Darling, There’s an Iguana in the Bath - An Extraordinary, Ordinary Life

By Patricia Oliver

With her mother incapable of nurture and her father, a stranger returned from the war; Patricia Oliver never felt loved as a child. Travel with Pat as she sets off on a lifelong journey of discovery. Experience humour and heartbreak in equal measure and the joy life can bring when you look for it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781716341182

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Early Years

I

’ve always spent my life looking forward, excited to get to the next morning, the next meeting, basking in the next achievement. I’ve enjoyed mostly every moment; they’ve all taught me something, and I’ve always wanted to learn. The world has had so many interesting chapters for me; I couldn’t really get enough of them all, with so much to offer, with so much time to look forward.

Now, I’m looking backwards at what I’ve achieved, enjoyed, loved and cherished. It’s exciting reliving it all again. Would I make any changes? Yes, of course, a few but only had I known in advance how they would have turned out.

Who am I? you say. Why should I be looking back and experiencing them all again in my mind? Because my journey is coming to an end, in as much as I can’t go on hopping off to the next challenge anymore. I’m seventy-eight years young, and I don’t feel it, or look it, except for the old bones twinging on some movements.

My first memory was as a three-year-old girl, wearing a forget-me-not blue dress, with little white spots on it. A pale blue silk ribbon tied in my hair, which was fair and cut short in the way they did in the 40s, with the bow on the side. I had little white socks on and brown sandals, and I was sitting on my mother’s lap. The photo was being taken for my father, who was serving in Italy in the Second World War. He’d sent me a broach of a little sheep’s bell, which I’d pinned to my right chest, just below the shoulder. I remember feeling very important. I was never comfortable sitting on my mother; she was always so grand and beautiful. Her dress, I remember so well, was deep yellow ochre, and it had little oval, egg-shaped motives on it. They had black edgings to them, and inside it was deep purple in colour. She had shoulder-length platinum blonde hair and red lipstick. A real fox fur cape was slung across her shoulders, and she wore high-heeled shoes. I felt distinctly out of place because, although I was told to sit still, this was for my father; I knew it wasn’t really about me.

I’d learned from very early on that I was in the way; I never felt loved or wanted. My mother was not physically cruel, just distant, and I was somewhat afraid to be heard. Her mother, my grandmother, lived with us. She was a nervy and ‘old before her time’ person, as dark, as my mother was fair. She had curly, deep brown hair, and it was very obvious my mother was her father’s daughter.

I think Nanny, as I called her, felt in the way too, but she never complained. After all, she had nowhere else to go. She was kind, and I always felt a certain warmth when I was with her. She was very good at sewing and helped make and repair all our clothes. Her husband, my grandfather and my mother’s father, was killed in France in the First World War; shot through the head by all accounts. So, my mother never knew her father, and Nanny never had a husband to rely on. He died not even meeting his child; so, they were a somewhat insular pair.

My mother was strong-willed and spoilt, and really neither she nor Nanny had much knowledge of bringing up babies; my mother definitely struggled. I don’t think I was easy, as I had milk intolerance and eczema and cried a lot. She didn’t breastfeed and gave me cow’s milk straight from Uncle Charlie’s Cows. He was Nanny’s brother-in-law, who had a smallholding with several lovely cows and chickens, that I grew to love as I got older.

I was born in Streatham in London on the 21st of August 1940. My father had already left for the war, and I entered into the world as bombs were falling. I guess I was rather in the way coming at such an awkward time.

My mother had no idea what to call me, as I think she was hoping for a boy. The Irish midwife came to her aid and, in her lovely lilting voice, suggested Patricia Mary, which sounded more like ‘Patrisia Maree’. So, my mother said that would do and went on to call me plain ol’ Pat!

My father’s family lived in Streatham too, and they owned a tobacconist shop. Grandad sold the national newspapers and sweets in large colourful bottles. The shop smelt of a wonderful mixture of tobacco and sweets and newspapers altogether; a severe attack on the senses, of which I can remember, even now.

Of course, it would be years before I found out about this. My grandmother, who I’d meet later on, lived with her spinster sister, my grandfather – a man of very few words – and my aunties, my father’s sisters (three beautiful young women), in a house nearby the shop.

My mother must have decided that living in London during the bombing raids wasn’t a lot of fun. So that’s when they, my grandmother (Nanny) and she, decided to move, pack up everything and make their way to a little village called Washford in Somerset, taking me, of course.

