A Fickle Wind. Elizabeth Bourne

sunny disposition we usually associate with that role. She ruled with a rod of iron! She was stern and disapproving, and I really didn’t like her. Anything considered naughty that my mother didn’t see me do, my grandmother did, and I could always be sure she would tell on me.

      My grandfather was nice but was so much in the background that I really don’t remember him well from those days. I don’t recall too much of my father then, either. He was probably out working during most of my waking hours, but what I do recall of him is lovely. He was amused by almost everything I did, paid no attention at all to complaints about me, played with me, and gave me hugs and kisses.

      Not so my mother. She never seemed very happy and certainly didn’t play with me. And I could be sure I wouldn’t have any sisters or brothers to play with either, because I had cried so much as a baby that I gave her headaches, and I was always enough of a handful! Or did she say that a little later? I can’t remember exactly when, but I know it was said more than once; I always knew it was all my fault that I had no one to play with!

      My mother’s siblings, two brothers and one sister, all lived on the same street as we did. In those days, it was safe for young children to just wander in that rather protected neighborhood. I recall doing so quite frequently to visit our relatives, because I was usually bored with what was happening at home. I generally would be able to find a cousin to play with.

      We grandchildren were sometimes all called upon to line up in front of my grandmother if she had been on an outing, say, to the seaside. We would each receive a stick of peppermint rock candy or some other treat she had brought back for us. I remember one such occasion when I was removed from the line and did not receive my rock because I was fidgeting too much to meet her standards. She was definitely on my list!

      The kitchen—scullery, we called it then—had a stone floor that my grandmother would often sweep. Potatoes were sold in the condition in which they were dug from the ground—encrusted with earth. I knew they were kept under the sink. One day when I particularly didn’t like my grandmother, I watched her sweep the scullery floor and stand back to admire her handiwork. I moved over to the cupboard, grabbed the bag of potatoes, and shot them across the floor, scattering the soil as they rolled.

      I ran, of course, as she yelled for my mother, and I found sanctuary in the nearby home of my Aunt Amy and Uncle George, who I knew would protect me. Uncle George particularly had fun with me and often teased me to the point where I would lose my temper. He would then pick me up, turn me upside down, and swing me, and we would be friends again. It was decidedly a better place to hang out than my grandmother’s house.

      In those days, people served a cooked meal in the middle of the day—dinner at lunchtime, so to speak—and something lighter called tea as the evening meal. Most men worked locally and came home for the midday meal, as did children from school. Married women often didn’t work, so preparing the midday meal was part of their morning ritual.

      A more elaborate meal was prepared for Sundays, and it was usually served a little later. In my Aunt Amy’s house, it was served at one o’clock, and in my grandmother’s house about two. I think the later time was to accommodate pub hours (Uncle George didn’t go to the pub). The staggered mealtimes worked for me. I would usually manage to drop by Aunt Amy’s around one on Sundays, and she would put up a small plate of food for me to join them. If I were really lucky, my cousin Les, five years older than I, would find some fault with his food, push the plate away, and refuse to eat it. I had a voracious appetite, so I rather hoped he’d find a hair in his potatoes or some other problem. I recall them saying that he was always finicky.

      After that meal was over, I’d have absolutely no trouble going home for a second dinner at about two o’clock. I think I hung out at Aunt Amy’s more than at the homes of other relatives because Les was closer to me in age and would sometimes deign to play with me.

      With the exception of my Auntie Lily, who was my father’s oldest sister, we didn’t see much of the rest of his family because they lived a bus ride away. I loved it when my Auntie Lily would visit, as she always made a big fuss over me and brightened up my whole day. She had red hair, wore pretty clothes, and used makeup. A role model in the making? She brought me sweets, let me sit on her lap, and played games with me. Definitely a keeper.

      I have always been concerned about my appearance and love to dress well to this day. I was really no different then. Sunday was the special day when we all dressed in our best. My mother would usually braid my long, straight, dark hair, and on special occasions she would put it in ringlets. I recall I had a yellow and mauve outfit with a mauve hat. I loved it and felt so grown up walking down the street alone to visit my relatives in turn, ending up at my Aunt Amy’s, of course. One day, as I approached her house, the wind took my hat and blew it way down the street much faster than my little legs would carry me. Uncle George came to the rescue, however, and retrieved it. I recall being so happy to have it back.

      Oh, yes, I remember when I was two. I also remember a lot more, if you have a few hours to spare …

       Chapter Two

      As I said, we moved when I was two and a half. I know this, only because that was what everyone said. Our new home was in a row of houses in what could be described as a suburb of London called Romford, surrounded by strangers. No cousins to play with, no uncles to swing me. And my father was away.

      My father had gone to sea at age fifteen, the euphemism being that, “John had run away to sea.” My Auntie Lily corrected that misconception when I was older. You see, their father had died at age thirty-six after returning from WWI, where he had been subjected to mustard gas poisoning. With six children to feed and no breadwinner, my paternal grandmother had to do the best she could for the survival of the family.

      She walked my father down and registered him in the Navy, as she knew he would be fed regularly, and this would mean one less mouth for her to feed. So my father went to sea as a boy and signed on officially as a sailor at age eighteen. Times were very difficult for the poor in Britain in those days. It brings tears to my eyes as I write this to think of the hardships they suffered.

      My father left the Navy at age thirty when he had completed his tour of duty, as they termed it. He and my mother married. A few years later, with the threat of WWII on the horizon, and in preparation for the coming storm, he was one of the first to be called to serve. My mother wasn’t a happy lady, so my life wasn’t very interesting or enjoyable. I sought other children in the streets to play with and spent as much time as possible out of doors. My memories are of incidents—those that have had a lasting impact on my life.

      When I was playing in the street at about age four, a boy several years older and quite a bit larger started picking on me. He hit me and made me cry. I went running home to my mother, crying and saying that Roy had hit me. I received no loving affection or sympathy for my tears, no kiss or hug, nothing heartwarming or reassuring. She asked if I had hit him back. “No!” I cried. Her response: “If you can’t hit them, kick them, but don’t come crying to me.”

      Those words have resonated all my life. Sometimes they have made me sad. At other times, they’ve made me grateful; they have stood me in good stead when I have faced some of life’s difficult passages. But I never felt nurtured by a loving mother. She made me strong, and I appreciate that.

      I can still recall the startled reaction I felt that day with my mother. I quickly understood that there would be no solace there, nor would there be love or respect (not words I knew at the time, but words that convey the realization I reached that day). Unless I showed her I could deliver the kind of strength she seemed to expect of me, I would be a disappointment. So I shifted gears. I wasn’t very big, but I wasn’t dumb. I determined a method by which I could bring anyone who picked on me to his knees. Quite simply, I bent his fingers back. It was very effective.

      German bombers were overhead day and night. Many children in the London area were being sent to the country under a national evacuation program. I recall that my father was adamant that I not be sent alone to live with strangers. Given some of the stories I heard in later years, I am very grateful. My maternal grandmother’s sister and her husband owned