Uncomfortable

The trouble with wanting to do something like this is that at some stage you need to find a way to start.

My parents weren’t terribly good with children and I have one sister who is 4 years older than myself, and bless her she had to become ‘little mum’ through most of my childhood, even though we hated each other half the time.

My mum, Sylvia, was born with a hole in the heart, which in the 1940’s was a permanent death threat. She was told she couldn’t do this, or couldn’t do that because if she did, she would die. Also, so I am told, they didn’t particularly have kids wards back then, so every time she was in hospital she was in a bed in the middle of the women’s ward. No curtains, no privacy, teams of doctors and students would surround her bed and basically strip her to the waist to get a good view of her, no asking the child whether she minded because children don’t have opinions do they, and it certainly wouldn’t scar her for life would it, stiff upper lip and all that.

She had so much wrong with her, and was so used to the attention, that she was an odd mix of real illness, hypochondria, Eeyore like pessimism, a desire to be constantly considered but also to not be centre of attention, culminating in long term depression and sadness that her life wasn’t what she wanted it to be. It didn’t stop her passing the 11+ and going to Grammar school, or winning prizes for being bright, but it did kill her self-confidence and stopped her from learning how to interact with other people comfortably.

I’ve seen pictures of her from the late 50’s and early 60’s and whilst she was painfully thin, she was quite a pretty girl. Petite and pointy with a sparkle in her eye and a slight curve to the lips, signalling the wit and intelligence lurking within. Her childhood was not a brilliantly happy one and her Mum rarely let her off her leash, of course she also grew up in that wonderful age of Male dominance where only boys were meant to succeed, so she was never expected to achieve great things.

One of the memories she shared with me was of walking into a room, as a very small child unable to sleep and searching for some comfort, and finding her Father, Jim, down on his knees begging his wife for his conjugal rights. Her Mother was lashing out and telling him that it was all his fault that God had given them a weak and sickly child and she would never lay with him again. We will never know exactly what he did, but several guesses could be made, and they stayed together until the bitter end.

As a family, whilst Jim worked in various jobs, his wife Lil ran a Fleetwood guest house. Small, wide and tough as old boots, Lil ruled the household with a fist of iron. Everything was done to cater to the guests, Jim and their son Mel. Sylvia becoming an unpaid maid when not at school and desperate to escape the restrictions that surrounded her.

At some point in about 1961 she came across a drunken airman who’d fallen into a hole in the road, she helped him out and sobered him up. They went out dancing and supposedly fell in love. It’s hard to tell because by the time I came along the love was distinctly debatable. It’s possible that she was actively looking for an alternative to the young man Lil had in mind, and my Dad was a lonely young man who just wanted to be looked after.

They probably got along so well because he was just as screwed up as she, his upbringing being a thing of wonder, or perhaps just wander. His Mum was one of five sisters who entertained during the second world war as ‘The Dolly Sisters’ until they were all evacuated out of London to an Airfield in Rye, where they lived in a Nissen Hut at the end of a runway. Mike was a mere toddler at the time and lived with the sisters and their families for several years before his Dad returned and moved them all.

His Dad was a whole different story, he wasn’t in the forces during the war, stayed in London, and made quite a bit of money; only one thing springs to mind, and that is ‘Spiv’. Who knows? Nobody ever talked about it but he had a lot of ‘connections’ and whilst not rich, he was quite well off.

Always on the lookout for the next big thing, his Dad invested in…drum roll please…. an Ostrich farm in South Africa. So, out he goes with the whole family, a wife and by now 3 sons, and cue lots of pictures of old colonial style tea parties and smiling, well dressed, white people surrounding by workers, drivers and serving staff.

They stayed out there for a few years, moving around until they finally settled in Rhodesia. Over the years they travelled back to the UK several times, most of them spending time with the Dolly sisters but his Dad had a London office that he preferred. In 1953 the family took their final journey together back out to Rhodesia, accompanied strangely enough by his dad’s secretary, only a few years older than his eldest son and half his own age, and if you look at the returning journey he and his secretary travelled alone. Yes, you guessed it, he left his wife and sons behind to travel home on their own. He didn’t leave them much in the way of funds, so the ship they took was slow, the boys were sad, and his wife spent most of the journey a little bit drunk. Who can blame her?