They moved in with Auntie Lily, Uncle Charlie, and their adopted daughter, Mary, in a lovely house called Avis Hill, overlooking Charlie’s farm – how kind of them to have us. I have only thought about that recently, which means that Auntie Lily never made us feel unwelcome.

It was a warm, loving home, poor Auntie Lily couldn’t have her own children, for some reason, so she doted on me, and I basked in her love. She was a graceful lady, with golden curly hair – full of charm and kindness. She played the piano, beautiful classical pieces, along with lullabies and songs that accompanied that era, which flew from the notes. I must have gone to sleep in my pram while she played. My mother, irritated by my crying with colic from the milk, erratically pushed me around the village to get me to sleep only, I’m told, to wake up just as she brought the pram through the door – to hear the music, I think.

We must have moved across the road to rent Meadstone: a large house with an equally large garden and a greenhouse. There was a large climbing nut tree that clung to the wall and finished growing just below my windowsill. I was maybe two and a half or three years old, as I was certainly in that house when the photo was taken for my daddy. We were in my mother’s bedroom, which overlooked the front garden and the gate leading to the road. Directly across the road, was where the weekly animal market was held, which intrigued me, and I watched for hours while they sold the animals, listening to the auctioneer’s chants.

I loved that house. You know how some houses feel like home? Well, that one did in every sense. I felt secure and cossetted in it, somehow. Two sisters owned it: one spinster, Miss Hiscock, and her married sister, Mrs Verncombe, whose husband I never saw, but I had to believe he existed somewhere. They epitomised the word ‘eccentric’ and dressed as though they were acting the part of one of Beatrix Potter’s characters: Mrs Rabbit or Tabitha Twitchet. I was intrigued by them, as they lived in a gypsy type caravan with a chimney that billowed out smoke. Their home was hidden behind a mixture of trees and bushes, which meant that I could hide and have a good look whenever I felt the need.

They kept one of the front rooms in our house as storage for all their things, and it was locked. I was never allowed to go in. I imagined all sort of things were in there, and when my daddy came home from the war, he used to say that that was where Mr Verncombe was hidden. I was really scared and always used to tip-toe past the door after that.

The house, apart from that, was totally ours. We had a dining room with a big fireplace. And that’s where I was bathed, in front of the fire. I suppose it was a range because it seemed to keep the house very warm, and above it was a large dryer hanging with all our clothes on it after washing day. We had the dining table and chairs in that room too and a dresser with all the plates on it, with big drawers. I remember the tablecloths were kept in there, lovely white ones with lace around the outside and an assortment of everything else that you needed, squashed in tight. It was a cosy room, and I remember lots of hilarious episodes happening when being bathed by Nanny.

Next to, and an extension of, the dining room was the scullery, where we kept the sink and cooker. It had a stone floor and a large window over the sink where you could look out towards the big shed, which was directly outside. Everything useful was in there, such as coal in a huge mound, stacked in the corner; chopped wood and a big chopper nestling in a large log waiting to be used; logs in another corner, where mice and insects made their homes; and garden brushes that looked like they belonged to a flying witch. And there was all the gardening equipment, like rakes and spades, trowels hanging on large nails standing out of the wall. My mother’s bike was stacked in there too – one of those large ones that had a basket tied to its handles with leather straps.

My pet, Robin, lived in there, perching on the logs. He made his nest every spring until his untimely death, hastened by my dog, Toby, a Welsh collie, with black and ginger fur, who was insanely jealous of Robin. Toby made a good impression of being guilty, but really, he was very pleased with himself. I, of course, was heartbroken; we all loved Robin.

My mother had a large boiler in there, in the corner occupying a very large space, that she did the washing in and it frothed and grew large soap bubbles every Monday. It looked like a cauldron with its bubbles and steam everywhere. Mother had large tweezers that she pulled the sheets and towels out with, and then she rolled them through the mangle. This huge thing, with brass machinery and a handle, graced the shed, with a large bucket underneath to catch the water. It wasn’t something I sensed she enjoyed doing, as her face turned the colour of a beetroot when turning the handle. 

In the scullery was the downstairs lavatory where my potty stood. And I remember scooting around the place on it for hours, as I was never allowed to get up until I’d been.

