We are now just one short week away from The
English Christmas, school is bursting with excitement and our Christmas
holidays will soon begin (see post Welcome Christmas). I too am carried away on this wave of delirious
expectation, but we momentarily put this euphoria aside as Mama now confronts
her first emotional crisis at Warley Psychiatric and Geriatric Hospital. After
working there only a short while as a Nursing assistant with the elderly
patients, she comes home in tears: Mama
has just had her first encounter with the most unwelcome of hospital
visitors; death. Emily, her favourite patient has died. Mama is
openly weeping and clearly incensed at the unfair fate that has befallen this elderly lady. ‘Why did Emily have to die? she
was the sweetest and kindest soul, such a lovely and gentle person. Why could it not be that old bat Mrs Maynard who is always making our
life on the ward so difficult? It’s so unfair! and she bursts into a fresh
fit of sobbing. I am only nine and Sis is only four, and we do not really know
how to comfort Mama, so we just silently hug her from either side and after a
while the sadness that envelopes her recedes, and along with it the tears.
After
wiping her eyes and gathering herself she tells us in her most jolly
voice that we will also celebrate Christmas the English way with turkey,
roast potatoes and mince pies to follow for desert. Mama is not
sure how to make this all, but she will ask her fellow English work
companions. Mama also tells us that on Christmas Day, each ward at
the Hospital will hold their own party for the patients and staff. If we
girls
are good, Mama will take us along to her own ward, Jasmine to say hello
to the
staff meet the patients and enjoy the celebrations. A party! An English
Christmas party with English Christmas food! Sis and I look at one other
with glee. We cannot wait and don’t care if the patients we meet will have an
average age of one-hundred and are all senile to boot. A party is a party even in
a psychiatric hospital surrounded by the old, the mad and sometimes even both
together. Mama’s grief is now spent, and she gathers herself and resumes her
role as our Mama. And so concludes the episode of Emily’s passing, the first
death Mama encounters in her work at Warley Hospital. Sis and I will never
again have to comfort Mama in this way. Thereafter, Mama gradually becomes
immune to the agonizing emotions evoked by this most frequent of unwanted caller.
It
is now the last day of school before we finally
break up for the Christmas Holidays, and the day passes in a flurry of
wonderful non-academic activities. We open the school day with a special
morning service, and after filing into the main hall in strict class
order, we all
gather to sing an assortment of special Christmas songs called Carols. I
sit
next Sylvia who is also sits next to me in class, and all around us are
the
rest of our classmates. Watching over us all are our class teachers, and
watching over the teachers is the headmaster, Mr Quinnel so everyone is
on their
very best behaviour. Along with the same Christmas meal which everyone
must eat
(see post Welcome Christmas), everyone In England must also sing the same songs, but I don’t
mind because I think they are beautiful and put me in a happy and festive mood;
Away In A Manger, We Three Kings, O come
All Ye Faithful , While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks By Night, Ding Dong
Merrily On High. The names of the tunes resonate with familiarity in
my
nine-year-old mind, I already know the words to most off-by-heart and
heartily sing along with the other children in the large hall. I take a
sneak
look at William, or Billy, as we call him who is seated not far away and
look to see how his lips are moving as he sings along. He told me in
class
before we started to file into assembly hall that he would sing his own
version
of the Carols and proceeded to offer me a sneak preview: While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks By Night would become While Shepherds Wash Their Socks By Night,
and We Three Kings Of Orient Are, Bearing
Gifts We Travel Afar, would in turn become We Three Kings Of Orient Are, One In A Taxi, One In A Car and so
on.
It’s hard to see from where I am if he really is Washing His Socks By Night,or Travelling in A taxi Or In A Car
as he
said he would. In any case, I would never dream of doing such a thing. Billy does not realize that he is playing with fire. You see, Mr Quinnel is a man
of many talents. As well as Headmaster, he
also plays the piano at morning assembly and he is doing exactly this today. Mr Quinnel has told us children that he has eyes in the back of
his head, so even if his back is turned to us as he plays the piano at
the front of the school hall, he knows exactly what is happening
behind him. No monkey stuff ! he sternely warns us all. If Mr Quinnel were to hear even a
whiff of somebody washing their socks, or travelling by taxis or cars, that person would be toast. I already stand
out enough with my
dark skin, wavy dark hair and strange-sounding Spanish name; drawing any
further attention to
myself by singing the wrong words to sacred English Christmas songs is
the last
thing I would want to be doing. However, I cannot help but secretly
admire
Billy for his individuality as well as for his kissing skills. The
kiss-chase
game that I encountered at my first English school in Bloxham has now
resumed, and even though Billy is not Richard, the boy with the
cobalt-blue
eyes with whom I shared that magical first kiss (see post This Lion Can Talk), he comes a good
second. Once again, Billy likes me and I like Billy.
