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When I woke in the morning, Dad had gone again for a few weeks. Mum heard me stir and called me into her bedroom. ‘Hey, Ted,’ Mum said, using her nickname for me. ‘Come and put your hand on my tummy.’
She held my hand firmly to her stomach, and I felt something move under the skin. ‘That’s the baby’s foot,’ she said, her face lighting up.
I looked at her big belly in confusion. ‘How did it get there?’ I pointed to her belly button and she laughed.
A couple of weeks later I was taken to Nan and Pap’s. ‘The baby is on its way,’ Nan said gently, ‘so Mummy is in hospital.’
I worried. I didn’t really understand what was happening. But the next morning Nan took me on a bus to the hospital and held my hand as she led me to a bed where Mum lay, looking exhausted but happy. As we reached the bed, Nan lifted me up so I could look into the crib. There was a little baby with a screwed-up pink face, swaddled in a blue blanket.
‘Isn’t he lovely?’ said Mum. ‘His name is Paul. He’s your brother.’
I grabbed Nan’s hand again. Everything seemed too strange, and I tugged at her to leave. I’d had enough of Paul already. ‘I don’t really want a brother, thank you,’ I said as politely as I could.
Mum was in hospital for a few days, after which Nan walked me back home. I tried not to cry as she knocked on the door to our house. As we entered everything smelled different, the house seemed messier and it didn’t feel like home. Nan gave me a kiss goodbye and headed home to Pap. I ran upstairs to my room and cried; I’d desperately wanted to go back with her, but dared not say anything.
The next few weeks were filled with nappies, washing, bottles and crying. Gently I stroked his fuzzy peach scalp while he was asleep. I was growing to like him. He always seemed to like me reading my picture books to him, so perhaps having a baby brother wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Dad hated Paul crying and escaped out with his friends as much as he could. Tired from night feeding, Mum would let me take Paul out by myself in a big second-hand Silver Cross pram she’d borrowed. I proudly paraded him to my friends. ‘He’s my brother,’ I said proudly. ‘And it’s my job to look after him.’
Starting primary school gave me a chance to show off my reading skills. I loved going to school, though I did hate leaving Mum and Paul alone. I was used to having Mum’s time; now all of a sudden I had none.
Eventually we moved to a new council house in Churchill Avenue. Mum wanted us to go to a better school and live in a nicer area. The house was much bigger, with room for Paul and me to run around. By then Mum worked all hours, doing day and night shifts in a shoe factory. She always groaned when the bills arrived, and while Dad worked away we never had much food in the cupboards.
Mum walked me to my first day at lower school, only the second time she ever took me. I hated the mornings before school. My long hair was always knotted and tangled, and Mum had to yank the brush through. By the end of lower school Mum had had enough of the morning battle to brush my hair, so she placed a bowl on my head and cut around it.
I looked like a boy. I hated it. I clutched at my head, wondering what had happened. From that point on my hair was always kept short, Mum cutting it herself in the kitchen. ‘I’m not very good at this,’ she sighed. ‘But it’s just easier this way.’
The kids at school laughed at my hairstyle. They taunted me for having a boy’s name and tatty hair. At the age of six, I realised I didn’t fit in. My clothes were threadbare and my shoes worn to the sole. I was never invited back to anybody’s house for tea.
The closest person to me was my little brother, and I loved playing with him. He’d grown into a mischievous, adorable toddler with a mop of blond hair and a cheeky smile. He tried to follow me everywhere on his little red tricycle. He was always looking for attention from Mum – I’d just got used to not having any. In the evenings, if Dad was away, we’d be passed between babysitters and Nan and Pap while Mum worked until 9 p.m. But although Mum worked a lot, she, Paul and I were happy together.
Despite my age I could sense Mum and Dad’s marriage was falling apart, but occasionally we were able to pretend we were a happy family. At family barbecues or at TA events, sometimes Dad would chase us around with water pistols, laughing, and for a few minutes I could pretend everything was okay at home. On occasion he would surprise us all. Once he turned up after a few weeks away with a puppy, a beautiful tortoiseshell-coloured mongrel. We decided to name him Sam. We all loved him. Another time he brought us the biggest hand-made Easter eggs I’d ever seen.