One day, lodged in my memory, I shocked them all as I passed a large garden worm! The nurse was sent for, and I heard whispered voices about the place. Nothing ever came of it; I was just told not to play with the earth anymore. That was a difficult ask, as many happy hours were spent in the garden with, Mr Burston, the gardener. He was a remarkable man who came to work dressed in a navy and white pinstriped suit, with a white starched collar and a tie which, if my memory serves me right, was always red. He smoked a pipe and had a trilby hat tilted to one side on his head of sparsely grey hair. He had a gold tooth, which fascinated me, and a moustache. And he had big leather boots that laced up above his ankles.

He kept a beautiful garden; the flower beds were full of herbaceous plants, and the colour in the garden was always wonderful no matter what the season. The trees bore apples, pears, and cherries. The greenhouse was full of tomatoes and geraniums – a heady smell. One which I long to smell again and search for every time I visit gardens where I now live in Cornwall. I used to help him dig and weed in my little way, and that’s where my love of flowers was embedded in my soul. I’ve always wanted a garden like it ever since.

The lawn that stretched from the front door to the yew hedge that edged the property was thick and green and looked like one you found on a cricket pitch. It was lovely to eat your tea on when having picnics in the sunny summertime with, Toby, my dog and, Peter, my grey cat, and, Loppy Ears, my rabbit – a Dutch Hare. Summer seemed to go on forever; the long, hot days of yesterday.

I remember that underneath the yew hedge were large spaces like little rooms that encouraged you to squeeze underneath with your dolls and make a home. I spent hours sitting on blankets hidden in the hedge. My mother, for all her faults, allowed me so much freedom; I was always outside.

The sitting room, or the ‘best room’, was one that had a red coloured Turkish carpet, with bright blue patterns on it. It had a large settee that you could fall into, and two enormous chairs – they all had a heavy raised blue pattern on them that you could stroke while lost in their depths.

There was another fireplace in this room with a mantelpiece, which had Nanny’s clock on top of it that struck the hours, and two heavy brass candlesticks. In the incline beside the mantelpiece, was a shelf that the wireless lived on, with a cupboard beneath. We spent many happy hours listening to it lording over us, with the eloquent speech of the reporters. Sometimes, when the electricity was off and the candles were lit, it was very snug indeed; especially in the winter when the fire was red and hot, and the fire fairies hopped up the chimney.

I enjoyed the music too, but the news frightened me as I always had to be quiet. I realise now it was about the war, but back then, as a little child, it seemed very fearful, and I didn’t understand.

I guess it must have been about 1943 when the Americans came to West Somerset, lightening up the place with their extrovert behaviour. It was at this time I noticed when lying in my bed at night that my mother played the piano and seemed a lot happier. When creeping downstairs one night, I saw them all singing around the piano, four young men dressed in uniform, and my mother was actually laughing in between the songs. I couldn’t find Nanny, she was nowhere to be seen, and I guess she’d gone to her sister across the road at Avis Hill.

I didn’t have any little friends, not really. But next door to our house was a large orchard. And when the apples were lying on the ground, before the wasps made holes in them, I used to creep in and pick some up to eat. It was there I met Rodney, a little boy maybe a year older than me, who was doing exactly the same thing. Only Rodney, being a boy, used to climb up and shake the branches, so more fresh apples fell off.

It was one of those hot sunny days that I found out boys were different to girls. Rodney needed to do a wee and went behind the tree I was sitting against. I was astonished at what came out of his trousers. Of course, it was only his penis, but to me, it was shocking, and I made a point of telling him. I made the huge mistake of telling my mother, as well, who asked me what I was doing, and I told her what Rodney had done and what I’d seen. I told you that my mother had no idea of how to be with a child and she didn’t disappoint this time. She quickly and furiously marched me around to Rodney’s house. His astonished mother had to hear a tirade of criticism about her son, who was classed as a ‘common little boy’, who I was no longer allowed to play with.

Also, sadly I wasn’t allowed in the orchard either, and I had to prepare myself to apologise to the owner of the orchard for stealing her apples. Thank God the owner was a dear old lady who was horrified at all the fuss. And when she saw my tear-stained face, said to my mother: If Pat didn’t pick up the wasters, the wasps would make a bigger job of taking them all. I never did play with Rodney again, and he was my only playmate save my animals and my dolls.

