Anger Brought The Fire: Stage 1

By CH. Martinne

This book should resonate with so many that had a horrid childhood on one side, fun on the other, seeking escape from the nasty into the good.

The swings and roundabouts of a young child with no control over their life except their imagination.

It is easy, years later, to look back with humour on some grim times which could never be understood properly then. Only now, unfettered, can we laugh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398422063

CH. Martinne

The author has lived in many places, held many jobs until finally settling in Kent. From an early difficult childhood emerged a strong-willed, devoted animal welfare advocate. Her love of horses dominated her life, these inspired also her love of writing.

Book preview

The Blame Game

Everything was my fault. I was born, my parents split up – a ripple on a pond somewhere. A reasonable person would think, not my choice, their choice, and what pond? I was but a babe. Apparently though, everything was my fault. How and why would I create this chaos? Perhaps I was bored as a foetus. As a Wednesday child, I’m told, though not convinced, that I am full of woe; of course I was then, just look at my childhood. My father told me I was actually born on the 9th of December, not the 8th; but my mother had somehow persuaded them to backdate my birth time by a couple of hours, as being a Catholic, she wanted to celebrate the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Joke! She could have kept her legs closed. Besides, to get pregnant, and nature is sure on this one, you have to have sex. Fact. Anyhow, here I was, so there – serves you right. Not my fault, yours.

Derwent Drive, Chadderton, Lancashire was my first grounding, or should I say grinding? Although I was actually born in Hyde, Cheshire, just across the border for which no passport was required then, 2 weeks at a… nuthouse? Maternity place, yep – just down the road from the Shipman thing. Makes you think. The mother was from Toomevar in Tipperary, Southern Ireland; born on a farm, one of seven kids, came over to Manchester as an economic migrant following her younger sister Dottie – here I must say I cannot fathom how to get brackets on this interminable thing – who was really Dorothy and was fabulous. I adored my favourite aunt and constantly prayed I was really her daughter, that my dreadful parents had adopted me temporarily and any day now the truth would prevail. It never happened.

My father whom I didn’t meet till I was, what, 2, was born at Guide Bridge, Audenshaw, Lancs. Him being an English Atheist; my mother being a staunch Irish Catholic but only on Sundays or Holy days, confession, mass, communion or when someone was watching or listening; he described life as him walking round with a barrel of TNT and her walking round with a lighted match. My question was; what was TNT, why did he have it? And it took a while for me to understand this. I was so young, nothing made any sense, but then neither did they and who was I to criticise?

My husband has just read this, declared it doesn’t read like a book; my suggestion that it’s an autobiography didn’t impress either. All through my life, the things that didn’t kill me did make me stronger, not just physically but mentally (I’m determined to prove them wrong). I do not consider myself stubborn, but tenacious, strong-willed and independent. I don’t know where I got the phrase some people go through life without a cold hand touch them; I hoped it was mine. It wasn’t. Having never had any support, apart from fleeting friends, I was always quietly paddling my way to a distant goal. This is the end result now, I’m not capable of going any further. If I’m the only one that ever reads this – I’m enjoying this exhausting jaunt, it’s cathartic, cheaper than therapy – I need to get this crap outta my head which invades my insomnia. Why it bothers me so much now can only be explained by the fact that I was busy living; now I’m in limbo. Those small-hours thoughts do excite the brain. I have yet to learn how to switch my brain off. Enter beer…

I met my cousin Trisha; she says I’m the only one who calls her that; we were in some garden, in bonnets, barely waddling about and I was ordered to go back to her as I kept wandering off. Eventually, we were told to hug each other and would become best friends. If my memory deceives me, there is proof; a picture, which I can’t find. We grew, changed, like you do, but had some mad old times together for a while, still vaguely in touch. My sister Pamela was a different experience. Four years older, she treated me much as did my mother, Cinderella, me. My mother was fond of saying, Me and Pam had four glorious years, and then you came along.

Other gems were e.g. It’s your fault your father and I split up, he liked Pam but didn’t want another one. Pam would say: Mummy, I don’t want Valerie playing with my toys/touching Big Teddy/following me about/playing out/having my red dress though it’s too small for me, etc. The response was always the same, OK, Pam darling. Valerie do not-wotever etc.

No cold-hand touch, springs to mind.

I should explain that Pamela was a bonnie lass; thick, dark wavy long hair, freckles on her face, friendly, confident and very popular, especially with the boys. Her puppy fat would recede according to a doting smother (it never did). I was an emaciated long thing with thin blonde lank hair, horse-faced, large joints like a foal, skinny limbs; pale, introverted and silent. I was probably a horse which is why I was so misunderstood and abused. Hence the empathy.