I was eight when we met Dad’s friend Peter Bond-Wonneberger at one of the TA functions. Peter was in his early thirties, with dark hair brushed to the side and a wiry moustache. A smiling, happy guy, he always seemed up for a joke or laugh. He was married to Anne and they didn’t have kids. Anne didn’t seem that comfortable with our energy and playfulness, like Peter did.
‘Hello, Terrie and Paul!’ he beamed and crouched down to our height whenever he saw us. ‘Want to have a look at my camera?’ Peter was always snapping away.
Sometimes I wished Dad was more like him. Often they went off together to the TA Centre to develop photographs in a lab. Sometimes we were allowed in and saw them hanging on the line, dripping and smelling of chemicals.
Dad had gone off on a trip to Zimbabwe to see an old army friend, and asked Peter to pick him up from the airport. Peter arrived to collect us first. He was in a chatty mood, as usual, pulling on our seat belts, making sure we were comfortable.
‘What planes you hoping to spot, Paul?’ he asked.
‘Big ones!’ Paul giggled.
‘Great! I’ll get a shot of a jumbo for you,’ he replied.
It felt good to have an adult, especially a man, showing interest in our lives. On the way back we stopped off at Dunstable Downs for a breath of fresh air when Peter pulled out a cine camera.
‘Wow!’ said Paul. At four he didn’t quite understand it, but was impressed by all the buttons.
‘Hey, I know,’ said Peter with a huge grin. ‘Why don’t I take a film of both of you, eh? You can act, can’t you? Be fun to see yourself like in the movies!’
Mum and Dad laughed as Peter concentrated through the viewfinder, and Paul and I sprinted off, dancing hand in hand. I was in a light green dress with big sleeves that made me feel girly for once, despite my cropped hair.
That afternoon, Peter captured a rare moment: us, a happy family on film. As our mum and dad held hands, watching their giggling children playing in the fields, for half an hour we were genuinely a family.
Chapter 2
‘In the Picture’ (#u8c3278d8-cde6-50c1-809b-e54a04f9df02)
Paul
The summer before I started school, Peter came over, a camera slung around his neck like always. Peter went to chat with Mum in the kitchen and we overheard him.
‘We’ve got more rabbits than you can imagine. Would Terrie and Paul like to come over and choose one?’
I leapt up and down excitedly, clapping my hands with Terrie. Dad didn’t like pets, but he hadn’t been home for weeks, so maybe we could persuade Mum? We both ran out to the kitchen. The excitement must have been showing all over our faces.
Mum sighed, looking at us both. ‘I guess you heard Peter’s news.’ She paused. ‘All right, let’s go and see them this afternoon.’
Terrie and I leapt up and down cheering, and Sam joined in, barking loudly.
Peter drove us to his house later that afternoon. It was bigger than ours and had cats everywhere, on every chair, surface and floor.
‘It’s like a cattery in here,’ laughed Peter. ‘Would you like a glass of orange squash, kids?’
‘Yes please,’ we chimed in unison.
We sat at a table sipping our drinks and nibbling a digestive biscuit Anne had offered from an exciting-looking tin. Terrie was pulling funny faces at me while the adults were busy talking. I tried not to laugh as my mouth was filled with squash, but I choked and sprayed squash all over the table.
‘Paul!’ I heard Mum scold.
‘It’s okay, Cynth,’ Peter said, smiling at me, ‘he’s just excited. Maybe we should go out into the garden.’
I held Terrie’s hand as Peter led us outside into his big grassy garden with a fence around it. There was a small open enclosure in the middle and there were baby rabbits of all colours hopping around. Peter lifted us over and we crouched down. I couldn’t believe how small they were.
I felt really excited and I tapped Terrie’s arm. ‘Can we choose one?’ I mouthed silently.
