being particularly vicious in her remarks, and tried to help more in the house when she obviously did not feel well.
At nearly nineteen I was an adult and better able than I had been to assess soberly what was happening to any of us. Once Mother realised that I understood what was happening to her, she seemed glad to be able to speak frankly to me about it. I encouraged her to see the doctor from time to time, and though there was no real aid then for this intense physical upheaval, he was able to comfort her by assuring her that it would pass.
Rest was possible, because she did not work full time, and when all the children were at school shecould go to bed in the afternoon and get up late in the morning. Whatever cleaning and washing there was to be done was usually achieved at the weekend when I was at home. She began again to read regularly, and drew real enjoyment from the great storytellers of the time – Edgar Wallace, Jeffrey Farnol, P. G. Wodehouse, Rafael Sabatini and many others. She had been a librarian before her marriage and she liked to discuss what she had read. In me she found a willing listener.
Through her guardian, who owned a string of private libraries, she had met many of the early twentieth-century writers and in those days had read much more deeply than she did in her later years. It dawned on me that her knowledge of literature had in part guided me, because every time I was ill – which was at least twice a year – she would bring me her own choice of books from the public library to read in bed. It was she, I recollected, who had brought me the first books I read on Japanese and Chinese history and travel books on South America, a continent I had never thought about before then and a fascinating area for further study.
This shared love of books formed a slender bridge between us, and I began to find it easier to talk to her, though on a shallow level, about other concerns in which I was interested, like thewar we were all afraid would break out and about the refugees pouring in from Europe.
Mother feared for her sons. She dreaded them being butchered as her own generation had been, though I once heard her remark that she had ‘done her duty to the nation by producing four sons’. The idea that to produce soldiers was the duty of a mother shocked me beyond measure, but to women of her age, of the officer class, it must have seemed natural.
As a result of the battle-axes being laid down between us, though never buried, at the time of the office Christmas dance I felt brave enough to say that for once I would like to attend.
‘Do you think you could help me buy a secondhand dress?’ I begged humbly. ‘I have never been to the office parties before, and Miriam thinks I should – I might meet some of the Committee members – and that might help me with promotion later on.’ Miriam was nothing if not practical, despite her ideals.
Mother pondered over this, and said, ‘I’ll see.’
A few days later, she came home with a long white rayon taffeta dress, which she had bought from a girl she knew in one of the stores. My share of the cost – five shillings – was paid in two instalments, as my shorthand student paid me.The material of the dress was delicately patterned in fine red and green stripes and at the back it had long ruffles running from waist to hem. The sleeves were short and puffed and the low V-neck had a diamante clasp tucked into it. Though it was not particularly fashionable, it fitted me and Fiona said it looked quite pretty.
The white stockings bought for my Confirmation had, because of their colour, survived Fiona’s marauding, so they were ready to hand, and Mother gave me the pawn ticket so that I could retrieve the white satin slippers and the petticoat from Uncle’s.
The pawnbroker was Jewish, portly. What hair he had was curled tightly round a bald patch. The light of the bare electric bulb above his high counter shone on his olive face and made his heavy
At nearly nineteen I was an adult and better able than I had been to assess soberly what was happening to any of us. Once Mother realised that I understood what was happening to her, she seemed glad to be able to speak frankly to me about it. I encouraged her to see the doctor from time to time, and though there was no real aid then for this intense physical upheaval, he was able to comfort her by assuring her that it would pass.
Rest was possible, because she did not work full time, and when all the children were at school shecould go to bed in the afternoon and get up late in the morning. Whatever cleaning and washing there was to be done was usually achieved at the weekend when I was at home. She began again to read regularly, and drew real enjoyment from the great storytellers of the time – Edgar Wallace, Jeffrey Farnol, P. G. Wodehouse, Rafael Sabatini and many others. She had been a librarian before her marriage and she liked to discuss what she had read. In me she found a willing listener.
Through her guardian, who owned a string of private libraries, she had met many of the early twentieth-century writers and in those days had read much more deeply than she did in her later years. It dawned on me that her knowledge of literature had in part guided me, because every time I was ill – which was at least twice a year – she would bring me her own choice of books from the public library to read in bed. It was she, I recollected, who had brought me the first books I read on Japanese and Chinese history and travel books on South America, a continent I had never thought about before then and a fascinating area for further study.
This shared love of books formed a slender bridge between us, and I began to find it easier to talk to her, though on a shallow level, about other concerns in which I was interested, like thewar we were all afraid would break out and about the refugees pouring in from Europe.
Mother feared for her sons. She dreaded them being butchered as her own generation had been, though I once heard her remark that she had ‘done her duty to the nation by producing four sons’. The idea that to produce soldiers was the duty of a mother shocked me beyond measure, but to women of her age, of the officer class, it must have seemed natural.
As a result of the battle-axes being laid down between us, though never buried, at the time of the office Christmas dance I felt brave enough to say that for once I would like to attend.
‘Do you think you could help me buy a secondhand dress?’ I begged humbly. ‘I have never been to the office parties before, and Miriam thinks I should – I might meet some of the Committee members – and that might help me with promotion later on.’ Miriam was nothing if not practical, despite her ideals.
Mother pondered over this, and said, ‘I’ll see.’
A few days later, she came home with a long white rayon taffeta dress, which she had bought from a girl she knew in one of the stores. My share of the cost – five shillings – was paid in two instalments, as my shorthand student paid me.The material of the dress was delicately patterned in fine red and green stripes and at the back it had long ruffles running from waist to hem. The sleeves were short and puffed and the low V-neck had a diamante clasp tucked into it. Though it was not particularly fashionable, it fitted me and Fiona said it looked quite pretty.
The white stockings bought for my Confirmation had, because of their colour, survived Fiona’s marauding, so they were ready to hand, and Mother gave me the pawn ticket so that I could retrieve the white satin slippers and the petticoat from Uncle’s.
The pawnbroker was Jewish, portly. What hair he had was curled tightly round a bald patch. The light of the bare electric bulb above his high counter shone on his olive face and made his heavy
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