There was a train we were often on, don’t know where, don’t know when but I hadn’t said anything yet. At some age apparently, you’re supposed to, still don’t know why you should. It confuses people. She was always trying to impress or play the martyr – maybe she never had any care or attention either – so every time we got into a little carriage, the ones where you had a corridor down one side, she would make much to me of a picture. It was of two horses grazing and a Red Setter in the foreground. After all these years, sadly, I still have not got a Red Setter, just saying. Got my horse obsession though. So be careful what you wish for…

Perhaps it was contrived as we always passed a couple of horses in a field. She would point at the picture and say Look, horses, – repeatedly, then point to the ones grazing and say horses till my ears fell off. Some kind passenger also enduring this slow brainwashing and her saying, She won’t speak, would offer a kind response like, Perhaps there’s something wrong with her. Most helpful. I gave in, like you do and said, Horses! Served her right, only for her to complain to any listener that I said horses instead of Mummy or Daddy (who he?). Plus, I always thought all dogs should be as beautiful as that dog in the British Rail poster. I never got the dog-called-Pat thing in the kids’ book till I was in my thirties, when someone explained it meant ‘pat the dog’. They may well have agreed with the kindly, now-brainwashed lady that there was something wrong here.

Then there was the burn incident. Being very short and an inquisitive child, I wanted to watch Mummy doing things on the stove so she got me a step so I could try. Being told not to put my arms on it, burn meant nowt to me. I tried again, to be then told twice to put my arms on it. I suppose this was a lesson in obedience, though I always did as told, if I understood the command. I was so fascinated by the bandages on both my arms, from hands to elbows, that everybody laughed. I don’t remember the pain, just as well, but it did produce my first introduction to my father; as in her saying, This is your father and he’s come to take you away. Relief for some of us. It was bliss. I got my first car ride, sweeties, kind words. A picture shows me smiling, hanging out of his car, but only my right arm bandaged then and still quite baldy, so I must have been very young. Of course, he didn’t want me either; the pubs were open so I was soon returned. When asked why I had burnt myself, which of course was deemed to be entirely my own fault, my honest self replied that Mummy had told me to. With the usual empty promise this time, that she would not do it again, he said that if she did, I was to let him know. How I was supposed to do this, was never established. The exchange was silent as was I, and this went on for a long time. Life continued.

I think that train must have been going to my aunt’s where, thankfully, we visited often. They had a huge house near Manchester; a sort of triangular shape with three floors, the top one rented out to a grump.

We would be fed and welcomed by the lovely normal family, including three children, plus Granny who lived in a big dark room with her asthma. I really didn’t know her at all, was only ever summoned with Trisha to be roundly told off for not playing with the others. She had been a headmistress in Ireland, still the matriarch. I only remember her dying of asthma in hospital at 72 years old and how devastated the rest of the family was.

She was laid out in the parlour in an open coffin with the priest visiting, masses said. My mother and I staring at her, on our knees, praying for what seemed like death hours till I inexplicably got the giggles then it was nearly my time. So, I was made to spend many more hours on my bony knees praying forgiveness for my irreverence, but I really couldn’t help it.

When I was young, we would go on holidays together, though uncle never came, always working in the restaurant. He was a Greek Cypriot, forced away from his small village as a child by the Turks; I don’t believe the two countries get on still. So the Irish and Greek, all refugees then. Even when my two front teeth fell out, probably from all the jaw-rattling, I was digging in the sand somewhere with my friend (Yes, she sent me the picture). I am sure that without that sanctuary, I would have had no balance at all and would have fallen off the precipice a lot sooner.

The Great Chip Fire

I was not allowed to cry or at least make any noise about it, so very soon I learned to just let the tears roll silently down my cheeks. Of course, this had repercussions in the form of constant sties which were vile, painful and bled pus down my silent face. So ghoulish were they that one time a woman on the bus was so horrified that she could not be near me. Mother, with her sly smile, insisted I sat next to her every time she moved away till the lady demanded to be let off the bus, apologising as she fled. But she had found a new weapon with my affliction and set me on another hapless soul, till they complained to the conductor who threw us off the bus. My fault we now had to walk.

Mrs Pumpernickel or summat used to babysit me before I was old enough for school. She lived across the main road up a track through trees and was kindly, if casual minder. She complained that she wasn’t paid enough, sometimes not at all, but my mother did her martyr bit so I was carried up the track once more, sties apussing whilst hearing I was to be put up for adoption because there was always something wrong with me. Mrs P was aghast, insisting she would look after me but stopped as soon as the payments did. Eventually, she took me to the doctor who said I needed to cry. I told him I was not allowed, no one ever believes a small child, though they’re the only human form that tell the truth. My father was persuaded to pay for a private room for my op, which was a big mistake. I was stuck in a glass container next to the row of other kids, whom I would rather have been with, as I was deemed to be rich and spoilt – if only they’d known. A similar-thinking nurse put a tray on my knees but being ill and tired and scared of food by now, I forgot it was there, rolled over and CRASH! She gave me hell. I was mortified. More hell was to follow when my father was told off by the nurses when, drunk as usual, he brought in a box of my favourite banana lollies for the ward, two short, so I gave up mine for them to share. He never came back with mine.

Pretty sure this came after the asthma when I was four. She would dry wet sweaters in newspaper and put them under the mattress to dry flat, Pam soon decided she didn’t like this so I got them all. My bed was permanently cold and damp so when the doctor arrived (they used to visit in those days) regarding my wheezing and habit of putting my pyjama top on my legs, he suggested I might be cold and wetting the bed as it was so damp. I indignantly told him of the sweater habit, the evidence was there. She promised to stop. She didn’t, till a while after the next visit when he said she was making me ill.