My new special place was the copse at the top of the field opposite. If you walked out of our back door, the one the nut tree resided by, and along the little path past the greenhouse, there was a large blue piece of slate that was, in fact, a step up to a little red brick wall that I could easily climb over. This led to the lane and across from that was a large farm gate leading to the field. Sometimes Uncle Charlie kept his cows in it and his shire horses; but I’ll tell you about that later. 

My mother wasn’t always out of reach; she did take me on country walks. One of my favourites was along the riverbank beside the old monastery. We’d stand for hours watching the kingfishers, darting in and out the water, their flash of blue and orange gleaming in the sunshine.

Sometimes she would take me to the apiary that was owned by an elderly couple. It was further along the road and in quite a secluded area. The old couple sold their honey in pots with ribbons around the lid, and I was always very pleased to be taking a pot home for my tea. We watched the bees flying in and out their hives, and Mr Fairweather wore a funny thing on his head, as he showed me inside the workings of the hives. It was always a pleasant afternoon, as Mrs Fairweather would make a cup of tea. We’d sit in her garden at a table with a pretty tablecloth on it, and I always had some homemade lemonade.

Uncle Charlie had several fields, one in front of his house, which you crossed if you wanted to walk down to the old mineral line, and it was always full of butterflies. I sat amongst the grass, trying to catch the blue ones as they flew through my hands.

It was a very sad day when my cousin Phillip came to stay at Auntie Lily’s house. His father, my Uncle Frank, who could play Jazz piano like a ‘someone’ from St Louis, had given him a butterfly net. He was determined to catch every last butterfly that there ever was flying in my field. He had the audacity to catch them and put pins through their beautiful heads and stick them in a book. I hated him from then on; him with the curly hair, and buck teeth, and nasty ways. I longed for him to go back to the bombs he’d come to escape. Thank God he was only here for a month; otherwise, the whole butterfly nation would have become extinct.

This field, the one with the dwindling population of butterflies, lay in front of the railway line. You could always smell, as well as hear, the old steam train as it chugged its merry way along towards the station when you were sitting amongst the daisies. It also lay beside the Wednesday market, which was full of animals for sale.

I had a love-hate opinion of this experience. I loved the little calves and piglets that were lodged in the small gated areas waiting to be put into lorries and taken away to their new homes or to be slaughtered. I hated their unfortunate end. I used to look out of my mother’s bedroom window and watch with a mixture of wonderment and fear because they cried so.

One day, I could stand it no longer and, at the age of about five years, I was found remonstrating with a big burly farmer as he threw the piglets into a van – holding them by their tails as they squeaked and cried. My mother was astonished and apologised profusely for my behaviour. I wasn’t happy about this at all and tried with all my might to convince my mother that there was no need to make them cry.

The field above our house, the one that Uncle Charlie kept his shire horses in part of the year, was a firm favourite of mine. I loved that field because in the autumn we used to harvest the corn and he had his two horses carrying all the hay bales. I used to climb on the stacks, which is where we had our picnics, the farmhands, my mother and I, and it was so lovely. The dogs ran around excitedly. And, if you were lucky, you could see the little dormice running up and down the sheaves of corn, trying to escape the noisy and untimely entry into their world.

If I walked up to the top of this field, there was a clearing and a gate, and I could walk through into the copse. This was a small wooded area that always had an abundance of spring flowers, lovely trees of catkins, spindleberry, and oaks in leaf in the different seasons. Here I spent so many happy hours, sitting on a log that had a multitude of insects making their homes in it. I used to watch the rabbits playing and the birds making their nests. There was a large natural beehive and swarms of them flew out and about collecting nectar for their honey. I never got stung by anything, which was remarkable.

In the spring, I’d watch the primroses uncurl from their hidden places under the brown fallen leaves of winter – the violets both mauve and white sitting beside them. Along the banks, the bluebells were growing tall, ready to shake their bright blue heads in a few more weeks.

Chapter 2

Unusual Habits: My Schooldays with the Nuns

I think I was four and a half when my mother decided I had to go to school. By this time, rather a lot of little golden-skinned children were appearing with tight curly hair, left behind by the black American soldiers. So, going to the local school was, somehow, not an option for me, although why I never figured out; I was never consulted. And one day I was marched off to the convent school in the next town. We weren’t Catholics, and I had never been to church at all, so all of this was rather strange and frightening for me. I was dressed in a navy-blue gymslip, with a royal blue girdle, a white blouse, a royal blue and yellow striped tie, a royal blue cardigan, brown lace-up shoes, and grey socks. We had to wear a navy hat in the winter months and a Panama hat in the summer.

