Memories of a childhood

Throughout my childhood – and even today – my Dad was my rock. As a long distance lorry driver he was often away from home for two or three days each week so my time with him was often short but he was so important to me. My mother, unfortunately, was prone to fits of anger that flared up almost daily – and nearly always directed at my Dad. Although we were not beggars we were poor, there was little spare cash, and despite my Dad never being out of work and always each week bringing his pay packet home unopened and handing it to my mother as soon as he walked through the door, money was a constant source of anger in my mother’s mind. But the anger and rage flared up for any reason and no reason and always started with my mother. Dad would just sit quietly while she raged at him. As a child I sat nightly on the top stair of our little house sobbing listening as downstairs mother raged at Dad about whatever had upset her; at times like those I wished dearly that I had a brother or sister to relate to - I felt very alone in the world. At the meal table I was always frightened that something would ignite my mother’s ire – as it often did. It might be (and this is true) the way Dad had peeled the potatoes (Dad always cooked Sunday lunch while mother stayed in bed reading the paper till almost noon) or perhaps he had not cooked the meat for long enough. But whatever, it was common that meal times would more often than not descend into my mother raging at Dad as I sat sobbing, worrying, afraid that my Dad would simply walk out and leave and I would never see him again. But as I got older I became angry because although I knew that my mother loved me dearly, fiercely even, in the end I also knew that Dad was between a rock and a hard place – he could do nothing right in my mother’s eyes; and I also increasingly knew that Dad did his best and was, in my view, rarely if ever in the wrong. As I sat at the dinner table as a child and a teenager I would make up inane conversations, jokes, anything to keep the focus on me rather than allow my mother’s ire to irrationally flare up in the silent vacuum of the dinner table; by the end of meal times I was sweating, fearful, anxious for the meal to be over when the likelihood of a row lessened - mother going into the front room to read her paper or knit and Dad would stand at the sink washing up. Still, today, when I sit down for a meal, I often feel my heart quicken and I begin to sweat, in the back of my mind fearful that something will occur to cause an argument between those at the table, whoever they are, and that I will have to sit and witness.

Dad just took it all; never fought back. Mother would stand and beat him with her fists, screaming in anger into his face but he just let it happen. When her rage dissipated he would quietly and calmly get on with whatever had to be done, washing up, tidying the house, chopping wood for the fire, hoovering. And I, even as small child, made a promise to myself that I would never, ever allow my children to witness the sorts of things that I had - I would never lose my temper, never row with my wife if I ever had one, in other words I’d be like my Dad. And whatever happened Dad was always there for me. We went to the pictures together – a time I remember with great fondness - occasionally went to watch Preston North End, he sometimes took me out on his lorry during the school holidays, or went fishing together. These, and others were precious times for me – I suppose nowadays we would call it bonding – but to me it was a place of safety, when I was with Dad I knew I was safe from mother’s ire.

I never knew what was at the root of my mother’s rage. I do know that she also frequently “fell out” with her sisters, brothers and other members of the wider family – I grew up unaware of aunties, uncles and cousins and only made contact with some of them via social media in the years after my mother’s death. I tried as a child to rationalise, explain her flare ups but never successfully. I often thought lack of money was the issue and it clearly produced pressures in the family, but then, in those days everyone was the same, we were not unusual and in many ways we were better off than many. In more recent years I have pondered that it might have been the stage in life that mother was going through – but that doesn’t really hold true since the rage and anger were always there from my earliest days to the time she died. I do, however, believe that she was frustrated. She was a bright woman and had had a hard life. Her own mother, my grandmother, died when mother was ten years old leaving her as the oldest girl to look after the four other siblings. The impact of this was that she was unable to study, take up a career that might have fulfilled her and I think this was a matter of great regret throughout her life. To add to that I think my Dad “disappointed” her; he was not ambitious and was happy doing his driving and living a quiet life. At one point, when I was a teenager, the Transport Manager at his company retired and Dad was prompted by the company to apply for the job – but, whether it was lack of confidence, or an unwillingness to give up his driving, or maybe even he didn’t relish the thought of being at home seven nights a week rather than being on the road I don’t know but he wouldn’t apply. The job would have meant an increase in pay and probably a gentle wind down towards his own retirement but it wasn’t for him and I know it upset my mother.

My mother, although she loved me ferociously, never showed any fondness – never a cuddle or a kiss – with me or anyone else. When I first met my wife Pat’s family I was bemused and embarrassed that they always hugged and kissed each other when greeting family and friends; it was a thing unknown to me and I felt very uncomfortable with it. I still do; even today I am unsure, uncertain, embarrassed when I am greeted with a hug. Mother never ever showed any outward affection towards my Dad – or her sisters. Dad would always address mother as “love” or “dear” but mother never reciprocated, there was no outward never a hug, never a kiss, never a spontaneous kind word. I have often thought my mother saw affection as a sign of weakness; as she often told me “It’s a hard life” and you had to be strong all the time and never show weakness. Against this background Dad, who would hold my hand when I was a small child, or talk kindly to me when he came home from work, or playfully rub his whiskery chin against my face when I was very young became, although he never knew it, my safe place, my role model, my rock – there is absolutely no doubt he got me through my childhood. When my mother died I did not weep; I was sorry but never upset. When my Dad died, however, I knew I had lost not only my anchor but the quiet steadfast rock that had kept the family together through all the years; he had quietly got on with life when I’m sure it would have been easier for him to walk away – but he didn’t – and for that I was and am grateful, he made me what I am.