The classroom Christmas party has also now come and
gone, and along with it vast consumed quantities of mince pies, sausage rolls and
crisps. I am now beginning to wish that every school day was like this one. Finally,
it is the turn of distributing the mountain of Christmas cards residing inside
the school post box that have been accumulating since the post box was
installed a few short weeks ago. This is the most exciting part of the school
day, Mrs Bagley has encouraged us children to send out cards to one another and
this is also exactly what I have done. Even though I secretly think that it is
way more sensible to just greet everyone you pass with a simple Merry
Christmas and save your wrists the enormous bother (see post Welcome Christmas), I have
got into the English spirit and written out card to all of the girls in my
class and a few of the boys. Just as the rest of my class mate, I am equally
captivated by this new English ritual evolving before me. Two of the lucky
children, Michael and Jane are selected for the important task of opening the
post box and distributing out the cards. I wish it could be me, but I content
myself with the probable mountain of cards that I will soon have piling up in
front of me, I am expecting as many back as I sent out. And the distribution
begins.
There goes Michael and Jane flitting from desk to
desk, dropping their precious cargo in front of this and that fortunate recipient. Piles of cards
slowly begin to accumulate on the desk in front of each child. Each child
except me. Michael and Jane move deftly from one end of the classroom
efficiently executing their task, passing me many times, but never stopping.
Silently I squirm with discomfort as the excited squeals of my class mates fill
the room; the growing mountain of cards in front of them sees no end. Soon the
cards are almost distributed and still I have not received a single card.
Finally, to my relief, Michael stops in front of my desk and deposits a single
card in front of me with the name Marie on the envelope. My heart bursts with
happiness, now I will also start to accumulate my own mountain of cards. But
this does not happen. Within a few short minutes the entire contents of the
post box have been delivered and my net sum of this task has been just one
solitary card. I look around as the other children enthusiastically begin to
rip open their precious bounty, and a wave of humiliation washes over me. Who
was the one friend in the class that thought of me? at least there is one
person that cares for me, I think to myself. I silently open the card to
reveal its sender; no class mate, rather the card is from Mrs Bagley herself
who has sent a card to every child in the class.
Mrs Bagley glances at me as I look up after opening my
card, and our eyes momentarily lock. She does not speak, but across the divide
of the classroom separating her desk from mine, her gaze conveys a compassion
and understanding which I am very grateful for. Just as when I turned up at
school on the first day of term in Hot Pants and she said nothing (see post Hot Pants),
Mrs Bagley makes it seem perfectly normal that one child in the class
receives a solitary Christmas card, and that from the teacher, whilst
everybody
else is inundated with piles of cards from their class mates. Deep down
we both
know that this is not so. After school is over, I pick up my one card
and walk
the short journey home to 51 Crescent Road with this precious gift. Not a
single class
mate considered me worthy of a Christmas card. Not even Sylvia or Billy.
This painful realization engulfs me in a heavy blanket of sadness
weighed down with a mantle of shame. And slowly I begin to comprehend,
that regardless of how well I speak their language or sing their songs in this Land Of The English, I have never have been and never will be one of them. The girl in the school register may have long ago been renamed Marie Garrido (see post A Girl Named Marie), but the girl that arrives home and turns the key in the front door is and always has been Maria del Carmen Garrido Sanz.
To be continued........
Next post January 14.1.2018: Carry On Christmas Cards
Note: All written content is the intellectual
property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some
additions from private family archives.
It's December
1972 and the demise of Papa's rabbits (see post Farewell Rabbits), along with the failed attempts at baking
and frying (see posts Home
Alone and English Breakfast), and the resulting burnt leg are
all soon forgotten. This is because something way more excitement is waiting
for us all around the corner, and this is called The English Christmas. In a faraway land called America, its thirty-seventh President, Richard Nixon has meanwhile just announced an escalation of hostilities between the United States of America and North Vietnam. Beginning December 18th, over 20,000 tons of bombs will fall on the cities of Hanoi and Haiphong. This and other equally monumental world events do not touch our lives, as the most English of celebrations unfolds before us at 51 Crescent Road.
Mama tells me
that the English celebrate their Christmas on the twenty-fifth, the
day after we have celebrated ours on the night of the twenty-fourth. On
this day they will all eat a big meal with turkey, roast potatoes and lots of boiled
vegetables. Everybody must eat the same meal and I cannot understand this; In
Spain every family can choose to eat whatever they want. What happens if you
want to be different and for example eat beef, chicken or even pork? I ask
Mama, but she cannot give me a satisfactory answer. Perhaps if you dare to be
different and stand out in this way, the neighbours might not talk to you in
the same way that Mrs McCabe is not talking to Papa because he fried the
rabbits (see post Farewell Rabbits). I can only conclude that, for the sake of English
neighbourly accord, its best that everyone eats the same meal. Some families
even go one stage further and eat their meal wearing silly papers crowns on
their heads. Mama and I find this even more perplexing. Why do the English feel
the need to dress up like children in this way? Is it to make themselves feel
better because they must all eat the same meal?