My mother was, by this time, working at the electricity company as a secretary. It wasn’t too far away from the convent school but, never-the-less, for a little girl who’d never been anywhere alone, it was a world away from what I was used to.

It was here that I learned the difference between being a Catholic and a Protestant. If you were a Catholic, you were allowed to go to special places taken out of class for ‘catechism’, whatever that was. I was put in the large unoccupied classroom on my own because I soon learned that I was the only Protestant in my class at that time. I thought that it was a disease or something that I’d done wrong, as I was looked upon disdainfully throughout my stay there. Catholics got all the praise, and any privileges that were going – like they didn’t have their bread squashed into whatever food you’d failed to eat at dinnertime.

There were an awful lot of saint’s days, and you were expected to take flowers on the morning of that day. I’d tell my mother that we were to take flowers or something as a gift to the saint, and she laughed and said, Don’t be silly. She had no idea that I’d be the only one turning up without a gift.

One day, worried about what would happen to me, I picked wildflowers from the hedges to give as my offering. As pupils in assembly, we’d look towards the pulpit with Mother St Tereasa, tall and frightening with large black-rimmed glasses on, hurling bibles from her tower at anyone that dared to speak.

Shuddering, awaiting my turn to take up my, by now squashed and dying flowers from the heat in my clutched hand, I tentatively made my way to the pulpit. On tiptoe, I handed up my gift. Think of Cruella de Vil in 101 Dalmatians, and that’s exactly who she now reminds me of. Glaring down at me, she said, I am sure the Lord will accept even the humblest of gifts.

I knew it was a put-down, but I wasn’t sure what she meant; I got used to never doing the right thing. I always felt left out but, of course, I didn’t realise it was because I wasn’t a Catholic. My mother had no knowledge of the religion – its quirks and ways – so she didn’t understand.

There was one sister, a sweet little one called Sister Sylvester, who was kind, and I’d always find her if I was really sad; she would comfort me in a small way. She had wisps of ginger hair creeping from under her wimple, and she always looked harassed – like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.

Mother Joseph was a very old nun, and she had a habit of chewing to the side of her mouth, as a cow does when chewing its cud. This fascinated me, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She used to slide up and down in between the corridors of chairs when we were sitting at our desks, smelling our knickers to see if anybody had wet themselves. That could always be a possibility because the toilets were very scary. The basins were made of porcelain designed as fish heads, with large eyes and the open mouth was the toilet seat with a large wooden cover. They were tall and difficult to get up on and, of course, if you were desperate, accidents could easily occur.

The Mother Superior was a large fierce lady called Mother St. Gerard. She ruled the place with a firm hand, and I can still see her ruddy face peering through her habit. She had a large spot on her chin with a hair growing out of it and horn-rimmed glasses.

They all moved quickly and silently picking up their rosary beads and crucifixes and putting them in their pockets so we wouldn’t hear them coming.

I didn’t learn very much, I don’t think, except how to speak properly, and how to pray and read the Bible. I learned to read very quickly, but I was always frightened of something or other.

Maths or arithmetic, as it was called then, was taught by a layperson, Miss McLachlan. She was a strange little lady with a curvature and with black hair in plaited rings above her ears, with a parting down the middle of her head. I don’t think I learned much from her, as she was always cross, and I dreaded her classes.

Art was also taught by a layperson, whose name I forget. She was flamboyant in dress and floated around the place in a collection of colourful attires. It’s funny I can’t remember drawing anything, but I suppose I did because as I grew older art became my solace and the only thing I seemed to be good at at school.

One day, I went to school with spots on my face, and I was immediately dragged from the classroom and placed in the gym – a large and dark room away from everybody. Of course, no one told me what was wrong and what I’d done. So, it was equally scary when I was marched down to the bus stop and put on a bus to my village, eight miles away. I was only five and had never been alone on a bus before. The bus that took me to school was a school bus, so I had other children with me, but this day I was alone. I’d never been so frightened. The bus driver must have been told to put me off at the right stop, but that still left me to climb the hill to my house. I remember it to this day, crying all the way home.

