RIDE THE WINDS
by
S & R Riley
* * * * *
Published by McCall Millar at Smashwords
e-mail: mccall.millar@hotmail.com
This book is available in print at www.unibook.com
Ride the Winds
Copyright © McCall Millar 2010
All Rights Reserved
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* * * * *
To My Sister
The wind beneath my wings
* * * * *
Author’s Note
Every person has a story to tell. Mine is a mixture of joy, laughter, anger and deep sorrow, and in that I reckon we are all much alike. You see deep down inside we share the same fears and insecurities, and in many cases we have undergone the same experiences and suffered the same emotional hang-ups that result from neglecting to face, and consequently deal with, bad experiences.
To write about the most intimate secrets of your soul is one thing, to allow it to be published is quite another, yet I never doubted my decision to do so for I knew that in understanding what makes me tick I could make my past work for me instead of against me. So with help and constant support from my sister Sherri, that is exactly what I did. I turned my life the right way up and in the process so did Sherri.
It is my sincere wish that in reading my story, you will learn to understand yourself and those around you a little better, simply by recognizing the parts of you that are in me. This in turn may give you hope and encouragement to overcome your fear or guilt or grief, for no matter who you are, no matter what you have done, you are not alone.
* * * * *
Prologue
As my eyes slowly focused on the chandelier above my bed, the pounding in my head threatened to destroy any remaining brain cells. I lifted a hand to my chin and gingerly moved it from side to side. Either I’d been grinding my teeth for hours or rigor mortis had set in during my nightmare silent scream mode, because it ached something awful. “Oh God, I’m never going to drink again,” groaned my aching jaw. A remnant of the recurring nightmare slashed its way through my pain, and far from being surreal, it had all the clarity of a genuine memory. The storyline never differed but the creatures and locations sometimes did, a snake in a Burmese jungle or a crocodile at the bottom of a concrete jetty leading into the sea. Strange I know, but isn’t that the nature of nightmares?
Either the crocodile swallows my parents, two brothers and sister, or they die instantly from the snakebite. They don’t try to run away, just line up and patiently wait their turn. Terrified, I beg them not to leave me but no one ever takes any notice and then the silent screams start – the ones that sound like a banshee in your head, but come out as a pathetic little whimper.
With a sickening lurch of my stomach a blurry mental picture made me squirm with embarrassment as I remembered my husband doubled over with laughter in the middle of the driveway, tears of merriment wetting his face after four hours of watching me cause mayhem amongst our dinner guests.
It all started with my impersonation of an overzealous New Age preacher. Using a well practised American accent and warble I fully expected a round of applause (at the very least a snicker), but an unpromising silence settled upon the room. I should have sensed the warning signs but after four glasses of wine I simply turned up the volume, unaware of our guests’ religious inclinations.
“What a bunch of losers,” I thought. “No sense of humour, that’s their problem. Still, one cannot give up so early in the evening. Give them a few more drinks and they’ll soon warm up a bit."
“Could have sworn that was full a minute ago,” I muttered, looking at my empty wine glass. “Oi,” I yelled, at the pompous little man on my right. “How come my wine glass is empty and yours is still full?”
He tried to splutter his innocence, reminding me of a suffocating fish, but I couldn’t let him escape that easily and returned to preacher mode. “LORD!” I warbled. “I said, I said, Lord, we have a sinner amongst us.”
A stifled snort of amusement from the opposite end of the table caught my attention. “Darling, more wine?” asked my husband Jamie, removing the bottle from the ice bucket.
“Good idea,” I cheered, raising my glass. For a second I couldn’t remember who or what I’d been about to toast, so I took another slurp of wine and bellowed, “CRAFT! Can’t remember a fucking thing,” I explained with a raucous chuckle. “Oh well, no matter. Hallelujah praise the Lord, who’s for pud?”
Four sombre faces stared back at me in pious silence until the rotund busty woman finally shook her head in refusal. “Oh come on,” I laughed, with a conspiratorial wink. “It’s no good trying to go on diet now believe me. Besides it’s Tiramisu.” Blissfully unaware that my comments were insulting, I waltzed into the kitchen to fetch the next course.