At school,
everyone seems to be getting very excited about the coming celebrations and our
teacher, Mrs Bagley is getting us into the Christmas spirit by telling us that
we will soon be putting up our own Christmas tree in the classroom and
decorating the room with streamers. Lastly, we will be making our own Christmas cards
to send out Merry Christmas greetings to everyone. I don’t really
understand the excitement about Christmas cards, to me it feels like a
pointless ritual, why can't everyone just say Merry Christmas out
aloud to
every person they pass? That way they could save their wrists from
exhaustion, as well as doing their pockets a favour. These Christmas cards are not free! I do not however think
I will share this thought with anyone, the
shops are piled high with boxes of Christmas cards wherever you look,
and I am
beginning to realise that this ritual, just like The Tea Break (see post
Watching The English Part I And II) is
sacred and not to be messed around with.
As
well as
talking about the Christmas tree that we will put up and decorate, and
the Christmas cards that we will be making to send out our
exhausting Merry
Christmas greetings, my class mates also talk amongst one another about a
wonderous man called Father Christmas
who delivers the English children their Christmas gifts which are all ripped
open on Christmas day. So, on top of having their Christmas meal on a different
day to us in Spain, the English children also get their presents on a different
day and from a different person. I am used to getting my few Christmas presents
on Reyes which falls on January 6th, delivered by The Three Wise Men
who travel together on camels from lands afar to deliver their carefully
selected gifts to eagerly-awaiting children. In
England, an old bearded old man is considered capable of doing the work of
three, and he chooses as his mode of transport, not camels but a sledge pulled
by reindeers. What a sensible chap I conclude looking out of the school
window on this cold and dreary winter’s day, Father Christmas would be hard
pressed to find camels to work with him in weather such as this. What puzzles
me most however, is the manner in which Father
Christmas chooses to deliver his gifts to the also-eagerly-awaiting
English children; he slides down the chimney in the dead of night, sack
of presents in tow. This is
indeed bizarre behaviour, and for an old man like Father Christmas a
rather
undignified way of entering a home.
The English
and their Christmas traditions are perplexing, I think to myself. They wish
one another Merry
Christmas via written messages on multiple bits of paper when they could
just as well say it out aloud whenever they meet, they must all religiously eat the
same meal otherwise the neighbours won’t talk to them, and the gifts are
delivered by an old man sliding down a chimney in the dead of night. Why don’t
they just pension off the old dear and give the job to someone a bit younger
who might actually realise that a house has something called a door for
gaining entry? This philosophical contemplation is however short-lived, for my
attention is soon diverted to an object of even greater fascination. Along with
the usual food supplies from the weekly expedition to the nearby Co-op supermarket,
Mama brings home some nuts, and along with it something that I have never seen
in my short life; a nutcracker. I cannot comprehend why someone would create
such an obsolete device when Mother nature has an abundance of its own
nutcrackers, simply called stones.
On many a warm
Tenerife evening, I distinctly recall gathering together with the other children in our street on the pavement outside
our homes, and there we would enthusiastically crush almonds with such stones. Whilst the Mamas made themselves comfortable seated on nearby
chairs and stools, simultaneously supervising us and exchanging their village
news with one another, we children happily cracked away. Admittedly, the stones
did come with certain disadvantages, such as the occasional crushed finger
accompanied by lots of wailing. This would then lead onto heated arguments
between the respective Mamas as to which child was at fault, almond crusher, or
owner of crushed fingers. It may take the Mamas all evening to resolve the
dispute, by which time we children will have blissfully resumed our nut crushing. Many
a long-standing family feud has begun over a simple nut.
It suddenly dawns on me that the
nutcracker in my hand is, after all, a magnificent instrument of world peace; no
stones equals no crushed
fingers, and this means no heated arguments between the Mamas. This is
turn equals harmonious village tranquility. By golly, the
foresight and wisdom of these English will never cease to amaze me! I
soon however also forget about the nutcracker, because a few days later Mama
returns from her work shift at Warley Psychiatric and Geriatric
Hospital in a distressed state. She has just had her first encounter with the most unwelcome of hospital visitors; death. Emily, her favourite patient has died.
To be
continued...
Next post:
31st December: Hello Shame
Note:
All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material
is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
Mrs McCabe,
our elderly neighbour to the left-hand-side of our home is not talking to Papa
because he has fried the rabbits. Yes, you indeed heard correct, the rabbits! These were the same pet rabbits that lived at the
end of our garden in a hutch that Papa especially built, and the very
same pet rabbits that Mrs McCabe would lovingly coo over whenever she poked her head over
the other side of the garden fence into ours (see post Hot Pants). She had not
seen them for a while so asked Papa how they were, and he replied in a very-matter-of-fact
way that, Oh, Mrs McCabe, thank you for asking! They were absolutely delicious soaked in garlic and then lightly fried in olive oil.
