mother. Was I going back to Chesterfield? Oh dear! I had no idea what was to follow. We didn’t go to Chesterfield but to Bolsover, where I found myself in a large house. Yes, I know that at the age of five everything looks larger than life but this was very large compared to our house. It was quite dark. The smell was like my mother’s room after she had had my brother. I remember sounds of tin hitting tin now I realize it would be items dropping into the kidney shaped enamel dish and the quiet. Even though my mother never stopped crying, she did it quietly. I still recall how afraid I was and how bewildered. I also knew better than to ask questions, so I sat—and sat. My cousin spoke to me when she passed through the kitchen. There was a nurse, then my mother, in and out. I was given some sandwiches and a cup of milk. Then taken to a strange room and put into a strange bed, nobody telling me anything.

So it was that I played my favorite game of dying. I’d pretend I was dead, then I would go under the covers and lie still and everyone would stand around me and cry. They would make pretty flowers and they would cry so much! The quilt made a wonderful earth mould. Whatever put this idea into my head? There was no television, I’d never been to the pictures, so where? I think I know.

The next morning I was taken downstairs, washed and dressed and given breakfast. Today I was going to see my Aunty Nance. Everyone around the house was really down. During the night I awoke to screams, once then again. My mother had stayed by her sister side, so I hadn’t anyone to ask. Later that morning my mother came and took my hand. She said I was to behave, Aunty Nance wanted to see me. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my dress. I can remember the fear to this day as I was walked into the room and up to the bed. I tried to turn my head away because I didn’t know this lady. One side of her head swelled over her eyes. She couldn’t see. They had tied her to the bed to stop her falling out and one of her arms was under the bandage that held her down. I felt sick as her free arm came over the side of the bed, while my mother pushed me closer. ‘Where’s my baby?’ she kept repeating, as her waxen hand felt my face then my hair. ‘Where’s her hair?’ My aunt was very distressed when my mother tried to explain they had had to cut it off because I’d caught nits (yes, Winifred Mundy, I’ve never forgotten, I’ve still got my eye on you. Be afraid, be very afraid!) My sister with great delight had chopped my hair off, leaving a tuft in the nape of my neck. My aunt took her arm away and I had to kiss her good bye. Later that day my mother and I made our way back home. A telegram arrived: my aunt had passed away soon after we left. I’ve never forgotten it.

We had a fireplace in the bedroom and on the mantle was a small photo of a little boy—a beautiful little boy. His name was George Kenneth Padley, my parents’ first-born child who had died of meningitis aged two years and eleven months. My mother had had a baby girl who had also died. So playing at dying was a way of being loved, because my mother loved George Kenneth Padley till her dying day. Maybe she would love me if I were just a picture on the mantle . . .

PART 5

The Medium

My life in between the dramas was spent either sitting staring at the pictures on the wall, or playing schools or offices. Both games were the same, as I’d no idea what either was. I’d also heard my mother’s friends talking. My other life was spent in the Spiritualist Church. Visits were often and were real outings for me, as I felt safe; depending on what message my mother had received, for a few days they gave me an idea of my safety. My mother usually received a message from my brother who, bless him, would tell her he was safe and happy. Sometimes she would contact my grandmother, and also my Aunty Nance. All this was positive and helped her very much.

Visits I had from the medium were usually about a pica ninny who was causing me to be a little mischievous. How would I dare! She also blotted my books. So that was it. I wasn’t putting too much ink on my nib; it was this little person! I can remember how important I felt. I had someone looking out for me, even though I couldn’t see her. Every time a blob of ink formed an ugly blot on my written work, I felt her presence! I also felt Mrs Greenfield’s knuckle in my back. I’m naming and shaming her because she was an evil bully and never ought to have been a teacher. My Aunty Nance had sent me a lovely desk; it was mine and, to be truthful, none of the others wanted it so it became my own sanctuary. When the clothes-horse wasn’t in use, I would set it up around my desk so I had a wall and a front window. With the walls in the corner of the room, I then had an office where I would play for hours. No book was safe from me and, yes, it was I who left ticks at the end of every line. I confess I used them all as my registers.