Jamie tried to steer the conversation away from weighty issues and religion, his eyes sparkling with good humour, but for some perverse reason every subject he chose reminded me of yet another religious joke. The flinty looks and awkward silences had little effect on me as I blundered on, telling the joke about the vicar who pricked his finger on a thorn in the garden of one of his parishioners. The punchline came when his host enquired if his prick was still throbbing, and when I saw the plump woman’s husband rubbing his finger, I couldn’t resist asking him the same question. And so the abysmal evening ended with a smile on only one face, Jamie’s.
Lying in the cocooned comfort of my bed, trying not to move more than an eyelid, I glanced down at my three-year-old daughter who lay sleeping beside me. She must have slipped in during the night as she often did, and I gingerly pulled the cover over her tiny shoulder before settling back with a sigh. I looked around my bedroom, a beautiful room by any standard, it seemed especially so with the early morning light glinting through the cottage pane windows, giving a warm glow to the polished oak and shiny brass handles of the antique military chest that Jamie had inherited. Two rattan chairs and a rosewood table stood in one corner of the room displaying a photograph of Kamed, an Arab stallion and one of my all-time favourites. Looking into his large brown eyes, a mixture of joy and grief flitted through my heart even though he’d been dead almost fourteen years.
Out of the corner of my eye I could just see a pair of dusty black riding boots through the partially open wardrobe door. If the door opened fully it would reveal a multitude of riding jackets, all designed and colour coded for a variety of different equestrian events. I wondered if the buttons on the small faded blue one were still encircled by hairs from the mane of my first pony.
I listened carefully to the sounds around me, hoping that by some miracle I would hear the gentle snort of Mokkasin coming from the stables, or the sound of Honey kicking over her bucket. But only a ticking clock and the soft pattering of rain on leaves disturbed the morning quiet. Or was it the fountain outside? I was never sure.
The horses and farm were long gone; the paddocks and arenas I had so lovingly cared for now belonged to someone else. A long shuddering breath rattled the tightness in my smoker’s chest as sadness threatened to overwhelm me.
The farm, like all possessions, could be replaced and although I missed the open fields and the smell of hay and molasses, it was the horses I grieved for. They had salvaged my sanity more times than I cared to remember, and I refused to contemplate life without their soothing presence. I snuggled under the duvet hoping to draw some solace from its cosiness, but a thousand images filled my head – images I had no wish to look at. “Switch off!” said a cold voice inside my head. “Think of something else, blank it out.” So I did.
As a child I became an expert in the art of switching off and it had served me well over the years. Unfortunately, I abused it until it became an integral part of my character, and now I lived in limbo. Having locked away all memories of the past, both good and bad, I felt incapable of embracing the future because I had such limited knowledge of the person I wished to be.
A small photograph stood on the bedside table. “Sod,” I muttered, looking at a much younger me. “Not a bloody wrinkle in sight.” The last fifteen years had not been kind to my face or figure – inevitable I suppose. What’s that stuff called that your body produces to make your skin elastic? Damn, can’t remember. Well whatever it is, I don’t have any. The usual negative effects of time would have aged me sufficiently, but determined to help the process I doggedly smoked my way through thousands of cigarettes, moved to South Africa, worked outdoors in blistering heat, and developed a liking for wine.
In the photograph I am sitting astride Mokkasin, a small but exceptionally beautiful bay mare. The trust between us is obvious from the loosely held reins, despite the fact that a little boy with sandy coloured hair and a wide smile is sitting in front of me. Standing surprisingly close to Mokkasin’s hooves, her arm resting on the saddle is my sister Sherri. I smiled at the familiar faces and sighed. Bad luck and dumb choices had played their part in my story, but when it came to my son and sister, I knew that I was truly blessed.
I recognised the sound of Mum’s old Ford Granada coming down the road and climbed out of bed. A tall narrow window gave me a good view of the driveway and electronic gates, and although I knew what to expect when Mum drove in, I wanted to see it anyway. Mum is not particularly small at five foot five, but in the big old car with its low set seats, only her bobbing carrot top showed above the steering wheel.
“Oh, good timing Mum!” I thought, pulling on a pair of jeans. “A bit of jolliness is just what the doctor ordered.”