Mr McCabe cannot believe her ears and is appalled that Papa can do such a thing.
She has told him in no uncertain terms that he is a disgusting barbarian and that in
England pets are not for frying. They are for nurturing and loving just as you
would do a member of your own family. Now Mrs McCabe won’t speak to Papa, and whenever
they coincide in the front or back garden she makes a point of ignoring him as
if he were not there.
I don’t think that
Papa really cares, but the problem is that if Mrs McCabe tells Mrs Hunter on the
right and then Mrs Robinson two doors down on the left, they might also decide
not to talk to Papa, and if they also see that he does not care, then they
might decide to stop talking to all of us. Then we would lose the friendship of
Mrs Robinson and I would not want that; Mrs Robinson told Sis and I on our
first day at 51 Crescent Road that we could call her Nanny Robbie because we
have no grandmother of our own here (see post Toast And Television), and I am very grateful
to Nanny Robbie for her kindness. If Nanny Robbie stops talking to us, then Sis and I
will lose the only person that cares for us in the whole of England aside from Mama
and Papa, and all because Papa fried the rabbits. I sincerely hope that Nanny Robbie does not withdraw her affection, for if this were to happen it would make me enormously sad.
Much
as I like Mrs McCabe, I
cannot really fathom why she is so upset. The rabbits were indeed
lovely, but I
of course understand that all domestic animals when no longer useful can
be
eaten. This is what we have always done in Tenerife with the goats,
pigs, and
chicken that we had in our yard, and this is exactly what Papa has done
with
the rabbits. It will take Mrs McCabe a long time to forgive Papa for
what he has done, but for Sis and I, the rabbits are soon forgotten as
we resume our everyday lives.
Every
Saturday, Mama, Sis and I continue to walk past the Larry Morgan's photographic
studio on our way to the television rental shop. Once there, we will faithfully pay our few
pounds weekly rental fee for the black and white set taking pride of place in
the lounge of our home at 51 Crescent Road (see post Girl With Television). The burn on my leg
is healing well, and in its place a scar is slowly beginning to form. This scar will remind me
for life of the disastrous attempt to concoct the perfect English Breakfast (see post English Breakfast). Sis is
now four so she no longer has any use for her push chair, and as we walk past on
this weekend day in the Brentwood of the early 1970's, I always make sure to
slow down the pace. That way I can absorb the sight of wonderful bicycles on
display in the next-door shop window for as long as possible before they once again
disappear out of view behind me. My yearning is made all the more acute because
I have already been inside the premises with Mama, Papa and Sis and have
surreptitiously seen from a close-up distance what has been missing from my
life up until now; the fabulous world of bicycles (see post Toast And Television)
Soon
after arriving in Brentwood, Papa informs us that we are going to have our
family portrait taken so that we can send it back home to the family in Spain.
And this is how we end up paying a visit to the Larry Morgan's photographic
studio with the captivating bicycles just feet away from me. On the morning of
the visit we all dress up and Larry Morgan proceeds to immortalise us in a
family portrait that captures the essence of the moment and the era; Mama and
Papa take pride of place smiling gently into the camera, a chubby and
cherubim-faced Sis sits innocently in-between Mama and Papa's lap, and I stand
on the outer edge of the photo next to Mama, wistfully looking ahead as my wavy
dark tresses cascade carelessly around my small shoulders. My outfit is yet
another hand-me down from another of Papa's kind work friends, and I am growing
so fast that the sleeves are already becoming too short. My dark Spanish eyes,
the window to the soul, stare vacantly ahead exuding
a sad and faraway look. And they do not lie. England may have luxurious green
grass, television, Mars bars, salt and vinegar crisps, cream cakes and other
such marvels that I could have never dreamed of in my former life, but I am
still yearning for that place I once called home. A place where I look
and have a name just like everybody else. Here I do not (see post Share The Moon).
Unbeknown to Mama and Papa, at night-time I escape on my magic carpet and return
home. I fly back over the patchwork of emerald-coloured fields that stretched
out before me outside the aeroplane window on my arrival in this strange land many moons ago, turn down
towards the warm waters of the Atlantic, skirt the coast of Africa, over the
mountains and finally I am back on my beautiful Island. Once again on my
beach, I listen to the roar of the waves as they crash on the shoreline,
feeling the hot black sand on the soles of my bare feet, and the power of the
scorching sun on my little face. I look up and see the majestic Teide volcano in the
distance, silently watching over me as it did on the day of my birth, and
it’s a safe and warm feeling. ‘Mari Carmen! dónde has estado? where have you been?’ the mountains,
the sun and the beach all ask me in unison. But I am too busy to answer for I
have already jumped into the warm Atlantic waters, and after I have had my fill
of paradise I lay down on the black sand and dry off in the hot sun. After a while I
fall into a deep sleep, and once the first light of dawn begins to break
outside my bedroom window, the bewitching nocturnal adventure slowly
concludes. By the time the sun has risen into the morning sky I am once again
on the emerald island of The English (see post Watching The English Part III).