So it was when I had to go with my mother to her work place. At this particular time my mother worked for Counselor and Mrs Cave. They were such lovely eccentric people! After a spate of violence I wouldn’t be allowed to go to school and so I’d have to go to work with her in case the Board Man came. Well, I loved going to the Caves. They lived in a downstairs apartment and it was huge. They liked me very much. Mrs Cave showed me all around her home. Her bedroom was so large that she had a settee at the end of her bed, also huge, as were her wardrobes and her dressing table. I loved her. She would let me sit on her stool and wear her rings and necklaces and beautiful beads. There was a lovely smell every where.

She took me into the garden where there was a huge grapevine in a large glass house and she would cut me some grapes with special scissors. O was I spoilt! I would be shown the flowers and allowed to smell them and I usually ended up with a bunch. I’ve never forgotten those special times.

Now, Counselor Cave was a different kettle of fish; just as lovely, very serious, he looked liked Clifton Webb. His arms would go up and down as he spoke. He always wore a collar and tie. Sometimes when we got there he would be having breakfast which consisted of a boiled egg and toast. The table was laid with beautifully matching china and, like all good gentlemen, he had a newspaper at the table, bless him. Breakfast over, he would get ready for a day of meetings—after all, he was a counselor. They were a couple in love. When he was ready to go out they would spent a time kissing; while they were talking, he’d kiss her, she would speak, then their lips would latch, and so on. It was totally unreal to me. When he finally got through the door they would wave and off he would go in a huge black car. It was truly like being in another world and I couldn’t get enough of it.

Mrs Cave always treated me as though I was special. I would follow her around the house and she would tell me about flowers and her pretty items. One day she brought a huge book to the table. ‘Here you are, young lady, would you like to read this? I’ve had these since I was a girl.’ It was a book for young ladies, one of several editions. How lucky was I then! There were stories and topics and ladies’ fashions and factual pieces. One I remember vividly: Ladies of China. It told how, as newborn babies, they would have their feet broken and bandaged up tightly, the toes going under the foot. They would remain like this all their lives, never to be unwrapped. When the bandage was removed, allegedly the pain was too much to bear, as were the screams from the lady in question. I was fascinated. Why did this happen? Why would parents do this? With their feet treated like this, the only way they could walk was with a hobble. But this in turn made them attractive to men. The book was full of fashion pictures and tips for the refined young girl. I was quiet for hours; so much so that I was given the full set of books and took one home each visit. I couldn’t have carried two. I promoted myself to Head Teacher when one of these priceless volumes was upon my desk.

When Counselor Cave was home I was invited to play Scrabble. I’d never heard of it, let alone played it; but playing Scrabble with Counselor Cave really wasn’t a good idea as he firmly believed we should spell as we speak. He was trying to get an act about this through Parliament. He was sure he would succeed. I am the world’s worst speller (and I’ve got my eye on you, Counselor Cave!) It was impossible to play with him as every word he put down was spelt in his unique way. I would argue with him and he with me. Sadly he didn’t get the act passed through Parliament but I was very proud to have sat and played Scrabble with this man, even though he did screw my head up.

PART 6

My Little Wooden Doll

I’d nearly forgotten my doll . . . .

On browsing my favorite auction site on the Internet, I came across a wooden doll. It was just like mine. When I was three or four years old and my mother worked at the post office, someone who worked with her made me a wooden doll. Some people refer to them as peg dolls. She was ten to twelve inches high; she had black painted hair, black eyes and thin arms and legs. Neither would bend, so she had to stand up all the time or lie flat. I could cuddle her only when I wrapped her in a blanket and that way she didn’t hurt me (she was very hard). But, and this is important, she was