‘I think so,’ whispered Terrie back.
We started gently stroking them as they jumped past, nibbling grass. My eyes quickly scanned every bunny. I wanted to find mine.
Terrie fell in love with a beautiful fluffy black one. I had my eye on a grey speckled one that was snuffling at my finger. I giggled as the whiskers tickled me.
As we fussed over them, Peter appeared with his camera. Click, click.
‘Hey kids, smile for the camera!’ he said.
Proud in my favourite Superman T-shirt, I gave him my best grin.
After about an hour of deciding, we finally picked our bunnies. Terrie named hers Sooty and mine was Smokey.
Mum couldn’t thank Peter enough. ‘You’re so kind,’ she said repeatedly.
Peter ruffled the top of my head.
‘You’re more than welcome, Cynth.’ He smiled down at us both. ‘The look on these twos faces makes it worth it.’
Peter also gave Mum the things we’d need: a small hutch, sawdust, food, hay and a drinking bottle each. We excitedly set up our new pets’ home that afternoon.
They were so gentle, and soon grew used to us picking them up and stroking them. Every morning I jumped out of bed and went to poke grass through the wire of the cage as a treat. Then I sat and cuddled mine, rubbing my face against Smokey’s silky fur.
A few months after we’d got our new pets, something was wrong with Smokey. He was trying to hop, but looked lopsided. I gently picked him up, but he didn’t want to eat any grass and looked miserable.
‘Muuuuum!’ I cried, calling her to look.
‘Hmm,’ she said, looking upset. ‘He needs to go to a vet.’
We walked to the local vet, carrying Smokey in a box. The vet took one look at his leg and shook his head.
‘He’s broken it,’ he said.
‘What?’ gasped Mum. ‘How did he do that?’
The vet asked if we’d dropped him recently from a height or grabbed his leg in some way. Mum said absolutely not. The vet shrugged and plastered the leg up.
Mum was quiet on the way home. ‘Are you sure you haven’t been too rough with Smokey?’ she asked.
I was completely confused about how Smokey had done this. I kept thinking, maybe it was something I’d done.
My first day at school was traumatic as I hated leaving Mum. The thought of spending all day long without her was too hard and I cried so much in the classroom she had to come and get me. On the second day I was given a pedal bike to race around on in the playground, but when no teachers were looking I pedalled straight out of the gate and home.
‘What’re you doing here?’ asked Mum, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.
‘I don’t like school,’ I said simply.
She let me have that afternoon off, but in the morning I was back there. I found it hard to make friends and preferred sitting under a tree or hanging out in the dinner hall, instead of playing tag, or hopscotch or skipping.
My name didn’t do me any favours either. ‘Duckett, Duckett, there’s a hole in my bucket,’ kids chanted in the playground if I did dare show my face.
Kids always found it easy to be mean about me. From my scuffed shoes to my second-hand uniform that didn’t fit properly. Even the two slices of bread and butter I brought for lunch made kids laugh.
‘Is that it?’ taunted one little boy, waving a packet of crisps and a Wagon Wheel at me, as he tore off the plastic wrapper of the chocolate biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth.
‘Mmmhmm!’ he smiled, chomping into the chocolate.
I looked at my soggy white bread and nibbled it miserably. At least I’m not going to be a fat fucker, I thought to myself.
Mum always did her best, but you don’t get a lot of choice when you don’t have money. Thankfully I started getting free school dinners and quickly learned that making friends with the dinner ladies was the way forward. I loved any food. Lumpy custard with the skin on top was a treat to me.
‘Can I have more, please?’ I beamed gratefully, as an extra spoonful slopped on my plate.
‘You’re a good boy,’ said the kindly dinner lady. When no one was around I’d get slipped an extra biscuit too; coconut ones with a cherry on top were my favourite.
Having dinner ladies as allies made up for the fact I didn’t have many others. While the girls always refused to let me play kiss chase, teachers were more likely to appreciate the nice side of me. I could think up things to get myself out of most sticky situations too.