Along with the demise of the rabbits, the failed attempts at baking and the
resulting burnt leg, the bitter-sweet yearning for my never-to-return previous life is soon eclipsed. This is because, just around the corner, something magical awaits us all and this is called The English Christmas.
To be continued...
Next post: 17th December: Welcome Christmas
Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
After a while, Mama is no longer working at the Thermos factory assembling
flasks day in and day out. Papa has managed to get Mama a job at the nearby
Warley Psychiatric and Geriatric Hospital where he is also working (see post Hot Pants). Just like
Papa, she too will now be working there as a Nursing Assistant looking after the old, the mad and sometimes even
both together. Sis is still not big enough to go to school, so Mama takes her
out of the day-care centre near to the Thermos factory and puts her with a
local lady who looks after children called a childminder. Mama explains to me that a childminder is what a Mama
must use when she works and her own Mama is not around to help look after
the children. I am not particularly enamoured with this explanation;
contemplating the child care arrangements of a four-year-old baby sister is not particularly high on the
list of priorities for any nine-year-old including myself.
Today is Friday, and if it falls on a day when Mama is not working at Warley
Hospital, she will do the weekly food shop at the nearby Co-op supermarket
located just at end of our street on Crescent Rd. Whenever possible, I love to
accompany Mama on her weekly shop. We are now on a half-term school holiday, so
today is such a day and as I walk down the shopping aisles alongside Mama’s
shopping trolley with Sis tucked away inside, I happily toss into the cart all
the English cakes that catch my eye. My cooking attempts have so far
proved futile, I am still frustrated at my inability to turn out a decent cake (see post Home Alone), so I reason to
myself that if I am unable to bake them, I may as well purchase them. And childishly
ignorant of the cost this will incur, into the shopping cart they all pile:
Battenberg cakes, Lemon tarts, Mr Kipling’s
French fancies, iced tarts. After a while, I have amassed a tidy supply of
cakes to keep me busy for the following week and Mama’s shopping trolley is
piled higher than ever, a lot of it with goods introduced by me. On these Fridays
that I am not at school, Mama’s food shopping bill is noticeably higher, but she
says nothing. I think that she is happy to see me so excited over simple things
such as English cakes. Mama does care much for cakes, but she is impartial to
chocolate and her own special treat on these Friday morning shopping expeditions
is a small bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate, or to be more specific a Fruit and Nut
chocolate bar.
After
we return home from our supermarket adventure and unpack all our purchases, Mama
takes the Cadbury's fruit and Nut chocolate bar and puts it away in the top drawer of the kitchen cupboard
in-between the larder and fridge. There the chocolate bar will solemnly reside
awaiting Mama until The Cleaning Day
has come and gone. On this day, Mama will tidy the house from top to bottom,
after which she will sit at the kitchen table and savour her delicious chocolate
bar along with a freshly brewed English cup of tea, all the whilst contemplating
the cleanliness and order around her. Mama is clearly becoming very English and
already understanding the value of The Tea Break
(see post Watching The English Part II). Unfortunately, every now and then Mama is unable to
partake of this important post-cleaning ritual because I have got to the
chocolate bar first.
As
well as English cakes, I am also into English chocolate big time, and even
though Cadbury's does not attain the level of the treasured Mars Bars (see post Home Alone), from time to
time I cannot resist the temptation of Mama's chocolate bar seductively gleaming at me from the
kitchen drawer. If it could talk it would shout out to me, Eat me! which I sometimes do. This leaves Mama with a gleaming empty wrapper the
next time she opens the drawer to collect her reward after a hard morning of cleaning with cup of tea
in hand. Mama is understandably irritated and tells me that
if I must finish off the chocolate bar before her, I am to do the decent thing
and to also to discard of the wrapper. The audacity of being met with an empty chocolate
wrapper surrounded by the odd chocolate crumbs smacks of outright impunity and is too much, even for a patient
and understanding Mama as she is.
Unlike
Mama and I, Papa is neither into cakes nor chocolate, rather he likes his
dinners and along with it if possible, large quantities of meat. I have already
got into big-time trouble frying sausages for the ubiquitous English Breakfast, which resulted in
nothing more than a serious burn on my leg (see post English Breakfast). Papa now goes one step further and creates his own culinary
disaster. In doing so he will earn himself the eternal contempt of our English neighbour.
