The making of my Mum

My mum wrote this autobiographical short story, which we found after she died. We had no idea this had happened. It explains so much about how she was towards each of us. When I read it, I started to be able to understand why she did what she did. Or rather didn't do what she should have. She must have lived with the feeling that she was responsible for all of her life.

Her story was never published - or even talked about - during her life. So I've copied it here. I know she'd want it to be published - and this blogging thing can lend a certain amount of anonymity. Everyone involved in it is dead - it's titled "The making of Teri".

Sale was a small town in the south of Scotland. It had known its hey–day in the 12th century and somehow managed to convey a dark medieval atmosphere even in 1930. The ruins of an ancient monastery brooded over the main street. Old trees cast a dappled shadow over the rustic seats provided for the convenience of shoppers. The seats were as usual well filled by the town drunks and youthful unemployed.

Old John sat and talked to the little girl who played nearby, a pale faced child about seven years old with straight, lifeless brown hair. It was a summer day but the child was wearing a long sleeved woollen jersey over a dirty floral dress. Her thin legs were sheathed in long black stockings. The child was dirty and she smelt sour.

From a shopping bag John produced a birthday card. It was of a style popular about the turn of the century. Set into the front of it was a real lace handkerchief, white and frothy and smelling of flowers. Inside the card it said “To mother with Love”. “Come and see the nice card Teri”. John leaned forward extending the card in both hands to display the full beauty of the delicately painted flowers and the little handkerchief set like a white rose in a little golden basket.

Old John laughed as he raised the card above his head and moved with surprising agility to place his legs apart and catch the girl between them as she launched herself at the card. His other hand slipped quickly under the filthy dress, into the top of the woollen stockings and down between the soft white little legs. His hand was warm, gentle and caressing. He’d done this before and Teri had survived the first shock of it happening. She giggled, snatched the card and pushed herself free of John’s legs. At a safe distance, the card held close to her face where she could smell the scent and feel the satiny smoothness of the glossy card, she looked back, smiled, waved and ran off. John stood up, shopping bag in hand and began to move off slowly. He was very fat.

Teri’s mother lay on the kitchen floor; her lover pumping above her. She heard Teri coming into the house. “Mum, Mum, see my card old John gave me”. Teri pushed on the kitchen door. It would not yield. “You can’t come in” called her mother “I’m washing the floor”. Teri heard the body noises, the man’s chuckle. The laughter in her mother’s voice. She became conscious of a feeling that would grow with her through life, a cold searing isolation. She went into the bedroom and sat down to look at her card and wait till the feel of it and the smell of it would put away the bad feelings. Nice things always did.

Teri’s mother loved to be in the limelight. She also loved David., the young man who availed himself of her favours. David was engaged to a very respectable girl, one of the few people in David’s experience capable of exercising any self-control. You wouldn’t catch her giving it away on the kitchen floor when he was out working to keep her.

David treasured another totally erroneous notion. He believed Teri to be his bastard and never failed to tell anyone prepared to listen. Teri’s real father did not seem to have the heart or interest to do anything about this situation other than to say that it was all nonsense. What bound him to his marriage it is hard to say. He spent most of his time working, when there was any work and ended his days in an alcoholic haze.

After some time when David had had a smoke and a good wash, he was particular in matters of hygiene, he left the house, in some haste it must be said, since Teri’s mother had launched into a tirade against his determination to marry another woman. Teri heard him leaving and ran into the kitchen, card in hand. Mother was usually in a good mood when David came. Not so today. She snatched the card from the child.

Where did you get this? From old John? And what did you give him for this and the scraps and the doll and the sweeties? I don’t know what it is that anyone sees in you to give you anything, I’m going to get to the root of this. You won’t play with the other kids. You’re always on your own. Some man is always giving you something. Seven years of age and you’re going with men. I’m going to report this to the police and get you put into a home. You’re out on my control. I’m not the only one responsible for you. The tirade continued without let-up. Teri, choking with tears and fright was dragged along the road. Had she been able to speak, had anyone been listening she would have given an honest account of her actions. She did not ‘go with men’, whatever that meant. She did not play with the other children because they ran away from her.

The scene at the police station made no sense to Teri. She was drowning in fear. She thought her mother was accusing her of stealing things from men. She knew she could not trust her mother but she was not aware of her mother’s hatred because frequently she was told “I’m your mother and I love you”.
She felt hot and sick. Her eyes were burning and her head ached. She could not stop shaking. She lost control of her bladder. The hot liquid filled her stockings and made a pool on the floor. This new humiliation brought forth a torrent of tears and accusation from her mother but a surprising gentleness and reassurance from the police officers.