With mischievous amusement I watched her fingers wriggling in an effort to reach the intercom buzzer on the wall outside the gate. Standing within arm’s length of the gate button I could easily have pressed it, putting an end to her misery. Could have, should have, didn’t. Instead, I took a step back to view the proceedings with greater ease, anticipation sending the corners of my mouth on a mission to find my ear lobes. By my reckoning, only thirty seconds passed before the wriggling fingers drew back in irritation. I sniggered gleefully.
The sudden slump of her shoulders told me that her usual smile had drooped toward her nether regions, and as the level of cursing and moaning increased in the car, I felt rumbles of satisfied laughter bubble to the surface. Her head began to bob around like a toy dog on a dashboard, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, she hit the horn with unprecedented vengeance.
I opened the gate, and knowing it would take her an age to get out of the car and around to the back door, I made a dash for the bathroom. A frantic search for headache powders only increased my pain as I stared longingly into the empty box. As usual, our cleaning lady had been there before me, and cursing her addiction to medication, I slid down the passage in my own version of moonwalking. When dealing with a debilitating hangover, the main thing is to keep your head still. I opened the door for Mum and smiled in welcome.
“Is that a smile or a grimace?” she asked.
“Both.”
With the deportment of a finishing school graduate I turned slowly to switch on the kettle and make a tentative stretch for mugs in the cupboard.
“Are you all right, my darling?” Concern softened the tone of Mum’s voice as she walked towards me.
“Who me?”
“Well I’m not talking to the dog, you mickey dripping?” A warm smile spread across her face.
“No, I’m fine.” I glanced up as I stirred the coffee. “Oh all right, so I’m lying. I’m hung-over and I’m bloody miserable if you really want to know.”
Walking out to the freshly washed front lawn in companionable silence, Mum settled into a chair under the gazebo. “The garden’s looking wonderful,” she said, as her gaze took in the profusion of yellow and pink roses.
“Mmm.”
“Whoever would have thought that Rosalind Mary Riley, from the Brackens Hotel would have ended up living in a home like this?”
I looked at the garden with pride. “It is lovely isn’t it? Sometimes I can hardly believe my luck.”
We were quiet for a while, each lost in thought. I conjured up a picture of the Brackens Hotel in England where I’d spent the first twelve years of my life. A pub more than a hotel, it resembled a Tudor manor house, with three large bars on the ground floor and an apartment above for our family of six.
Mum’s voice brought me back to the present with a jolt. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“Oh sorry, I was miles away.”
“You know darling I do think you should cut down on the amount of wine you drink. I read in an article somewhere that drinking destroys brains cells. Perhaps if you stopped your memory would improve. I mean you’ve never had a good memory but I’m sure it’s getting worse.”
I stopped listening and contemplated the strange contradictions in my personality. Loving and often generous to a fault, I could also be aggressive and used my sharp tongue to cut the people I loved most. Described as a strong woman by kinder souls, bossy and confrontational by others, my entertaining side always put me at the top of the party list, until severe mood swings began to disrupt my usually even keel personality. It was especially noticeable after a few drinks. From the affable, fun loving person Jamie had fallen in love with, I became a cruel and spiteful harridan. Alcohol loosened my tongue and there were times when I unleashed a torrent of abuse at him. I didn’t know where the anger came from, but I knew it was ruining my marriage and I sensed that my ability to switch off had something to do with it.
* * * * *
Chapter One
Do we learn or inherit certain traits from our parents? Hard to tell sometimes, but if I’d learned to switch off from Mum then I wish she’d taught me how to switch back on again. Or did fear prevent me from doing so? Did I really want to re-live the grief, guilt and shame of my early life? No, I damn well didn’t! But even so, I had to admit that it influenced every thought and decision that I made, warped my emotions and feelings, and encouraged negativity.
As for Mum, I can’t say why she switches off because she rarely talks about her life and when confronted with personal questions, pretends they have not been asked. At age twenty she married Dad, a no-nonsense man of thirty-four who picked his bride on sight. A mismatched pair from totally different backgrounds they stayed together, like many couples, because of the children. Dad rarely mentioned his family in my hearing; in fact he didn’t do much in the way of talking to me about anything. No one’s fault, just a combination of circumstances, but it caused dreadful resentment on my part and distress to Dad in the latter part of his life. Although he loved me, we were still strangers when he died and he took his feelings of regret to the grave.