I had no toys and was not allowed to touch Big Teddy – though I would, if they weren’t looking, give him a big hug – except finally, one marble and the fire grate pully-outy-thing which had a groove down the middle. Perfect for marble rolling, which I did endlessly, as quietly as possible and on the floor behind the sofa. There were very strict rules: I was not allowed to be near to my mother, sit on the sofa if she or Pam were on it – even fifty years later her cats were trained the same way – I had to go behind the sofa and any noise… game over. Plus occasionally, they needed to use the grate thing so it was dirty again. Having to use my step and wash it again in the sink probably started my quiet sighing phase.

I’m unclear about how old I was, but I was still being forced to sit on a potty as I much preferred using the toilet, though someone had to stop my tiny ass from falling down it. The name Pwhelli or summat is lodged in my brain, where my mother hired a holiday cottage. Had she not always spent her money on holidays, high heels and big hats for church, she would probably have been quite well off. I suspect she married my father thinking such was her destiny, for he was nearly a millionaire (so the story goes), having a successful engineering business, a bit of an entrepreneur at an early age, inventor, bullshitter etc. He had reported that his first wife died of cancer but She met her in a bar to be told she had left him coz of his drinking, which he only took up aged 28, success presumably gone to his noddle. That and the smoking did kill him when he was 80 with oesophageal cancer.

Most importantly, on that holiday, I don’t remember my sister who was always playing out. But vivid then was Santy, the youngest aunt, though was never allowed to call her aunt, or Santy if someone was listening. A pattern here. Letters must be addressed to Miss Fancy Pants.

She was beautiful, vivacious and huge fun but a terrible tease. After potty torment, by which time my bum was numb and I’d given up the will to ever poo again, I was allowed to sit on a stool set in front of the radio and could listen to my story of some stuff which always began with, Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…

Santy delighted in beating me to said stool. The only times I got there first, she shoved me off with her bum or sat on me till I squealed. They both thought this hilarious and would laugh uproariously. I soon tired of these shenanigans and would mope about till Santy would swear blind she wouldn’t do it again; but she always did. It was great having someone else about though, my mother would have fun, laugh a lot, I didn’t get punished, pinched, bitten on the arm, whacked around the head, smacked on the bum with a slipper etc. I got fed. The day we left, I was so sad, sitting on the doorstep with suitcases, awaiting the taxi. I didn’t see Santy for the longest time.

Where we lived then was an odd place; the first bungalow next to waste ground and further back an old landfill hole, huge with steep sides, in a cul-de-sac at the end of which were huge fields as far as my eye could see. Opposite us was a very steep hill, houses both sides, again a cul-de-sac, at t’other end was the main road with houses facing it, and the back of the far one overlooking said huge hole. We went round once to see the man’s well-kept garden, slowly crumbling into the abyss the council kept insisting would be filled any day now. Once two bin lorries emptied into it, the neighbours went nuts, got assured by the council they had gone to the wrong place. When it happened again, out came the wives awaiting their husbands’ return (‘just wait till my husband gets home…’ was a regular then), arms folded, at least two rolling pins evident. They outwaited the two drivers till they left and never returned. The hole was never filled as long as I lived there. The waste ground was used for bonfire night, with civil fireworks like sparklers, roman candles, Catherine wheels, rockets, not the bombs of today. My mother would make parkin and toffee apples, others would bring stuff, including potatoes that you stuck in the hot ashes, having to wait hours till cooked. The husbands would construct and set alight to said structure and fireworks after we all had to be organised into shoving sticks into the base to ensure there were no hedgehogs lodging. This was the most important ritual before any fun was to be had. One year, one did get burned and one man in particular was so upset he went home, as did everyone, solemn, ashamed, silent. I didn’t even understand what a hedgehog was, just that it was the most important part of bonfire night, that somehow we had gotten wrong.

She seemed to enjoy entertaining and feeding everyone’s kids, Pamela’s friends (I didn’t have any, never being allowed to play out – which is quite weird because if she hated me so much, why did she keep me near her?) Presumably because Pam didn’t want me near her either. Shiralee, me. She told me that all she had ever wanted was a husband and children. Obviously not that husband and not this child! She had Halloween parties with apple bobbing, dipping crisps in hot baked beans (they always broke) and the inevitable parkin. I even had a birthday party once for the neighbourhood kids. Told to answer the door a woman and child I did not know, proffered a present, all wrapped up. I had never had a present before so wandered off staring at it, letting the door close too. Everyone gave me hell for being so spoilt and rude and I had to repeatedly apologise before they would finally enter. My fault the party was ruined. Sent to bed early, I did wonder what the hell that was all about as I listened to shrieks of fun coming from Pam and friends.

One such friend, boy of course, had built a go-kart for the very steep hill. He had decided that Pam was in charge of who could go on it when; I had begged my sad heart out to have