One escape from school and home was my Nan and Pap’s. It was always warm and welcoming, full of hugs, kisses and food, unlike our own. Here I felt loved and normal.
Pap had worked in a shoe factory all his life while Nan kept the house, but she used to tell us all her stories about life in the munitions factory, or when she watched Coventry burning down in a huge bombing raid while close by in the park called ‘The Racecourse’.
I could tell Nan loved me by the way her face softened as she looked at me, and how she looked after me and made sure I was never hungry in her house.
‘We need to fatten you up, Paul,’ she’d frown worriedly. ‘You’re all skin and bone.’
Nan piled my plate high with favourites like bacon and onion roly-poly, or a dish that was pastry over meat, gravy and veg; I never knew what that was called. Ground rice for afters. Me and Terrie would eat until our stomachs hurt. And Pap was a whiz at making wine; he’d joke he could make anything from the sole of his shoe to potato, raspberry, rose hip, blackberry or any fruit he laid his hands on.
Mum adored her parents as much as we did. Sitting around that table with all of them was the place I felt safest in the world. One person who never came join us there, however, was Dad – something both me and Terrie were glad about.
Dad’s own parents, Nin and Bill Duckett, didn’t have any more patience for us than he did. They lived just up the road from Nan and Pap, but they couldn’t be any more different. When we popped around there we often saw our cousins Nicky and Claire, Dad’s sister Ruth’s kids, but we all stayed out of Pap’s way. He sat by himself in the living room, barking orders at Nan for food or drink. Nan had a terrible temper, too; however, she would at least give us a biscuit when we arrived and she never ever left us alone with Pap Duckett either. Not for a single second.
At the end of November 1979, Dad came home from another working jaunt. For once he came through the door with a proper grin on his face.
‘We’re going to South Africa on holiday,’ he announced. ‘It’ll be for four weeks over Christmas.’
We both jumped up and down with real excitement. This wasn’t something the likes of our family ever did. It seemed too good to be true!
We flew out to Johannesburg and caught a train to Kimberley. It was all scary yet exciting. We stayed with Dad’s friends Kevin and Sylvia, who had two kids, James and Anne, a bit younger than us. They showed us the sights, including a diamond mine that completely captured my imagination as we watched the glinting metal sparkle on conveyor belts through metal fences.
Despite being on holiday, Dad was meticulous with time keeping. He was like this at home and now we were away he arranged a very strict schedule. We were up every day for breakfast at 7.30 a.m. on the dot, then out the door by 8 a.m. Dad would time how long everything took. While visiting a museum about the Afrikaaners Dad tapped his watch at the entrance and looked us all individually in the eye.
‘You have precisely 40 minutes to look around,’ he said.
It wasn’t just schedules Dad liked to stick to; the way we looked was important too, despite our hand-me-downs.
‘It’s not acceptable for girls to slouch or have dangly bits of hair in front of the face, Terrie,’ he told her, pulling her shoulders back and yanking back her fringe. ‘And when you speak, speak up clear and loudly so we can all hear.’
So her fringe was kept neatly pinned back, and whenever I walked past Dad I’d square my shoulders a little more.
All too soon, we had to go home. Dad was in a foul mood on the trip back. He had been ill most of the holiday. When we arrived back in England, everywhere was covered in snow. Dad didn’t talk all the way home. Terrie and me slept most of the way back. As soon as we arrived home we were sent straight to bed. It was so cold.
In the morning Mum said Dad had gone to Portsmouth for work. A few weeks later, when it was the half-term holiday, Mum told us we were going to go and visit him. We had to catch a coach. My insides just clenched at the thought of a coach. I got terribly car sick on the shortest journey and knew I’d end up throwing up on a two-hour trip.
We packed a small bag and set off. I sat next to Terrie. She seemed miserable.
I tried to cheer her up. I patted the seat with my hand. ‘Look, bum dust.’ I giggled as a cloud of dust erupted from the seat.
She patted her seat, laughing hard. ‘Fat bum dust.’