When they arrived back in England there was no sign of his Father, so they all went to live with his mum’s sisters again, who took them in and raised the boys as if they were their own, his own mother never really recovered from it all. She worked in several menial jobs to help support them, before meeting someone and becoming a Pub landlady. She died of cancer in her early 50’s. Sadly her three sons’ relationships with her, their father and each other suffered greatly through all of this. The middle brother, who suffered from Asthma had an attack that killed him at only 19 years old, the youngest son retreating into the 1970’s of self-medication, flower power and communal living, and Mike, at only 15 years old, had already joined the Royal Air Force as a Boy Entrant, he never came back to support his younger brother after he lost his sibling and later his Mother. The two brothers lost touch and didn’t get back together for many years.   By the time Mike met Sylvia, at only 20 years old, he had already served in Aden and Kenya, seen a few sights better forgotten and lived through some ‘hairy’ moments.

Lil, whilst unhappy with the relationship, took over the wedding arrangements and making sure everything that was expected of a wedding was covered whether the bride and groom wanted it or not. The wedding reception was the most cringeworthy affair, attended by all of Lil’s friends, and some of Mike’s family, travelling hundreds of miles, to be bystanders at a Fleetwood guest house landlady’s idea of a perfect finger buffet. In an age that predates modern means of communication, the bride and groom left without a word before the debacle of a reception was over. Turning up several days later back at the home of one of Mike’s Aunts. Needless to say, Lil did not speak to them for quite some time.

They were wholly unsuited to each other; Mike needed a mother figure but bubbly and fun to bring him out of himself. Sylvia needed a studious man who would listen to her opinions and understand her intelligence. What they got was a relationship built on not discussing anything and a lot of assumptions. Him playing the big man role, head of the house and uncomfortable with it, Sylvia going back to being the silent maid doing his bidding and, not so quietly, seething about never being listened to.

Not having any experience, and not discussing things, sex was a case of him climbing on top and doing it while she just lay there and took it, again with simmering resentment. They never talked about contraception, both assuming that the other wanted children and not discussing what this would mean to their lives and the fact that they much preferred having a dog. Within a year Sylvia was pregnant, once again all the doctors told her that she would die if she tried to have children, but there was no legal way to change the fact, so she had to see it through. Yet again she found herself a focus of attention for the medical profession, already having had pioneering heart surgery she was now to have a ‘miracle’ baby.

Sheryl was born prematurely weighing only 2.2lbs, a tiny dot of a thing who was pictured in the local papers being held in her Grandfather’s large hand. A small miracle, born to parents without a clue, who didn’t discuss anything and living on an RAF camp, miles from any family support. Sylvia struggled to care for herself, this tiny person relying on her and a husband who, with true old fashioned values, failed to help her.  At first, she was pleased when he was posted to Livingstone, until she realised that he was only the advance party and she was expected to join him within a couple of months. He left one Winter morning with nothing but his Kit bag, telling her he would see her soon.

Sylvia had flight tickets and a departure point, she had no address for when they arrived and no idea what she was heading out to. So, there she was on a cold and icy February day, surrounded by every bit of kiddy paraphernalia she could think of, a couple of suitcases and some carry-on bags. Everything was safely loaded away, and they began the nerve wracking journey.

Sheryl cried, from the moment they got on the plane until they stopped to refuel, the aircraft was 80% male occupants and a few rather snooty officers’ wives, none of whom offered to help this tired young woman and her screaming 8 month old infant.

Everyone disembarked to stretch their legs while refuelling took place, a few of the passengers had their luggage with them and were heading off to a small airport building. Thinking that this was either the final destination or a stop-over Sylvia followed the people who seemed to know what they were doing. She finally managed to get her baby changed, fed and napping when she realised that the aircraft, and all of her luggage, was taxiing away.

Finding herself on a strange North African airfield, with a quickly dwindling supply of nappies, exhausted, dirty and confused, she had a little cry, Sheryl joining in for good measure. She was found sitting on the ground by one of the friendlier Officer’s wives, who finally took her under her wing and made all the necessary arrangements to send her on to Livingstone. By the time she arrived Sylvia was so livid with Mike, it was all his fault, he had given inadequate instructions, he had left her to bring everything, he had pleased himself as per usual. He was quite lost to be frank; it hadn’t occurred to him that she wouldn’t have known what to do, asked questions and followed orders. This was absolutely typical of their long term relationship, they never really learnt.

They spent just over 2 years at RAF Livingstone, Sheryl growing up playing with scorpions, and Sylvia trying to become comfortable with having, instead of being, ‘staff’. All the time their relationship continued along the same lines, the only time they really communicated well was when they had pets. Over the next 3 years Sylvia became pregnant 4 times, each time losing the little boys as miscarriages or one still birth. In 1967, after they returned to the UK, they finally had one more child, Me.    