Two policemen brought in old John. He was crying too. He swore he had never touched Teri. He gave her a few toys for a kindness, He often spoke to her because she was a lonely child. He was a lonely old man. Teri took her queue from John. They were both in the same trouble. Despite endless questions and repeated allegations Teri stuck to her story. “He didn’t touch me, he didn’t touch me. Please can I go home. Please can this stop. Please Mum take me home I wont talk to John again….”

After a very long time the police interlude came to an end and a police car took then home with her mother chatting affably to the officer, telling him how careful she was. How much care she took of her daughter. How diligent one had to be.

“You’ll have to wait until Teri goes to the chip shop for your tea” May told her husband, who had arrived home from work looking to be fed. “You won’t believe what that thing” gesturing towards Teri “has put me through this day”.

Teri was told to get two fish suppers and a pie for herself. She was told how much it would cost, told to count her change and take good care that she wasn’t cheated. After tea her father told her to forget all about the events of the day. It was all a lot of nonsense. He went off to the pub and May sat down to read a copy of True Romances “Get washed and go to your bed”. Teri made no protest. She stood at the sink and the a piece of rough soda soap she washed her face and hands at the cold tap, for it was a cold water flat. “Will that do for tonight?” she asked. “I suppose so” said May without raising her head “Go to your bed”. It was one of the few nights that Teri slept straight through. She wasn’t wakened by heat spots or nightmares or the activities of her parents when they joined her in the bed some hours later.

Next morning Teri rose and performed the same scant ablutions and found some clothes to put on in her drawer. This was no guarantee that the clothes were clean. May hated to see things lying about and she kept all the clothes in drawers , clean or dirty.
Teri spread some jam on a thick slice of bread and asked her mother if she could go out.
“Go where you like” said May, then as an afterthought she said “Go and see old John. See if they’ve let him out of the jail yet”.

Teri did not want to see old John. She wanted to be by herself in the cold clean air. Soon she was engaged in one of her favourite games, seeing how far she could run before the stitch in her side made her stop. It must have been about an hour when Teri found herself surrounded by a crowd of people, some of them trying to attack her. She was being called filthy, a liar, other names she did not know. Once again she was rescued and escorted by a policeman.

“Teri’s had a little bit of trouble in the street” he told May. Mr John Maitland must have been very upset by yesterday’s business. He took his own life last night”. May looked at the young policeman, then slowly a calculating look entering her eyes, she said, “If Mr John Maitland took his own life then I was right, He had been up to something with Teri”. “Teri cleared My Maitland. We fully accepted his story. It was a very upsetting business for both parties, Maybe you should try to get Teri away for a while – get away yourself. Have you any relatives you can go and visit till things cool down a bit? Mr Maitland was very well thought of by a lot of people”.

“Well, a lot of people thought wrong then, didn’t they? An innocent person will stand their ground. As for going away, I don’t see why I should. I am an innocent party here. Nobody would offer to take care if Teri. The place for Teri is one of these homes for correction of wayward girls.”

“Teri is far too young for one of these institutions” said the policeman, “There is no where we can place her even for her own protection. She is going to have to be looked after for a while. Don’t let her out on her own”.

“Teri is just going to have to take her chances. She is out on my control. She’s the one who told the lies. A home would be the making of her. Her lies will cause real trouble one day”.

The End

25th May 2007 - Bedroom arrangements

He tried to fondle me today. I know he thought I was my Mum, I know he wasn't trying to fondle his daughter but as he leered into me, licked, then puckered his lips and raised his hand towards my left boob I was appalled. I hope my disgust didn't show in my face - I hope he didn't think his wife was recoiling from him, revolted by his touch. I hope he didn't realise it was me too - he'd be disgusted with himself.

Earlier in the visit one of the housekeeping staff had been talking to us at our table. Shouting questions at him "Who's this then? Who's this come to visit you?". She knows who I am, but seemed to think it helpful to quiz Dad about me. He couldn't remember my name or who I was so she shouted answers for him "This is your daughter. Your big grown up daughter." He looked at me through his foggy eyes, trying to focus, not focus his eyes so much as his brain. Trying to place me, trying to slot my face into his hall of memories, his mental portait gallery. Unfortunately the older I get, the more I look like my Mum. Not remarkably so, but the underlying resemblance is more marked the older I get.