I had chickenpox, and if my mother had realised, I’m sure she wouldn’t have sent me. But on this occasion, she presented herself to the school afterwards to make a serious complaint about my treatment.

Chapter 3

Daddy: Back from the War

It was just before my sixth birthday when my father suddenly appeared home from Italy.

Of course, I didn’t know who this man was that I found in my mother’s bed early one morning when I peeped in around dawn. They told me to go out, fiercely. I remember being very tearful and never allowed in her bedroom again.

I was later told that he was my daddy, and I had to welcome him home by giving him a kiss. He had a growth of ginger beard and what I now realise were boils on his face. My father said, I don’t believe in kissing, you get germs. And from that day on, he never kissed me. I looked at him with a mixture of wonder and fear, as I didn’t know him at all.

We skirted around each other, him not knowing me and me not knowing him; it was very awkward.

I was six in August 1946, and I was having a birthday party on a Saturday, with some girls from school coming. I was looking forward to something that I’d never had before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Just before they were all due to arrive, my father presented me with a pedal car in silver and red. I couldn’t believe it. My mother said he’d made it for me. Of course, I wanted to get in it at once, but Mother said, No, wait until your friends come.

They all came in and stared at my car, and I was so proud of it.  So, I wanted to get in it to show them how it worked. No, my parents said, you must let your friends try first. And, one by one, they all rode around the lawn. I was eagerly waiting for my turn when I saw that my father had Christine on his lap. She was a thin, small, wiry child with very thick chestnut brown hair tied up with a red ribbon and wearing a yellow-spotted dress. I couldn’t believe he actually had a child on his lap, for he’d never had me on his lap, ever, and today was my birthday. So, I started crying, and the crying got louder, and I could hardly speak. Stop that noise at once, they said, but I couldn’t so they took me up to my bedroom and locked me in. My party went on without me. I had no rides in my car, no birthday cake or candles, no friends to play with. I was sadder than I’d ever been, lying there. They told me to come down and say goodbye to my friends when their mothers came to pick them up. And then up to bed again.

It was several days before they allowed me in the car, although it didn’t seem the same anymore.

Daddy took me out on the road with me in it while he walked beside shouting instructions, and I peddled like mad trying to keep up with him. I think he really wanted a boy because I didn’t please him somehow.

It was on a day like that, when my mother was at her worst, that my London grandmother arrived with my aunt – her youngest daughter Peggy. Even as a young girl, Peggy was very beautiful with black ringlets – she looked Spanish. And my grandmother, known as Nanna, was a fat, smiley person with a profound giggle. She had huge breasts and grey hair tied up in a bun; she wore glasses and was always beaming and found everything funny. Peggy, on the other hand, was very sullen and hardly spoke.

I could never understand why my mother didn’t like Nanna, but she clearly didn’t, and it made life extremely hard trying to fit in between all this. It was the second time Nanna had stayed. She’d ventured down with Crystal, her middle daughter, to avoid the bombs when I was very small. But I remembered her, as she and Nanny had had a fight as to how to bathe me, and I was so cross about it all I spilt the bathwater all over the rug.

This time Nanna had come, I suppose, to see her son, who she’d seen little of since his return from Italy. He was too busy finding a job and starting up an allotment.

It was known that the London family were wealthy – according to my mother, who was very jealous of the fact. I didn’t understand what it was all about, but it must have been awkward for my father. He had to live with Nanny who, of course, was quite poor as she didn’t have a husband and lived on an officer’s pension, which she got from Lloyds Bank. Whereas, Nanna owned a shop and had a lovely house in Streatham, near the common. I think my mother thought my father should have an allowance but why she thought that I don’t know; it was something about coming home from the war to a job. They always left this unsaid; it didn’t help that Nanna always had a purse bulging with five-pound notes which she handed around liberally.

It must have been springtime when she was down, as we all went to the primrose copse, which was opposite the Fairweather’s property. This meant, if it wasn’t too cold a spring, we could go in and have honey and scones, a cup of tea, and lemonade for me.

The primrose copse was a wonderful place, absolutely covered in primroses. After Daddy came home, he’d take me there with my mother and Toby, and we’d pick bunches of them, tie them up and wrap moss around them. Then we’d pack them in cardboard boxes and post them to Nanna in Streatham.