There aren’t many photos of me as a small child, and certainly not on my own but I look back on the first photos of me and I was a monster of a baby, rolls of squidgy pale pudge down my stumpy little legs, it’s a wonder anyone could lift me. Apparently, according to my Mum, she couldn’t cope with a baby and a 4 year old, so she weened me at 6 months old. I was fully eating solid food by the time I was 1, at which point my RAF family moved to Germany where my Father was introduced to Coca Cola for the first time, and various other items of never before seen ‘junk’ food, in the American PX.

According to my early medical records I was taken to the camp doctor at 17 months old, showing signs of liver spots inside my mouth and black hairs growing on my tongue. Several tests were carried out before discovering that my father’s addiction to Cola was a family trait and I had been given bottles of the stuff every day. Ah the 60’s and the food naivety. I had my first filling at 22 months and grew up with permanently yellow stained teeth thanks to that little treat. It’s no wonder I have had a lifelong fear of dentists, can you imagine what they had to do to give fillings to a child that young? In the late 60’s and most of the 70’s they used metal clamps to hold your mouth open, sometimes ripping the crease of your lips by locking them open so far that all you could do was gag and cry. I have memories of being held down by two people and having my head strapped to the bed by rubber smelling straps.

It’s a wonder my sister and I made it through the early years, the dogs were more likely to be well fed than us, money was tight, but we always had pets. Our Mum had a thousand ways with mince and thankfully knew how to make a good stew. Mike on the other hand rarely cooked, but if he did it was either food we loved, choc ice and chips, or food we hated, such as curry with far too much chilli for children. Sylvia had to follow Mike around wherever he was posted, so she took what work was available wherever they ended up, sometimes making clothes or soft toys at night, to make the money go further. I think if she hadn’t been married to the world’s biggest atheist, she would have been a stalwart of any church women’s group. As it was, she volunteered for a lot of charity organisations and ended up as a Brownie leader at one point.

Unfortunately, when Mike was away Sylvia would find disciplining children too difficult, she would spend the whole time while he was on detachments, making lists of transgressions to relay to him when he returned. Always making the same threat of ‘wait till your Dad comes home’, she would chuck the list under his nose as soon as he came in the door, and we would get a hiding before bedtime. Mike would probably have been a better person without Sylvia, but while we were young, he was quick to temper and violent in nature, moving from the back of his hand to using shoes and belts as we got older.

Don’t get me wrong, half the time we absolutely loved him, well them both really, but she was weak, and he was bitter, together they were an awful mix.

We moved so often as children it changed how we relate to people, long before mobile phones and social media, every time we moved, we lost our friends and all that we knew about surroundings, being comfortable and ‘part of something’. By the time I was 12 I had moved home 8 times, and apart from Kindergarten in Germany I never started a school in the first year with my peers, sometimes mid-year or part way through a term. Friendships were hard, always someone on the periphery and not quite fitting in.

Our parents had an incredibly odd way of moving, which would be frowned upon these days. They wanted a peaceful life, so they never told us we were moving, they would palm us off on Sylvia’s parents for a few weeks in the Summer, and when they collected us, we would return to a completely different home. Nothing was ever really said, because if we complained we would just get the belt.

Finally, they purchased their own home together, settling into a building that probably should have been condemned but was dirt cheap, and they got council grants to do it up. For a whole year we were only able to live upstairs while the whole ground floor was dug out and foundations put in. They botched so much about that house, never enough money to do what they wanted and resorting to cowboy cheap builders with disastrous results. A classic was when Dad wanted some plug sockets upstairs, he drilled a hole through the ceiling in the kitchen, passed an extension lead through it and plugged it in downstairs.

Sheryl was made to change school halfway through her final year, she didn’t stand a chance with her exams, but she fought through and went on to do a college course. I on the other hand spent a lot of my time trying to fit in and make friends, and doing very little schoolwork.    Also, to avoid being at home, I joined everything! and got a job at 13 years old. I started working at a greengrocer and lasted one winter before moving across the road to be a shop assistant in the local newsagent and grocers. I tried windsurfing, ATC, GVC, Archery, canoeing, along with babysitting.

Every Summer, and some other school holidays, we were sent to stay with Sylvia’s parents, Lil & Jim, up on the North West coast. Over the years Jim had mellowed and settled into a routine of being out a lot, and doing as Lil said when he came back. Proving the mirroring behaviour of his own daughter as Lil spent much time telling us that she would report on our behaviour to our Grandfather when he came home. Lil however, had no qualms about beating a 4 year old with a stick if deemed to have transgressed. Sheryl always took the brunt of this, being the oldest, even though over the years she turned out to be half the size of her sister.

