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

would take me and every afternoon she would be waiting at the school gates with a warm smile. I felt very grown up wearing my uniform, with my pencils, eraser and first learning books carefully placed in a canvas satchel that hung over my shoulder. Even though I liked those early days of learning, I spent most of each day with bated breath, visualizing Judy in my mind, longing for the final bell. I would hurriedly swallow the milk and sandwiches, which would be given to me after I’d changed out of my navy-blue gym tunic. Only when I’d finished both would I be allowed outside to play ball with Judy for an hour. When my mother thought enough energy had been burnt up for us both to settle down quietly she would open the kitchen door and call us in. A reading book, where new words were learnt every day, or a counting one where I was learning to tell the time, would be removed from my satchel.

      I would work at the table while my mother made supper and Judy lay exhausted at my feet.

      For Christmas, when she was turning from puppy to small dog, I used my saved-up pocket money to buy a smart red lead with matching collar. Now, proudly buttoned up in my warm navy winter coat, with Judy prancing beside me impervious to the cold in her natural fur, I would take her for walks, beaming with pleasure every time someone stopped to admire her. My happiness was completed when my grandmother started to visit again. No explanation had ever been given as to why she had stopped. Years later she admitted to me she had been appalled at us living above the garage, had never liked my father and had never thought him good enough for my mother. Whilst by then I more than agreed with her, it was too late to comment.

      She, like me, adored Judy, who always greeted her rapturously. My grandmother would pick her up, tickle her stomach and be rewarded by licks that removed her perfumed face powder.

      With my grandmother’s visits would come presents, mainly of books which, when my mother was busy, my grandmother would always find time to read to me.

      When my parents informed me in February that we were going to move to Northern Ireland, where my father came from, my pleasure was only spoilt by the thought of not being able to see so much of my grandmother. Her many reassurances of numerous visits, however, made my fears disappear.

      In fact, six years were to pass before I saw her again.

      We sent regular letters, which hid the truth of our family life. She never forgot birthdays and Christmases, but the hoped-for letter announcing a visit never arrived. Unaware then of the many excuses my mother was making to her, my grandmother gradually faded in my life to become someone who had once loved me.

       Chapter Three

      Three thin wooden tea chests and one suitcase stood on our sitting-room floor, containing the accumulated chattels of a marriage. Over the next ten years I saw them packed and unpacked many times until they became a symbol to me of defeated optimism. At five and a half, however, I saw them as the start of an exciting adventure. My mother had triumphantly nailed the third one shut the preceding night and once a van arrived to collect them our journey was to begin.

      My father, who had already been in Northern Ireland for several weeks looking for suitable accommodation, had finally sent for us. His longed-for letter had arrived a week earlier and my mother had read parts out to me. He had, she told me enthusiastically, found a house for us in the country. First, however, we were to visit his family, who were eagerly awaiting our arrival. We would stay with them for a fortnight until our chests and furniture arrived, at which time we would move to our new home.

      My mother told me time and again how much I would love Ireland, how it would be a good life and how I would enjoy meeting all my new relatives. She talked excitedly of her future plans; we were going to live in the country, start a poultry farm and grow our own vegetables. Envisioning Easter-card yellow fluffy chicks my enthusiasm grew to match hers. I listened to the extracts of my father’s letter that she read out to me about my cousins, about the house in the country and about how much he was missing us. Her happiness was infectious as she described a future idyllic life.

      When the van had left with our chests and furniture I looked at our bare rooms with a mixture of emotions: nervous at leaving everything that was familiar, but excited at going to a new country.

      My mother picked up our hand luggage and I took a firm hold of Judy’s lead as we started our twenty-four-hour journey. What to me seemed like an adventure, to my mother must have felt like a gruelling ordeal. Not only did she have our bags and me to look after, but also Judy, who by now had grown from a puppy into a small, bright-eyed, mischievous terrier.

      A bus took us to the railway station, with its tubs of flowers and friendly porters. We caught a train to the Midlands, then the connecting train to Crewe. I sat in the compartment watching the steam floating in smoky clouds back from the engine, listening to the wheels making their clickety-clack clickety-clack noise, which sounded to me like ‘we’re going to Northern Ireland, we’re going to Northern Ireland’.

      I could hardly sit still, but the excitement did not curb my appetite. Mindful of our budget, my mother had packed a picnic for us. Unwrapping the brown-tinged greaseproof paper I found a round of corned beef sandwiches, then a hard-boiled egg, which I peeled and ate as I stared out the window. A crisp apple followed, while my mother poured herself tea from a flask. There was a separate packet containing scraps for Judy, a bottle of water and a small plastic bowl. She ate every crumb, licked my fingers gratefully, and then fell asleep curled at my feet. After we’d finished my mother took a damp cloth from another small bag, wiped my face and hands before taking out a gilt powder compact and swiftly puffing powder onto her nose and chin. Pursing her lips, she painted them the dark red she always favoured.

      Crewe station seemed a vast, noisy cavern of a place, dirty and poorly lit, completely unlike the pretty freshly painted stations of Kent. My mother bundled me up in my wool coat, placed Judy’s lead in my hand, then organized our bags.

      The boat train from Crewe to Liverpool was packed with happy passengers in a holiday mood, many of them servicemen going home on leave. There was no shortage of helping hands to lift our bags onto the rack above our heads. Judy received many pats and compliments, which pleased me. My pretty mother, with her shoulder-length dark hair and trim figure, had to explain to more than one hopeful serviceman that her husband was waiting for us both in Belfast.

      With my colouring books and crayons out, not wishing to miss a moment, I desperately tried to keep my eyes open, but to no avail. Within an hour sleep overcame me.

      When I awoke we had arrived at Liverpool. Through the swirls of steam I saw the boat for the first time, a huge grey forbidding mass that towered above our heads. It cast a shadow over the scores of people who, carrying an assortment of luggage, were rushing to queue at the base of the gangplank. The weak yellow beams of the streetlights shone dimly on the oily water beneath the gently swaying boat. Having only ever seen the small fishing fleets of Ramsgate, I felt overawed that we were going to travel on something so huge. Holding Judy’s lead tightly I moved closer to my mother for comfort as we shuffled forward to join the queue.

      Helping hands assisted us aboard where a white-coated steward showed us to our small second-class cabin, furnished with a wooden chair, a single bunk and a small sink.

      ‘What, two of us are going to sleep in there?’ I exclaimed in disbelief.

      The steward ruffled my hair and laughed. ‘Sure, you’re not very big!’

      That night I cuddled up to my mother as the swell of the sea rocked me to sleep for most of the twelve-hour crossing. I never had the feeling of seasickness that, according to the purser when he brought us our morning tea and toast, so many of our fellow passengers had.

      We arrived in Belfast before the sun had fully risen, and queued once more to alight. Passengers were waving as they leant over the side but, being too small, I had to contain my eagerness. As the boat made its final lurch the gangplank was lowered and my first sight of Belfast came into view.

      The dawn light shone on damp cobbles, where small ponies pulled wooden traps back and forth. People with freezing breath milled around the gangplank, broad smiles of greeting on