I remember the day that I tasted my first banana – we bought it in Billy Burnet’s shop. He was related to Uncle Charlie and was very kind to me whenever we went in to buy anything. Fruit was hard to come by in the war, and I’d not tasted much, so it was a delightful experience. He gave us a tin of mixed fruit to have for my tea, pears and peaches all cut up into little squares. I refused to eat it as I thought it was swedes and turnips, causing quite a scene.

Most people used egg powder to make their cakes, but we were lucky as Uncle Charlie had wonderful chickens who gave us lovely brown eggs – that is until they came to an untimely end one dark day. I was just about old enough, if I was very careful, to cross the road at the end of our lane, which led immediately to Uncle Charlie’s drive and up to their house.

If I went over in the mornings early or at about three in the afternoon, he would take me milking. I loved the sweet smell of the cows as you nestled your head into their warm bodies and watched in wonderment as all this creamy milk came into the bucket. But, unfortunately for me this day, and more unfortunately for the chickens, this was their day to meet their maker. As I was toddling along, a stream of chickens came running towards me with no heads on. I was momentarily stuck – glued to the path – until I let out a long scream. I turned tail and ran without looking across the road and down the lane and into Nanny’s arms, unable to explain my terror.

Poor Uncle Charlie got such a tongue-lashing from my mother, saying that he should have let us all know what he was about to do. He was extremely nonplussed, because to him, a farmer, it was quite the norm, and he said I came across at the wrong time. Chickens often run after being decapitated, apparently, but not for long, and they were soon available for plucking.

When I went over the next day, a lot of my favourites were still there. Hughie the cockerel and Matilda, my very favourite, was happily clucking, and Auntie Lily told me that there were some baby chicks in the barn. On the table was a neatly plucked chicken for me to take home for Mother to cook for dinner. I didn’t know which of my friends it was, otherwise, I surely couldn’t have eaten any.

The war was well and truly over now in 1946, and Mary, who lived with Aunty Lily’s husband Dennis, came home from India. She smiled again, and it wasn’t long before a baby came into the house in May 1946; little Avis was born with a shock of very dark hair.

My father was working hard as a car mechanic, which is the only job he could get, and I was still at the convent.

Now that my father was home, we’d sometimes take a picnic, hopping on the train that stopped just opposite our house. We’d take a trip to the seaside at Blue Anchor, a little resort, a few stops down the line from home. The picnic basket comprised a primus stove, a kettle and teapot, some sandwiches, and homemade jam sponge cake. The best thing about this day was when you got off the train and crossed the line, on your way to the beach, there was a field right beside the exit from the station. It had several goats in it, and they were so friendly, the baby ones so cute, and I always took an apple or two for them to eat.

Other times we would go to Dunster and walk across the little bridge and up into the hills. My father loved his walks through the countryside, and when it got too steep for me, he’d put me on his back with only his ears to hold on to. It was pretty scary at times, especially when he climbed Grabbiest Hill, and on reaching the top he would bend over; it terrified me, looking down to the valley below. My mother would say, Don’t do that, Jack, you’ll scare the girl. But he always did. And that’s where I’ve got my fear of heights from, I’m sure.

Porlock Weir was another favourite, but my mother would never cross the bridge from one side to the other. And I can hear my father now saying, Come on, Mary, for God’s sake. She too was afraid of heights, so I think she knew how I was feeling.

Autumn brought conkers, and a ride to the woods with Toby, a bag to collect them and then learn how to play. It also brought out the mushrooms, and that’s when my father wanted my company. Very early in the morning, before it got light and with our baskets, we’d sneak out of the house and walk down to the railway line. We’d cross over and into the field beyond where, if you got there early enough, you could pick lots – enough for breakfast for several days. I didn’t really like them, but my mother and father enjoyed them in omelettes or fried with eggs.

Chapter 4

Banished: London, The Measles, and a New Sister

The time was coming when I learned that I might be having a little sister or brother. My mother stopped work at the electricity company and was quite quiet. Lots of rest was needed, apparently, and lots of chattering went on about things; they didn’t tell me anything, but secrets were definitely occurring.