In contrast I knew Mum’s parents well, though more so my grandmother. Mama and Dada once owned one of the largest farms in Nottingham, and with Dada’s wealth, jovial charisma and good looks, he would have made a dashing figure. Unfortunately, besides his passion for horses he also loved to gamble.
They lost everything, including their position in society, and with their descent into obscurity went their relationship and finally their marriage. All the privileges of money, and time spent attending balls and riding to the hunt with aristocrats, dissolved into the mundane tasks of making a living. Although they separated long before I came onto the scene I’ve always felt a great empathy for Mama, perhaps because we share the same birthday, but more likely because of the fun-filled days of song and laughter that Sherri and I spent with her.
She owned a small house in Ripley, on a dreary brown street that reeked of diesel fumes from the trucks that chugged their way to the top of the hill. Grotty buildings and lifeless gardens reflected the mood of the people within, but it always gave me pleasure to see the gaily-painted windows and porch of Mama’s house. Clean and sparkling with a garden full of bright flowers, it clearly stated that lack of money doesn’t mean you have to be as dull as a coalminer’s boot.
Both Mum and Mama trained to be opera singers so naturally music played a big part in our childhood, although you wouldn’t have found any sheet music by the Rolling Stones sitting on the piano. Holidays with Mama meant no nightmares and hot malt drinks at bedtime. I slept on a camp bed in her homely lavender scented room where the streetlight shone through the window, lighting up a gilt-framed painting of a shepherd guarding his sheep. Safe and secure I lay there staring at the glowing picture of peace and love, and even now in quiet moments I can close my eyes and easily recapture the essence of Mama’s room.
When Sherri joined me during the school holidays we slept in a huge feather bed so high we had to climb onto a chair to reach the mattress before falling into soft flannel sheets and down pillows. God, I wish I had that bed now!
Despite the four-year age gap, Sherri and I are closer than needles on a pine tree, but although we often display twin-like behaviour, we are very different. Sherri’s gentle nature hides a delightfully sharp sense of humour whereas my boisterous personality finds impish amusement in taking things to the edge. Sherri has always been my best friend and tries to provide some semblance of caution to my adventurous escapades, sometimes having to rescue me from my own enthusiasm. Through the years we’ve escaped unscathed on many occasions, and even as a five-year-old I knew how and where to find trouble.
On a warm and sunny Saturday afternoon, shortly after Mama had served up a delicious lunch of stew and dumplings, I decided to walk to a nearby farm where I knew they kept horses. I wanted to ride one, but not without my trusty accomplice, and I found her in the garden picking flowers for Mama.
“Want to go for a walk?” I asked casually.
She looked with suspicion at my innocent face. “Where to?”
“Oh I don’t know, maybe we could go exploring.”
“You’re not up to one of your tricks are you?”
“Course not,” I replied, with an indignant grin.
“Hang on,” she said with a chuckle. “I’ll put these flowers in water and get my shoes.”
People always laughed when I smiled, but not because I looked cute, I just happened to resemble a wide-mouthed frog. Knowing all too well that Sherri had a fear of horses, I set off with a jaunty skip and found the farm without much trouble, squeaking with delight as I recognised a large silver birch tree in one of the paddocks. I ran recklessly down the hill, ignoring Sherri’s warning call until it was too late.
The old tramp lay right in my path, and as I took a gigantic leap, sailing over his head and landing with a stumble, I imagined his gnarled hands grasping at my shirt and clutching my neck with bony fingers. Hardly daring to breathe I saw Sherri tiptoe forwards and gesture for me to keep quiet. With his open mouth displaying the remnants of blackened teeth, the tramp continued to sleep, dispensing snores even louder than my Great Aunt Joan’s from Brazil. His long yellowish grey hair surrounded a gaunt face and a matted filthy beard.
“Let’s get out of here before he wakes up,” Sherri whispered urgently, pulling at my shirt. “Ros, if he wakes up he might hurt us, now come on, we’re going home.”
