Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal. Toni Maguire

an uproar for the short time he was there. To me he seemed more like an important visitor than a parent. Days before his arrival there would be a flurry of housework, cushions would be shaken, furniture polished and floors mopped. A warm smell of baking would fill the house as his favourite biscuits and cakes were made, then, on the long-awaited day, my mother would dress me in my best outfit while her prettiest was donned. Constantly gazing impatiently out of the window, we would wait for the gate to open and a loud greeting to be called, upon which my mother would rush to the door and into his outstretched arms.

      My impression was of a big handsome man who made my mother laugh with happiness while a pink glow suffused her face. Presents such as silk stockings for her and chocolate for me always accompanied his arrival. My mother would unwrap hers patiently, meticulously folding the paper for future use, whilst I ripped mine open with squeals of delight. He, the benevolent visitor, would sit in the most comfortable chair and smile at our pleasure.

      For my fourth birthday a bulky parcel had been torn open to reveal a large, red, stuffed felt elephant. Picking her up I thought she was more beautiful than any doll. I christened her Jumbo and for several months refused to be parted from her. Holding Jumbo by the trunk I trailed her around the house, insisting she shared my bed and taking her with me on visits.

      A few months after that birthday my father announced that the idea of civilian life appealed to him. He wanted, he said, to spend more time with his wife and daughter. When my mother heard those words her face lit up and for the next few weeks I could sense her exhilaration as she waited for him to return, this time to stay.

      I knew the day he was expected from the smells of baking and frantic housework, but it was another three days before he finally arrived. This time there were no presents after the shouted greeting and within hours the carefree atmosphere in our home changed for ever. The build-up of tension had begun.

      After I was put to bed clutching my much-loved elephant, the first row I’d heard between my parents penetrated my sleep. I felt unsettled. Up to then I’d hardly heard a voice raised in anger. I hugged Jumbo a little tighter, hoping they would stop, and eventually fell uneasily back to sleep.

      A long time later my mother told me it was because of my father’s drinking and gambling. I knew nothing of the causes; I just knew the result made me uncomfortable. Upon leaving the army with his severance pay he had not returned home until every penny of it had been lost on a poker table and my mother’s hopes of buying a house that she could turn into a home for us were dashed. It was clear to me, as she talked in one of the rare intimate moments we had, that it was only the first of many disappointments to come.

      My mother realized that with a growing child and no lump sum to fall back on, if she was ever going to achieve her ambition of owning her home, she would have to work. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Not only was there no equal pay for women in the decade after the war, there was very little work. Victorious servicemen who had remained in the army to help rebuild a devastated Germany had returned to face massive unemployment, substandard accommodation and rationing. With a grim determination that was an integral part of her character, my mother was never going to admit defeat and eventually her persistence was rewarded. She found employment at a garage several miles away as a night-shift cashier, where a small, dark, rent-free family flat made up part of her wages.

      My father also found obtaining work difficult. Although he was a trained mechanic the only position he could find was in a factory, also on night shifts. With no alternative on offer he took it.

      Our lives then settled into a different pattern, with him returning home each morning grumbling about tiredness and going straight to bed, whilst my mother, who had a home to run and a small child to look after, snatched sleep whenever she could.

      Although my grandmother sometimes arranged to collect me for an outing, she seldom visited us and the days of spending time with my mother alone also came to an end. I would wake up in the little flat, clutch Jumbo for support and go in search of her. Finding the flat empty I would wander down to the garage in my nightclothes, still half asleep, seeking her company. In those early days she never got angry with me, just picked my still sleepy body up, laughed, took me upstairs and tucked me back into bed.

      A few months before my fifth birthday we moved again, this time to a small terraced house with a garden. My father had just received a promotion that meant permanent work with more pay and better hours. Night work was tiring for my mother, and now for the first time since her husband’s return she felt she could become a full-time housewife.

      The night before my birthday I lay awake, wondering what present I would be given. All through the previous week I’d nagged my mother to tell me. Immune to my pleas she laughed and told me I would have to curb my curiosity and wait until the day to find out.

      Waking early I rushed downstairs, remembering the arrival of Jumbo a year before, and scanned the sitting room. I couldn’t see anything. Seeing the look of disappointment on my face, my mother told me we were going to visit someone, and I would be given my present there.

      As soon as I had excitedly gulped my breakfast down I was buttoned into my coat and I skipped along, holding my mother’s hand as we made our way to the bus stop. A red double-decker bus took us several miles to the next village. Alighting, we walked a short distance to a house I’d never seen before. I was puzzled. I had no idea what my present could possibly be. Presents, I knew, were bought in shops.

      On my mother’s knock I heard the shrill barking of several dogs. My excitement mounted. Jumbo, though still much loved, was beginning to lose her attraction for me. What I now wanted more than anything was a puppy of my own. Was this, I wondered, the day my wish was to be granted?

      A small, plump, grey-haired woman opened the door. Scampering around her feet were several black-and-tan wirehaired terriers, wagging their tails as they jumped up to welcome us. Trying to quieten their boisterous greeting, she ushered us quickly into a large kitchen. My excitement grew when I saw in front of the stove a basket filled with several sleeping puppies. Just outside it a fluffy little creature, with the black-and-tan markings of the adult dogs and bright mischievous eyes, stumbled around on legs still shaky, sniffing the air with her black button of a nose.

      Before my mother had time to ask the lady to show me the others, I’d rushed to the adventurous one and knelt down. I knew instantly she wanted me as her owner. Picking her up, breathing in that warm puppy smell, feeling small quick licks from her rough pink tongue on my face as she wriggled in my arms, the bond was formed; she became the greatest friend of my childhood.

      ‘Is that the one you like the most?’ my mother asked.

      My radiant face was all the answer she needed.

      ‘Then she’s yours. She’s your birthday present.’

      I gasped with pure pleasure as I realized my greatest wish had just been granted. I kissed the little dog on top of her fluffy black and tan head, and with that display of five-year-old maternal love I showed her she was mine.

      ‘What are you going to call her?’ my mother asked.

      The memory of another small, determined figure came into my head, a figure I’d seen when I’d spent a magical day at the beach earlier that year. My grandmother had taken me by train to the seaside town of Ramsgate on the Kent coast. Clutching a large ice-cream cone I’d seen a circle of laughing children sitting transfixed in the warm sun, their eyes fixed on something out of my vision. Tugging impatiently at my grandmother’s hand to pull her forward, looking in the same direction as the other children, the two figures of Punch and Judy came into view. My forgotten ice cream melted and trickled down my hand as I stood rooted to the spot, enthralled by their antics. I booed when Punch attacked Judy and cheered with the other children when Judy lambasted him back. Even when the puppeteer came round with his collection box the mystery of the two miniature figures remained unexplained and my ever-patient grandmother was subjected to a stream of questions about the fighting dolls.

      ‘I’m going to call her Judy,’ I replied.

      That birthday was to remain the happiest memory of my childhood.

      My mother had enrolled me at a small