A pram arrived, and it was placed in the shed. Then other little things materialised, like a carrycot and some small clothes. Mummy was getting very fat. I enjoyed my days with Nanny more now, and she took me for walks. It was on one of those days, as I was just taking off my coat, in May 1949, when I was told that I was being taken to stay with my Nanna in London. I didn’t really want to go, as I wasn’t feeling awfully well, but they had to fetch the baby, so I couldn’t stay.

We had a new car now, and they put my clothes in a case in the boot. It was much warmer than the other one, and I don’t think you had to ‘double-declutch’, whatever that meant. I was soon dressed, and I remember my father was asked to get me some more socks on the way and a new pair of shoes. He took me into this shop and sat me down, then purchased a large pair of grey boys’ socks and a pair of boys’ brown shoes. I was so afraid to say anything, and they looked so ugly. I can still remember being very upset throughout the whole journey.

We were soon in the car, and he didn’t stop from Taunton to London. Oh, how I wanted the toilet, but I was too afraid to ask. My grandmother, Nanna, was horrified when I darted in the house and straight to the toilet. The poor child, she said, and I thought I might like it there.

A child’s dream was staying at my grandmother’s house, full of exciting things to explore. She had a glass display cabinet packed with all sorts of memorabilia. The shop was wonderful, too, with bottles of sweets, in lines, and all the different colours and smells and tastes. My favourites were the tiny acid drops, liquorice sticks, and lemon sherbets. When you chose your sweets, they put them in little three-corner shaped bags. There were bars of chocolates; I remember Fry’s Chocolate Cream, Crunchie Bars, Mars Bars and Cadbury’s chocolate. There were comics, books, pencils and jigsaw puzzles and, of course, the national newspapers. These were all over the counter in rows, so people could easily pick up what they wanted when they were in a hurry in the mornings. My grandfather used to get up at about 3 am and prepare the papers, labelling them for all the customers they had to go to before they left for work.

There was a public telephone box in the shop, with a large black telephone in it, with a ruby red cord attached. And there was a blue telephone book on a piece of string hanging from the shelf.

Grandad sold newly baked bread, and they delivered it first thing in the morning. You can imagine the wonderful aroma that hit your senses when you went inside. There were bottles of lemonade, orangeade, Tizer, and even raspberryade.

My grandfather was a man of few words; in fact, I can’t remember him ever talking to me. But his best pal and the only person he ever spoke to that I ever heard was, Snookey, his large tabby cat, who lay on the shop counter and followed him everywhere, backwards and forwards from the house to the shop.

He was born in Polperro in Cornwall and made his way up country via Sidmouth in Devon, where he learned his trade. He worked in a very large shop that sold everything from clothes to household requirements and furniture, and he gained experience in all departments. He lived with the rest of the personnel in quarters supplied by the owner. They treated them as family, and they were expected to go to church on Sundays when the shop, of course, closed. He then moved to Bristol when he married, and later on to London. He was quite an old man when I first knew him, and he took snuff all the time. Torrents of red fluid escaped from his nose, and I thought he was bleeding, because his only expression was, Cor blud, which I thought meant blood.

Auntie Ethel, my grandmother’s spinster sister, used to make the afternoon tea and bring it down on a tray. She was a funny little soul, older than Nanna, and had a curvature, a bun, and always wore long cherry-coloured cardigans, probably to cover the bend in her back. She had worked in the Post Office as a young girl, and she definitely thought it was the best place in the world to work and sung its praises daily.

Josephine, my father’s eldest sister, was in charge. Joey, as we called her, was scatty, but she was a very attractive girl, rather like Loretta Young – a film star of the time – and had been in the Land Army during the war. She was very funny and used to give me whatever I fancied in the sweet department.

My grandfather went back to bed in the afternoon, as he was up so early, so you could get up to whatever you wanted to whenever he was away. I often sat on a high-legged chair, so I could reach the counter, looking at all the wonderful comics that were displayed there.

My grandmother used to take me up to Streatham High Road on some days, and we went into all the big shops. And we’d have afternoon tea in a beautiful restaurant, the name of which has escaped my memory, but I thought I was the bee’s knees. It was here, when I was thirteen, she allowed me to have my ears pierced. She said once they were done, my mother couldn’t do anything about it, and I was so proud of my first gold studs. We used to go into Sainsbury’s supermarket, which was new and very special as then it was rather like an old-fashioned shop with lots of counters – far removed from Norton’s shop in Watchet, or Mr Burnet’s in Washford.

On Tooting Bec Common, which was near