Most boys would have fled the scene at the first sign of trouble, but not my sister. She has the heart of a lion and would gladly have died with me rather than leave me. I didn’t want to die or leave, and determined to stick to my original plan, grabbed her hand and bolted down the hill.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“I want to see the horses”
“Horses!” she cried, her voice rising with consternation. “You never said anything about horses.”
“Shh, not so loud, you’ll wake him up,” I puffed, as we slowed down.
“You and your horses! I can’t understand why you like them so much. And don’t give me that lost puppy look either,” she mumbled, turning to look back up the hill.
“Please Sherri; please can I have a look at them?”
“Oh all right, a quick look, but that’s it. I don’t want you going near them.”
I didn’t mention that I intended to climb onto one or that she would have to help me. Some things are better left unsaid. We searched everywhere, finding only the odd pile of dung, until I eventually agreed to give up. Relieved, Sherri turned to go back up the hill, until she remembered the tramp.
“Why don’t we just sneak past him?” I asked, now worried about the predicament I’d landed us in.
“Naa, that’s no good. What if he wakes up? No, we’ll have to go around the base of the hill where the grass is long enough to hide us.”
So like intrepid adventurers in Sunday afternoon movies, we set off with mixed feelings of fear and excitement. The lush meadow was indeed long enough to hide us, but we soon discovered that it also hid a patch of stinging nettles. Large white painful bumps covered our arms and legs as we emerged on the far side of the field.
“Well so far so good,” said Sherri, glumly looking at the bumps. “Now all we have to do is get to the top of the hill.”
We had just started the long climb when a pony appeared out of nowhere. To be fair, he looked as tall as a carthorse and quite ferocious as he snorted in surprised fright, sending Sherri’s skinny legs up the slope at mach one speed. By the time I’d wiped away my tears of laughter and moved close enough to pat the pony; Sherri was jumping up and down in silent agitation, frantically trying to will me into joining her at the top. In my delight at seeing and touching a real horse, I’d forgotten about the tramp.
Sherri’s face, as the pony and I climbed the hill together, showed a mixture of outrage and fear. I ignored her. If the tramp woke up I’d run, but in the meantime the pony had my full attention as he stuck his nose into my pocket looking for tit bits. When I stopped to pick some grass I faintly heard Sherri squeal as the pony nuzzled my neck.
Our encounter with tramp, nettles and pony provided not only an adrenalin boost to our outing but also, as I looked back at the field, a premonition; that horses would play a vital and important role in my life.
On our return to Mama’s house we found Mum there, looking sad and tearful. Long hours spent behind the bar, a family of six and a jealous, difficult husband took their toll on Mum’s physical and mental health. She didn’t know how to deal with Dad, and it took her many years to realise how many emotional and mental scars he carried from the Second World War. We could only imagine what horrors he must have witnessed because he never talked about them.
Switching off can sometimes be beneficial on a temporary basis as in the case of soldiers who cannot deal with what they have to do, but at some stage you have to switch back on and face the truth or the shadow of it will haunt you and affect everything you do.
Shortly before he died Dad started to open up about his experiences to my brother Robert, who in turn told me. Sadly, it made me comprehend how little I knew my father. To my shame I had stood in judgment of him and managed to convince myself that he didn’t really care about his family, or me. I conveniently forgot the good times, the pain I saw in his eyes the day Mum took me away, and the letters he wrote to me afterwards.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
Some of us are quick to learn and others take a little longer. I do learn from experience, but sometimes the lesson has to be repeated a number of times before I fully understand. Take for instance, one of the most important rules of the universe – never design a new hairstyle within hours of an important event. The results can be catastrophic, as witnessed by many of my friends over the years.
My dalliance with do-it-yourself-and-suffer hairdos began at the age of four when I still held the blissful delusion that my life would continue to be an endless succession of happy, love-filled days. My imminent entry into the English school system had little effect on my chirpy nature, but on the evening prior to my first day, I did feel that a new and more fashionable hairstyle was called for.
Having made the necessary arrangements with a chair and a pair of blunt scissors, I stood before the bathroom mirror admiring the large section of half-inch long hair that sat above my forehead, when a gasp from behind stopped me in mid snip.
“Rosalind! What are you doing?” Mum asked sharply.