To be continued...
Next post: 3rd December: Farewell Rabbits
Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
After my
school day at the Junction Road County Junior school is over, I while away the
long afternoons at home on my own. Mama and Papa are both working so I must
look after myself (see post Home Alone). Papa is not far away at the nearby Warley Hospital looking
after the old and the mad and sometimes both together, whilst Mama is at the
Thermos factory a bit further away assembling thermos flasks day in and day
out. Initially I am captivated by the
newly discovered art of something called baking, but after a while the
glamour and aura of baking subsides; I am becoming despondent from continuously
turning out one gooey mess after another with no hint of a cake in sight. I am
done with baking, it's time for a change of direction and I correspondingly
direct my culinary skills to the top part of the cooker: I am going to try my
hand at frying! In doing so, I will break Papa's most insistent rule; never
to use the cooker when I am home alone. This blatant disobedience
will bring with it serious consequences.
The
cooker in our kitchen at 51 Crescent Road runs with gas, and is for a
nine-year-old as myself easy to use. I have seen with Mama on the
television soap operas such as Coronation Street and Crossroads how the
English eat something in the mornings called The English Breakfast.
On an enormous plate they pile an assortment of foods; fried sausages,
fried bacon, fried eggs, beans and toast, all of which is then hearitly
washed down with gallons of tea. The English Breakfast will now
be the direction in which I develop my budding culinary skills. After
carrying out an inventory of Mama's kitchen, I come to the conclusion
that my English Breakfast will have to be a somewhat reduced version. The beans
and toast is no problem, the larder has plenty of supplies for both.
But the other components of the breakfast plate present me with a
trickier challenge. Friday's is Mama's shopping day and on this Thursday
afternoon as I peek into the fridge I am met with scant offerings: No
eggs, no bacon, not much of anything really. But I do find a
packet of sausages, the same type of sausages that Mama fed us as paté
spread on toast when we were newly-arrived in Brentwood not so long ago
(see post Toast and Television). Now we all know better that the sausages are raw and must be fried before consuming.
I now have all the ingredients I need to create my own version of The English Breakfast; fried sausages with toast and beans, and my
mind races with excitement at the thought of the mouth-watering dish
which I will turn out within the next few minutes. Rushing to the cooker
with sausages in hand, I extract from within the oven a frying pan to
begin the task at hand. Even though Mama sporadically uses the oven for
heating food, it's still the most logical place in our family to store
pots and pan (see post Home Alone), and after placing the pan on top of the cooker I fill it with oil and then turn on the gas supply. I
have seen how Mama waits for the oil to be hot enough so that she can begin
frying, so this is also what I do and once the oil begins to spit and
fizzle I throw in the entire pack of sausages. But the entire packet of
sausages overwhelms the frying pan, and after a few minutes I am having
difficulties turning them all in a timely fashion so that they will not
burn. My arm is getting tired from reaching up to turn over the sausages, so I push a
chair alongside the cooker and step on it so that my arm will now be at
cooker level. But as I do so, I momentarily lean into the frying
pan and in an instant it topples over, cascading along with it the entire scorching contents over my right leg.
My
culinary excitement is short-lived and instantly forgotten. The painful
sensation of burning oil still frying on my leg is nothing compared to
the distress traversing my mind as I comprehend with horror that Papa
will now discover that I expressly disobeyed his most important command
and used the cooker in his absence. What will I do? of course I will
have to keep this a secret, but how can I do this with a leg that is now
covered with a throbbing red patch and which is slowly giving way to an
enormous burn blister? This mess is all my own doing, I should have
obeyed Papa and not touched the cooker. A wave of distress cascades over me and I collapse
on the kitchen floor in a crumpled sobbing heap; weeping for my
burnt leg, weeping for the disappointment Papa will feel when he
discovers I have disobeyed him, but most of all weeping because there is
no-one here for me at this difficult moment and I must comfort myself.
The
valley of tears eventually subsides and clarity once again repossesses
me. At all costs I must keep from Papa what I have done and set about
destroying evidence of the events that have just unfolded; when he comes home he must see no sign that I ever used the entire appliance.
I throw away the sausages, clean the cooker, wash the frying pan and
return it to its home inside the oven. Lastly, I take a fork and burst
the clear blister that has formed over
the burn on my leg. When Mama and Papa return home
from work, I make no mention of the incident and keep my still-throbbing
hot leg
well out of sight covered with a layer of tights. Several days have now
passed and I comprehend that soon I can no longer hide the burn; the leg
feels terribly hot and the wound is beginning to throb incessantly with
pain. On top of that I am continuously having to sneak away so that I
can pierce yet another blister with a yet another fork. When I
eventually own up to what has happened and remove the tights to show
Mama and Papa my right leg, they are both horrified. By now the burn is
an ugly red welt covered with a thin layer of white oozing pus. Mama tells Papa that I must be taken to the doctors right way.
