Tell Me Why, Mummy: A Little Boy’s Struggle to Survive. A Mother’s Shameful Secret. The Power to Forgive.. David Thomas
They were in the choir and, as my mother is always keen to point out, both were as innocent as young lambs when they married in 1966. But as far as I know, from the brief times I spend in George’s house with his family and then when I look at my Mum and Dad and me, I can already see that we don’t seem to work like a normal family – we never do things together. I spend time just with Dad and his cars and bikes, or I spend time just with Mum, who can be great fun when she wants to be.
Mum’s name before she was married to my Dad was Carol Stones and she was born in March 1945. There’s a photo of her as a little girl with her older brother Jim in a big dark wooden frame in the living room: she’s smiling straight at me, looking very sweet with a cheeky grin. Jim’s much taller, with darker hair. There are other photos of Mum: in one she’s holding her doll and looks like a mummy dolly holding her baby dolly – they’ve both got the same curly golden hair. In another photo her hair is much straighter, like pale straw, and she’s got plaits and is standing with other children in her class; in others she’s swimming in the sea; riding a donkey; walking with her dog; in yet another photo she looks like a fairy princess with a bunch of roses and silver crown – I think she’s a bridesmaid but I don’t know who the bride is.
In all these photos Mum has the same round face, chubby cheeks and mischievous look. As my Grandad, her dad, would say, ‘When she was a lass she was a smasher.’
There’s another photo in a lighter plastic frame. She’s older in this one and has turned into a strawberry-blonde teenager. She’s smiling at me again and her smile is warm and friendly. In another photo she’s a grown-up woman – I think she’s a bridesmaid again – and her hair is piled on top of her head with a light-blue ribbon the same colour as her dress and she’s wearing white shoes with pointed toes. There’s also a grey-looking photo of Mum in nurse’s uniform, only in this one she’s not smiling.
There are also photos of Mum and Dad’s wedding at the Methodist church. She’s all in white and he’s all in black. Her face is less plump in these pictures and she looks different – softer and more frail – but very happy. Dad’s grinning, like he’s just eaten the cherry on the cake.
There’s one other photo of Mum and Dad together that I love to look at. They’re at the zoo together and are both laughing like they’re having fun. Dad’s wearing his black shiny PVC Pacamac and has one arm round Mum. Tucked under his other arm is a tiny black monkey. Mum’s holding her free arm out. Perched on her elbow is a large parrot who’s gazing inquisitively at both of them. I like to think that they’ve had at least a few good times together.
Later, in my teenage years it dawns on me that when I was a child Mum was always slightly unkempt, never very well dressed; her hair a little scruffy; she wasn’t beautiful but she had good skin (and freckles) and was still attractive. By the time I turned up she had adopted a tight perm which she kept throughout her life. She never wore much make-up and, as she grew older, her dress sense seemed to disappear almost completely. But when she was happy, she had a great smile and an infectious laugh.
My mum was 23 when I was born. She never talks about her early childhood with her brother and parents, but occasionally mentions small things about her teenage years, such as how she once went on a motorbike with a boyfriend which she thought was very exciting.
As early as I can remember I visit other local houses with her and we often go for walks in the woods. She likes to show me all the flowers and we pick them together. She is warm and affectionate to me, and sociable to others. My dad is also sociable, though not in such a warm way. Mum has a good sense of humour – as long as she doesn’t feel she’s having the mickey taken out of her. She can never handle that very well.
Other people always respond to Mum. She can strike up a conversation with a lamp-post and has a way of getting people to talk about themselves quite quickly. They feel they can open up to her and she has a few solid, long-term friends. She will chat away for hours and hours about personal things – about people she knows and what’s happening in their life and their problems – and what she’s saying about them is as much a mystery to me as when Dad talks about his bikes and his engines.
But my mother’s life and personality are made up of two separate halves: she is two different people. She is loving, caring, affectionate and supportive, and can be funny, sympathetic and always keen to talk.
But she also has a dark side and when it surfaces it is a bad place to be – not just for her but also for me when I am with her. It’s not just bad, it’s dreadful. She turns into another person: nasty, spiteful, vindictive, malicious, uncaring, inconsiderate. Mummy normally never says bad words and thinks it’s dreadfully rude to fart or burp – but when she’s in the dreadful place she uses lots of bad words.
When I am very little the bad words themselves don’t mean anything to me, but the effect of them, and the way she hurls them at me – or at the walls and furniture as she slams and barges into them – is very, very frightening.
I sense this has a lot to do with my Mummy drinking because I’ve seen her drink a lot of foul-smelling liquid which I’ve found out is called brandy. She drinks it very, very quickly until she is almost asleep. Except that she’s not asleep. She’s still awake and that’s when she scares me.
The brandy on its own is bad enough but there’s worse to come. When she gets drunk she will come and find me and press her body on me. The memory of the first time my Mummy does this stays with me for the rest of my life, even though I’m still only four years old.
* * *
She has been drinking as usual and even at this early age I can sense that she’s out of control as she orders me to play with her on the kitchen lino.
Without having any idea what is really going on, or why she’s in the state she’s in, I know that she’s not the same person who walks with me in the woods and it terrifies me. As her face moves towards me I can smell the strong, acrid odour on her breath. Her movements, as she lurches across me, are clumsy and out of control. I just want this Mummy to go away and for my good Mummy to come back, but I know that isn’t going to happen when she takes my hand and places it between her legs.
She is rubbing my hand up and down, up and down, between her legs, against this soft, hairy thing that she calls her minnie. Caught in my fear, I am anxious, desperate even, to please her. I am looking for the slightest signs that I can make Mum happy, to stop the raging anger in her. I continue to rub my hand up and down her minnie until, finally, she pushes it away.
To my relief, she has calmed down and somehow I know I must have been doing the right thing: she has stopped acting strangely now and it’s me who made her feel better. I feel a strange sense of triumph, of achievement. I feel that she needs me and that I can make the bad things go away for her.
I am still frightened but I also feel proud that I have been singled out: my Mummy has asked me to play a game with her and I am the chosen one to do it.
* * *
This morning, Mum and Dad are having an argument. Dad’s often away travelling nowadays and even when he’s at home, he’s not really there. They never spend much time together and when they do, they don’t seem to be happy.
Dad never gets angry or loses his temper and this morning, right in the middle of this very bad row, he is sitting calmly in the front room drinking his coffee. I don’t know whether Mum is drunk or not but she’s very angry and she’s getting more upset by the second. She’s shrieking at Dad and throwing things and I have no idea what he’s done and I even wonder whether he does.
I wish they’d stop but I don’t think they even know I’m there. Suddenly she gets up and throws her cup of coffee all over him. He gets up without a word and walks out of the room and out of the house.
* * *
I am growing more aware of Mum’s drinking. When she drinks I can sense a huge