Lil was twisted, and bitter and vicious, and possibly slightly demented; one minute splashing with the children and making them laugh, the next slapping their legs until they cried, for splashing. We absolutely hated going there.

When we were not sent away during holidays, we were locked in. We were given a long list of jobs to do and our parents continued to work, while we cooked, cleaned, washed and ironed until they returned. At this point there were so many pets in the house the stench was overwhelming, and the house was still a crumbling pile, never fully modernised or nicely decorated. We hardly ever brought friends home and were not only embarrassed about what we had and had not, but feared what our parents would be like if we did. 

When Sheryl turned 16, our parent sat us down and discussed that instead of spending money each Christmas on getting things for each other, that we probably didn’t want or need, we should buy ourselves a present that Christmas, wrap it up and when we unwrap it, it would be a surprise for everyone else. To be honest we didn’t really bother with Christmas much after that.

It wasn’t all terrible, Mike’s maternal family were still around and were absolutely wonderful. The family home of one of the sisters was in Reading, and we adored going there. They were always amazingly loving and happy, and their home radiated that love whenever we went. If only we could have stayed there all the time.

As soon as Sheryl was old enough, she left home and refused to go back, she had always stood her ground and argued back, with all of the consequences that brought. I, being a peacemaker and non-confrontational, would appease and seek to please or avoid. We had argued like cat and dog for years, if anyone had asked, I do not doubt that both us would have said we hated the other, but Sheryl looked after me, she and I did a lot together and we looked out for each other in our different ways. She faced into the wind and I deflected it, jollying people along to make sure no harm was done.

When she left, I was still a teenager, I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life. For the first time I refused to go to Lil’s because I couldn’t face going on my own. I worked as hard as I could at multiple jobs, 3 nights a week, all day Saturday and from 5AM sorting papers on a Sunday morning, to earn enough money to go to a children’s camp on my own. For the two remaining years that I would have had to go alone to Lil’s I continued to do this, doing everything I could to avoid most of my family. 

My sister always thought that I was our parents’ favourite because she was asked to compare herself to me all the time, the truth is that they said the same to me, “your sister is petite, she’s confident, she’s not fat”.  Dad’s favourite phrase was to tell my sister and myself that we were cretins. This was beaten by my mother not only telling me at the age of 13, that she and Dad had never wanted children but hadn’t discussed it so here we were, also the one that still sticks with me to this day, my own mother told me “Face it, you will never be pretty let alone beautiful, so aim for striking”.

When Sheryl left, I was still working at the newsagents where we sold sweets and cigarettes, amongst general grocery items and essentials for the neighbourhood. I was hard working and sensible, so I was given a lot of responsibility for a teenager. On my very long walk to and from school I had to pass a certain group of children who held a lot of power locally, they smoked, they drank, they beat up smaller kids and had no qualms about hurting or touching up a few girls as they passed. There were quite a few fraught moments until, and I forget exactly how it happened, I stopped one day and rather than getting upset or running away I blagged a ciggie and started smoking with them. From that moment I was one of them and they left me alone, but I stole sweets and cigarettes both for them and myself for several years. I am not proud of it, but temper it with necessity, for acceptance, to avoid hurt, and to feed my loneliness with a growing sugar addiction, and cigarettes to buy safe passage.

When it came to choosing subjects at school, all of which I made no effort to work at, I had a dream of becoming a speech therapist, but my Dad decided that the future was in technology and to avoid the same fate as him and end up broke he chose for me, 2 sciences, tech drawing, technology and I was permitted to take Art. The only thing I was fairly good at was Art so I took an early O level in Design at 15 years old and Art at 16, both of which I passed with good grades, I received a reasonable mark in Maths and English and failed miserably at everything else.  I was not in his good books for quite some time after that, (Cretin), but I was not permitted to stay on and do retakes, and obviously couldn’t stay for A levels.  Bearing in mind that less than 14% of school leavers went on to University back then, and over 70% of those that did were male, there really wasn’t going to be much chance of further education for me. So, I did the other thing my Dad always wanted us to do and joined the Royal Air Force. I had to spend a year kicking around doing whatever work I could get, which at 16 was quite difficult. I wrote a basic CV and trawled the High Street until someone offered me a post at a photography shop, where I stayed until I could join up.