The doctor is very serious when he seems me at his surgery with Papa that same day. He tells Papa that the
wound is infected and that it will take a long time to heal. On top of
that it will cause permanent scarring. Why was this child not brought
in straight way? Papa falls unusually silent and I say nothing. I am
too ashamed to tell the Doctor that I used the cooker against Papa's
express wishes. Even though the Doctor is a kind man and tries to be as gentle as possible, I wince with pain as the
white oozing substance is meticulously scraped away. After the wound
has been cleaned, it is covered with a cooling spray and finally covered
with a clean layer of thin gauze material. Papa is given instructions
on the daily care of the wound; the bandage must be changed regularly,
and the disinfecting spray applied with even more frequency. This will
all help to combat the infection which has set in and I am to return to
the surgery regularly to show the Doctor how the wound is healing. At
home I tell Papa
that I am sorry for disobeying him and causing all this trouble. Papa
says nothing, I know that he is annoyed with me for disobeying his
orders just as the doctor was annoyed with him for not bringing me to
the surgery earlier. But Papa cannot really say
anything, because deep down he understands that a nine-year-old should be frying sausages after school with her Mama and not alone.
I
am still alone after school, and now really understand that I may
never, ever use the gas cooker without supervision. The scar which is
slowly beginning to form on my leg will serve as a reminder of this for
the rest of my life. Alongside the Mars Bar
and packet of salt and vinegar crisps that Mama regularly leaves me for
my after-school snack, I now also find a delicious cream cake and I am in ecstasy as I savour this new culinary delight. I also never knew that such a delicious thing existed. My leg still aches from the burn, but the cream cake goes a long way to mitigate the pain. Every now and then I still venture out to the back garden to check on
Papa's rabbits, but they are no longer the cute bunnies from a while back
so no longer enthral me in the same way. However, our
next-door-neighbour, Mrs McCabe's enthusiasm seems to not have waned in
the slightest. She continues to coo over them like little children
whenever she comes to the back garden and pokes her head over the fence
(see post Hot Pants).
I conclude that this must be a very English characteristic which I do
not share in any way. Personally, I would rather any day sit indoors and
watch television surrounded by a sea of multiple Mars Bars, salt and vinegar crisps and now heavenly cream cakes, than hold a rabbit in my lap. But then I am not Mrs McCabe.
On weekend mornings, Sis and I still run to
Mama’s bed where we all cuddle up to one another for warmth, but I must be
careful with the burn on my leg which is beginning to heal over nicely but
still tender. Now I will have a scar to go with Mama's own and when we are old we
can both tell wondrous stories about how they came about. But for now, they are things we would rather not talk about. The distressing events surrounding both are
things that we would prefer to forget (see post Girl With Television).
To be continued...
Next post: 19th November: Cadbury's Dairy Milk
Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
I am only nine-years-old, but Papa tells me that I am a
big
enough girl to manage on my own after school until Mama returns from work at
the Thermos factory. It is the Autumn of 1972 and I have just moved up
to the nearby Junction Road County Juniors School from the even closer
Crescent Roads Infants school (see posts Peas And Poverty and Hot Pants). During this time alone,
I am to promise to be careful at all times and under no circumstances
to do either of the following; one is to leave the house, and two is
to never ever touch the gas cooker. Papa has taken an extended tea-break to pick me up from school after my school day is over, and as we walk the short journey to our home at 51 Crescent Road, I
solemnly promise to do neither. But as soon as Papa leaves to return to
work at Warley Hospital it dawns on me that he has suggested two
marvellous extra-curricular activities to fill up the empty hours alone
at home, and it does not take me long to break the first commandment.
Our
home has a meter for the electricity, this means that it periodically
runs out and when this happens you need to put a coin in the slot to
restore the flow. When I am home alone after school, Mama always makes
sure to leave me a ten-pence coin to make sure that I never run out of
electricity. She also leaves me a small snack for after school which is
ravenously devoured as soon as I arrive home. After a while I become
newly-hungry, what to do? I think to myself. The ten-pence coin gleaming on the kitchen
table next to my empty plate of sandwiches soon resolves my dilemma. I
pick up the coin and resolutely walk with it to the local store at the
end of the road, where I proceed to exchange it for a packet of salt and
vinegar crisps and a heavenly melt-in-the-mouth chocolate bar called a Mars.
My treasure trove has cost me all of five-pence and I am now in food
paradise. But now I have no intact coin for the meter, and if the supply
runs out I will have to spend the rest of the afternoon at home with no
electricity, and even worse, with no television. What have I done? This awful realisation is however soon discarded, the taste of the sumptuous Mars Bar
delicately melting in my mouth is appropriately distracting, and as I
turn the key in the lock I logically reason that neither Mama or Papa
are at home and with a bit of luck no-one will simply ever find out. I have
already broken Papa's first rule with impunity, it will not take me
long to break the second.