When the housekeeper left Dad asked me "What are we going to do about the bedroom arrangements?". With a certain degree of trepidation I asked what he meant, but before he could formulate an answer I said "You have your bedroom here Dad. I have my one at home. All your things are here, in your own room". "And you want it to stay that way do you? That's fine by you from now on?" he asked he face showing the all too familiar expression of resigned disappointment he often wore when I was growing up. He'd always let me know he was disappointed without actually saying so.
"Yes, that's fine by me" I said. I felt I was being cruel but what could or should I have done I wonder.

But I do hope he knew on some level that it was me who had visited. I think he did as as I was going out the door he said "I want to say truck but that's not it... Van... no lorry. I want to say lorry". He was sorry. I kissed his cheek and patted his face "It's ok Dad, it's part of the illness. I'll see you tomorrow".

17th May 2007 - Take her to the piss house

Frieda was on day room duty today - with Graham. Graham looks and speaks like he's ex-army. He's obviously hard as glass but he's had discipline somewhere because he's very moderated in what he says, to whom and he's got the smarts to judge his audience. Frieda doesn't have that level of ability - or she just doesn't care who hears her, or who she offends. "I'll no change fur anyone. Like me or lump me".
They deal with their jobs and the things it throws at them - sometimes literally - very differently.

Frieda's manner is that she sort of flirts with people. It's almost as if she flirts with an unseen beau, as if she's putting on a show for someone she's really trying to amuse. Normally. But Graham was with focus of her flirt today. He shouted on her to help him put Annabelle back in her chair after her breakfast - an hour and a half after her breakfast but better late than never I'd have thought. "Gie it anither 10 minutes an' all take her tae the piss hoose any roads" she shouted back. Graham either saw the fixed face on me or is genuinely a carer because he shouted back "That's a bit selfish is it no?" And because it was Graham she acquiesed without a murmur. Anyone else would have had an earful.

When she got back Anne-Marie accused her of stealing the banana she'd put aside for lunch. "A banana? Wit would I want wi a banana ? A banana's no big enough, ye need a cucumber. Eh girls? Eh Graham? Are you hiding a banana or a cucumber? Or are you more of a gherkin man ? Ye need a cucumber, banana's just don't have the girth. Eh Lily? You need a cucumber no a banana eh Lily?" Lily responded "I'd like a banana hen, that's awfy kind of ye" and as she goes to get one "She's one fucking filthy bitch that yin, thinks I'm daft, but at least I'm getting a nice banana oot of her - an I'll see an gie it a wash too."

9th May 2007 - Cbeebies

I found a calendar the home had given me - just after New Year - today. It's like one your pre-school child would make for you - a big photo of them and one of those little two inch by one inch date calendars glued onto a piece of card. It's tragic. It's hideous. My Dad's gaunt, worn, confused face, so scared, so sad, and below that the days of the next year of his life. Will he get to the end of this calendar? What, in the name of any fucking deity in the Uni-fucking-verse, would make anyone think that it was a good idea to make these things for relatives?

Just now I can't go in to see Dad. Ellie's been ill, contagiously so, and even when she sleeps, I'm not sure that I might not be carrying germs that would be unwise to introduce into a hothouse full of very vulnerable lives, a big draft of germy cold air into an orchid house. It's not a good idea. I've told him. But he won't remember. He'll feel deserted, he is deserted.

When I found the calendar I felt so sad. I want to go and see him but I can't. But the calendar made me so angry, and it did when I was given it. I can't understand why anyone trained to understand about dignity, about personal rights, about human decency would think that making a calendar with a photo of a shadow,a fragment of a living ghost would be a "nice wee gift for one of the family".

There's a corridor in the home where the walls are adorned with pictures painted by the residents. Or at least the residents of about 2 years ago. They are framed. Someone else has written on what the painter had given as a title. Some of the painters are dead. Most of the paintings are colourful splodges, but even with artistic license, look like the scrawls of a child younger than Ellie. She can make a flower, she can make a house, she can make a person - with tummy button - and she can make a car. It's just horrible to look at them. I don't understand why they are there. Maybe I should the home administrators why they are there, because the only reason I can think of is that they are there so they can be pointed to, with a "we do painting for those that are interested" on the introductory walk round. The folk that painted them are either "deid" or "awa' tae the moon" and wouldn't even know their own picture. I'm annoyed that more isn't understood about dementia. I'm not annoyed, I'm furious, it's a huge and growing problem. And I'm feeling hugely guilty because I can't go and see him just now. And I'm feeling even guiltier for the slight relief that I feel for not having to go in to the home, for not having to smell, not see, not be there.