Friends for Life. Jan Fennell

my mum and dad took me to the Festival of Britain celebrations, just across the river in Battersea Park. The images of that day are burned indelibly into my memory.

      I was too young to understand the wave of optimism the Festival had inspired. But I do vividly remember the sheer joy of the occasion. I remember my father and Uncle Fred were both wearing white shirts. In the sunshine they seemed dazzling – just like everything else in the park.

      Battersea Park was filled with people. I recall the carousels and the candy floss, the sounds of the hurdy-gurdies and the fairground hucksters inviting people to ‘Roll up, roll up’. But the thing that created the greatest impression was the little grey-white pony that was giving children rides in a special arena.

      I immediately asked my parents for a ride. But, just as quickly, my mother made her opposition plain.

      ‘You don’t want to go on that nasty smelly thing,’ she said. I was dressed in a smart new plaid dress, I remember. ‘You don’t want to ruin your nice dress.’

      It was my Uncle Fred who conspired to help me. My mother wandered off at some point. I remember Uncle Fred bending down, beckoning to me and whispering. ‘Come on, come on. Now’s your chance,’ he said.

      I ran over to the pony arena with him. Before I knew it I was being lifted on board the beautiful grey-white pony.

      I’d yet to meet Uncle Jim’s Kitty so this was the first time I’d sat on a horse. I can still remember the pungent smell. It was lovely then and remains so to this day. Forget your Chanel No. 5. As I was led around the arena on horseback I remember feeling on top of the world. I felt like a princess, it was so special. I would have stayed there all day.

      One of the attendants led the pony round in a slow circuit of the arena. As he took me back to where I’d started I saw my time was up. I could see my dad and Uncle Fred with big beaming smiles but behind them was my mother with a face like thunder.

      ‘I thought I said she couldn’t, Wal,’ she snapped at my father as I was led away from the arena a few moments later. ‘What’s the point of putting her in nice clothes if they’re going to smell of filthy animals?’

      The incident confirmed something that was already becoming clear to me. There was a clear hierarchy in our house. And I was at the bottom of the pecking order.

      My parents’ attitude to children was a throwback to the Victorian era in many ways. I should be seen and not heard. My opinion wasn’t of any importance to anyone. All that mattered, to my mother at least, was that I present a happy, polite, smiling face to the world. Unless, that is, she wanted to show off my singing and dancing abilities at a family gathering. Even then, the only words I got from her were chastisement if I hadn’t done something to the standard she expected.

      At the time this upset me deeply, but I no longer feel that way. I understand now that she was merely reflecting the values passed on to her. She and my father were trying to provide a better life for me than they had enjoyed themselves. But it was as if they had had me out of a sense of duty, and then resented the duty that came with it.

      There was no doubt they gave me the best they could afford. They bought me lots of toys, for instance. But then they would spoil it by not allowing me to play with them because they got in the way and messed up my mum’s house. I was only allowed to play with one toy at a time.

      There was no point arguing about things like this. I was expected to accept that they did things for my own good. If I ever upset the apple cart, they’d say: ‘After all I’ve done for you …’ And if I protested too much, my mother was very quick to smack.

      If I was at the bottom of the pecking order at home, my mother was very much at the top.

      My father would literally wait on her hand and foot. He would say that he was so lucky to have her, he would do anything for her. He would protect her from being upset, even if it meant hiding the truth.

      If anybody said anything she didn’t like or upset her, the waterworks would start and she would just cry. He couldn’t cope with that, he’d fall to pieces. Of course if I tried a similar tactic, it didn’t work. They would tell me: ‘We’ll give you something to cry for.’

      So when I started showing an interest in animals, I sensed there would be problems from the beginning. Mum didn’t like me being near them, it was as simple as that. To her it was more important that I look immaculate and well turned out. And animals didn’t fit in with that.

      As I have said, my mother’s feelings always came first. She always got her own way. But she was asking too much in this instance. And fortunately there were members of the family who were willing to conspire with me.

      It was my grandmothers who best understood the closeness of the bonds I was forming with animals.

      The family had a number of dogs and by the time I was five or six I had formed a mutual admiration society with all of them. Wherever I went a dog would appear. My cousin Doreen, to whom I was very close, had a smashing dog called Tinker. He was ever so playful, a lovely long-coated creature, and I would spend endless hours playing with him. As a family we used to go on camping weekends to Walton in the Mole Valley. I recall there was a dog called Bunty in the tent next to our regular spot. My job was to go and get water from the standpipe but I always ended up playing with Bunty, a big shaggy dog like a mop. Playing with Bunty was the highlight of the weekend for me.

      Nan Fennell knew how lonely and unhappy I was at home and encouraged me to cherish these new friendships. I will never forget what she said to me once. ‘They are a part of your life that is magic, that is special,’ she told me. ‘No one can spoil that. When you have the love and trust of an animal, nobody can ever spoil it. That is your secret happiness.’

      She also defended my love of animals in the face of my mother’s hostility. Whenever my mother had a go at me in her presence she used to say: ‘She’s got a love of animals. It’s in her and it always will be, you can’t change that.’

      But it was my mother’s mother who did most to conspire with me. Nan Whitton, as I knew her, lived nearby. She was a lady, in the very real sense of that word. She came from landed gentry in Northamptonshire but had become estranged from her family, the Thorneycrofts, after marrying a sailor named Edward Whitton. The family thought he was ‘beneath her’ and made no secret of it. Tragically he’d died during the flu epidemic of 1922 and she’d been left to fend for herself with four children. It was a tough life, yet despite the hardships she’d remained a dignified, gentle woman. I never once heard her swear or even lose her temper.

      She had a real air about her. She was six foot tall and always immaculately turned out. She’d always dress up, even to go to the shops, putting on matching accessories and carrying an umbrella with a bow. Whenever I went out walking with her I’d see workmen doffing their caps to her as if she were a member of the aristocracy. She’d return the compliment with a gracious nod.

      At home she’d spend hours doing embroidery and reading – something not many of my family did. I can also remember painstakingly polishing her silver with her.

      This may well have been where my mother got her airs and graces from. But whatever their roots, Nan Whitton knew her daughter’s moods better than anyone, so she provided me with a source of affection that was a real life-saver at times. ‘I’m always here for a cuddle,’ she’d say. And she saw how fond I was of her cat, Smokey.

      Smokey, bless him, was the ugliest cat you’ve ever seen. His head was lop-sided. He was a big black moggy. Yet that cat was so affectionate. He had a purr like a traction engine. I lay on the landing looking at Smokey one day. Nan was in the kitchen. I said to her: ‘Why do you love Smokey?’ I was confused because my mum used to tell me you could only be loved if you were beautiful, that ugly didn’t get loved.

      My nan looked out of the kitchen and said: ‘Only me and his mother could love him.’ To her the fact that he was ugly didn’t matter. To her ‘beautiful is as beautiful does’. It was a thought that would have been lost on my mother. But it made a big impression on me. Mum didn’t like me playing with Smokey, of course. I’d