Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal. Toni Maguire
With my head down I would struggle through every downpour, knowing that in the morning my coat would still be damp. The water would soak through to my gym tunic and over the weeks the creases gradually disappeared until the smart confident girl I had been only a few months before had disappeared. When I looked in the mirror I saw in her place an unkempt child, whose puppy fat had melted from her bones. A child dressed in crumpled clothes with lank shoulder-length hair, a child who looked uncared for, a child whose face showed a stoic acceptance of the changes in her life.
Half-way between the school and the thatched house was a shop, which like many of the buildings scattered nearby was designed to withstand the bleak Irish weather, not to enhance the countryside. It was a squat stone building with a concrete floor and a simple wooden counter, behind which were numerous shelves. It stocked an extensive array of goods that the local farmers and their labourers needed; everything from oil for the lamps to delicious-smelling home-baked soda breads and locally cured hams.
Here women would come not just for the necessities of life, but for a brief respite from their men folk, and to enjoy a few minutes of female company. With no public transport, limited electricity and in many cases such as ours not even running water, the days were long and hard for the women. They seldom seemed to leave their homes except on Sundays, where the community of staunch Protestants rarely missed a church service.
The owner of the shop, a kindly woman, would always welcome me with a warm smile. The moment I saw the shop I would quicken my pace, because there I could escape from the cold and find some friendly company. They would sit me down, give me diluted orange squash and sometimes even present me with a scone fresh from the stove, dripping with melting butter. The friendliness of the owner after the bleakness of the school day would warm me and the second half of my journey home would pass more comfortably.
On one of those rare days when the winter sun banishes the shadows of twilight, a small black and white dog, which looked like a miniature Collie, was tied up near the counter. With her matted coat and a piece of rope around her neck she looked as unkempt and in need of love as I did. When I bent down to stroke her she cowered away with a whimper.
‘My son rescued her from her previous owner,’ the shopkeeper told me. ‘She’d been kicked, beaten and even stuffed down a lavatory, poor thing. I’d like to kick them some, being cruel to a wee dog. What sort of people would do that? I need to find a good home for her. I’m sure she just needs some love.’
She gave me a hopeful look.
I felt a warm lick on my hand and, kneeling, I laid my head against the silky black and white one. I knew what it was to need love, and a wave of protectiveness rose in me as I gently stroked her. Five minutes later, after scones and squash, I was walking up the country road holding a rope with the newly named Sally on the other end. That day the rest of my journey home seemed a great deal brighter. Warm licks rewarded me on the frequent stops to reassure Sally that nobody would ever hurt her again, that I would love her and that Judy would be her friend from now on. With that instinctive trust that dogs have, she seemed to know she’d found her protector because her tail came up and her walk quickened.
By the time I turned into our lane the orange light from the Tilly lamp was already glowing and I pushed open the gate and walked to our front door.
‘What have we here?’ my mother exclaimed as she bent down to pat my new friend. I told her what the shopkeeper had said.
‘I can keep her, can’t I?’ I implored.
‘Well, we can’t send her back now can we?’ was her answer.
I knew that nothing else needed to be said for she was already petting her.
‘The poor little thing,’ my mother cooed.
To my surprise I saw a film of moisture form in her eyes. ‘How can people be so cruel?’
Too young to see the irony in what she said, I just knew Sally had found a new home.
Judy came up, her tail wagging, and curiously sniffed the new arrival with what looked like a friendly greeting to me. It was as though she, a naturally territorial animal, sensed that Sally was no threat to her. She immediately decided to accept her as a four-legged playmate and a new member of the family.
The following morning, to my relief, the jovial father appeared and to my surprise he seemed quite taken with the little dog who, desperate for affection, unlike Judy, gazed at him adoringly.
Now, on my breaks at the shop, I kept the owner informed of Sally’s antics, of how she and Judy had bonded, and even told her about June. On hearing, a few weeks later, that the chickens hid their eggs in the overgrown grass at the base of the hedges, she offered me a small goat.
‘Antoinette,’ she told me, ‘take this to your mother. There’s nothing better for keeping the grass down.’
Proudly I attached the small animal to a piece of rope, thinking that now we could have goat’s milk as well as less grass, and took it home, presenting it as a gift to my mother.
‘Now we can get milk,’ I told her as the two dogs looked at my new friend with disdain, barked a couple of times and walked off.
‘It’s a billy goat dear,’ she said, with a burst of laughter. ‘There’s no milk from them. This time you have to take him back.’
The following morning the little goat trotted beside me once more, giving me company for the first two miles of the journey as I walked back to the shop to return him. By that time I felt a sense of relief at handing him back, after my mother had explained how large his horns would grow and the harm he would be able to do with them.
Over those winter months there were moments of genuine warmth between my mother and me and I treasured them, because it was clear that overall her attitude towards me had inexplicably changed. Where once she had taken a pride in my appearance, dressing me in pretty clothes, washing my hair regularly, tying it back with ribbons, her interest in my appearance had almost ceased. I was rapidly growing out of my school uniform; my tunic was several inches above my knees and my jumper, which barely reached my waist, was growing threadbare at the elbows. The pleats in my uniform had now almost disappeared, leaving creases in their place, and the dark green had become shiny, adding to my grubby, uncared-for appearance. My hair, which once my mother had brushed lovingly every day, had now grown straight and lank. The curls of babyhood had long gone, to be replaced by an untidy shoulder-length curtain, framing a face that seldom smiled.
In these times, teachers would have spoken to my mother, but in the 1950s they took out their displeasure on the child.
One young teacher, taking pity on me, tried to be kind. She brought some pretty yellow ribbon in to the classroom and in the break brushed and tied my hair back, holding up a small mirror so I could admire my reflection.
‘Antoinette,’ she said, ‘tell your mother to do your hair like this each day. It makes you look so pretty.’
For the first time in several months I felt I was pretty, and excitedly showed off my new appearance to my mother. Her anger seemed to appear from nowhere as she snatched the ribbon from my hair.
‘Tell your teacher that I can dress my own child,’ she said, obviously furious.
I was bewildered. What had I done wrong? I asked, but I received no answer.
The next day my hair hung in its usual untidy style and was spotted by the teacher.
‘Antoinette, where is the ribbon I gave you?’
Feeling that I would be letting my mother down in some way if I repeated her words, I stared at my feet. A silence fell as she waited for my answer.
‘I’ve lost it.’ I heard myself mumble, feeling my face flush from the untruth. I knew I appeared ungrateful and sulky to her, and felt her annoyance.
‘Well, at least tidy yourself up, child,’ she snapped, and I lost my one ally at that school because it was the last time she bothered to show me any kindness.
I knew I was unpopular amongst my peers, as well