During these long solitary afternoons at home after school, the television set becomes my trusted
companion, and from it emanates the most marvellous new world of
captivating activities; one of them is called baking. In the school books that I read, the two main characters called Janet
and John get to bake cakes with their Mama, and I decide that this is
exactly what I want to do. But my own Mama is not at home, she is
working at the Thermos factory assembling flasks day in and day out; in any
case, her presence is irrelevant, even if she were home she would not
know what to do for she has never baked a cake in her life and neither
has her own Mama before her. Following in my Spanish Grandma's
footsteps, Mama uses the oven at our home in 51, Crescent Road for the
general storage of pots and pans and not much more.
Luckily
for me, there are things on the television called cooking programs to
teach me how to bake such a thing, so Mama's skills will not be needed. I am
transfixed as I watch the presenter converting a bunch of ingredients
into a shiny batter, transferring this to a nearby cake tin, sliding the
contents into the oven, and hey-presto, after a short while a delicious
cake appears for the viewers to drool over. It clearly seems so simple
that I reason no Mama's assistance will be needed. I am perfectly
capable of this procedure all on my own and rush into the kitchen to
create my own little peice of culinary heaven. Whilst doing this, I conveniently forget all about Papa's second command; never to use the gas cooker.
In any case, Papa's instructions were not that explicit I reason to
myself, he forbid me to use the gas cooker, no mention was made of an
oven.
I
raid the larder and fridge for the same baking ingredients that the
presenter on the television program has just used, find a bowl and in it
enthusiastically mix together liberal amounts of the same flour, sugar,
milk, egg, butter until it also becomes a glossy batter. This mixture
is then poured into the nearest thing I can find resembling a cake tin;
It's not really a cake tin, rather it is a square metallic dish that
Mama uses for heating food in the oven, but I can find nothing else so
it will have to do. I then slide the cake
tin into the oven, switch the gas dial onto mark four, sit back and
await with excitement for the appearance of my own exquisite creation. After
a suitable amount of time has elapsed I grab a towel and open the over
door to retrieve what I am certain will be the most marvellous cake. I am
disappointed. Residing in the square cake tin is still the same glossy
batter that I put into the oven just a short while earlier, it's just hotter.
The art of baking has eluded me. It's clearly not as simple as
it looks on the television, because the runny gooey mess in front of me
bears absolutely no resemblance to the delicate work of art turned out
by the presenter on his cooking show. On
top of this runny mess in the place of a delicious cake, I am also faced with
an additional dilemma; the electricity has just run out. The ten-pence
coin that Mama left me for putting into the meter when this happens has long ago been traded in for a delicious Mars Bar
and packet
of salt and vinegar crisps, so I am in a bit of a quandary. Now I have no
television, no heat from the electric fire in the corner of the living
room providing the only source of warmth in the entire house, and soon it will start to become dark. What will I tell Mama? Of course, I will have to lie. When Mama returns
home from work later that evening with Sis in tow, she finds me huddled in my coat and sitting
in a semi-darkened room. I tell her that the electricity has just run out literally minutes
before her arrival.
Mama is not stupid, she
takes one look around the room and informs me that the house is stone
cold, clearly the electricity has run out ages ago so I may as well own
up and tell her what I have done with the money. Now I am all of
nine-years-old and mature enough to reason that if you are caught out lying
you may as well come clean, so I tell Mama about the delicious Mars Bar and
packet of salt and vinegar crisps that I traded the money in for. Just
like me, she too adores chocolate bars so will surely understand why I
caved into temptation. Mama does not disappoint and I am not scolded.
Next time I am left alone after school, a heavenly Mars Bar and packet of salt and vinegar crisps miraculously appear besides my
plate of sandwiches and next to the usual ten-pence coin for the electricity
metre. Mama has understood my needs beautifully, I think to myself as I happily munch my goodies.
When
the afternoons are sunny, I sometimes forget about television and
baking and then wander into in the back garden and peek into the hutch
to look at Papa's ever-expanding rabbit family (see post Hot Pants).
After a while the glamour and aura of baking subsides; I am becoming
despondent from continuously turning out one gooey mess after another
with no hint of a cake in sight and decide to put baking aside for the
time being.
I have yet to realise that you cannot just randomly mix ingredients and
slide them into an equally randomly heated oven, rather you must follow
a precise set of instructions using something called a recipe.
I am done with baking, it's time for a change of direction and I
correspondingly direct my culinary skills to the top part of the cooker:
I am going to try my hand at frying! In doing so, I will break Papa's most
insistent rule; never, ever to use the gas cooker when I am home alone. This blatant disodience will bring with it serious consequences.
To be continued...
Next post: 5th November: English Breakfast
Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
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