I stared at her through the mirror, giving my very best wide-mouthed frog smile, and wondered why she turned away so quickly with a laughing snort of surprise.
“Don’t do anymore!” she shouted, running to the kitchen for a sharp pair of scissors. She tried to correct the helmet look, but there’s not much you can do with hair when it’s gone.
“What am I going to do with you?” she chuckled, eyeing the remains of my fringe.
Frankly, I couldn’t see the problem until the following day at school when a scruffy little boy said, “Oi look at ‘er, she must live with rats. They bin chewing ‘er ‘air”. I put up my hand to cover the offending fringe and smiled shyly at the boy.
“Oo la la, look at miss fancy with ‘er smart clothes,” said a brown haired girl.
I glanced down at my clothes and couldn’t understand why the girl thought they were fancy. I searched the now multiplying circle of children for a friendly face, but there were none. Someone poked me from behind. “Cor, she even smells like a rat.”
On the verge of tears and about to bolt for home, I heard the scruffy boy say, “Did ya see er mam? Gawd, you’d of thought she were a bloody queen or summat. Prancin’ around ‘ere like she owned the place.” He walked up and down with an exaggerated swagger to make his point. “Snooty Cow!”
My punch hit the target and I watched with morbid fascination as tears filled his eyes and blood poured from his stubby nose. “If any of you ever say anything about my mother again,” I yelled, “I’ll knock your teeth out!”
I jumped as a door slammed behind me and knew it meant trouble by the look of sheer terror on a nearby girl’s face. Mrs. Blackleg, the human slug, came trundling out like a galleon in full sail. Bending down she grabbed my ear and bellowed, “You little hellion, I knew you were trouble the minute I laid eyes on you.”
“But Miss, it was his fault, he said my mother….”
“And he was probably right, marching in here like you’re something special. I saw the way you looked at me young lady and I’ll have none of it, do you hear, none of it,” she screeched, dragging me back to the schoolroom.
“Wretched little creature!” she spat, pushing me down into a chair on the front row. “In future you will not speak unless you are spoken to. Do you understand little girl?”
I nodded, but the look in my eyes sent out a thousand deadly arrows. Her repulsive face lurched down to within an inch of mine, and with trembling jowls she screamed, “Don’t you dare look at me like that!”
I lowered my eyes, convinced that annihilation was imminent, and prayed that Mum would somehow learn the truth. The tears I had held back in the playground slowly trickled down my face and I swore it would be the last time I ever gave Mrs. Blackleg the pleasure of seeing them.
Over the following year I raised my hand repeatedly to ask questions, but after being ignored on each occasion I eventually gave up trying. My knuckles were rapped with a ruler if Mrs. Blackleg caught me staring out of the window, and if anything went missing I was named as the culprit and duly punished. The other children were allowed to play in the Wendy house, but not I, and although I longed to be given permission to do so, I would gladly have had my tongue removed rather than beg.
On warm summer afternoons Mrs. Blackleg often fell asleep and on one of those occasions my desire to see the inside of the little house overcame my fear of any possible repercussions. Slipping quietly out of my seat I tiptoed across the room and opened the Wendy house door, glancing nervously behind me as I did so. The great toad still slept, or so I thought. Sighing with relief, I crept in and sat down on a stool in front of the make believe kitchen, picked up the teapot and pretended to pour myself a cup of tea, taking a cup and saucer off the sideboard.
“This is great!” I thought, looking around at all the toy cooking pots and pans. So absorbed was I in my new surroundings that I failed to understand the significance of a chair being scraped back sharply along the floorboards. The small door leading into the house almost broke off its hinges as it slammed back against the wall.
“Get out this instant,” Mrs. Blackleg hissed, her mouth barely opening. A second or two passed as I sat in stunned silence. Her bloated face, bright red from anger, pushed itself against the doorway. “NOW!” she screamed. Terrified, I scrambled through the door and tried to make a dash for freedom, but she grabbed my arm and swung me around. “You deceitful little wretch!” I watched her arm move back in an arc but wasn’t prepared for the force with which her hand hit my face.
Glaring at her like a miniature gladiator in the lion’s den, I whispered to myself, “Don’t let her see you’re scared. Don’t let her win, don’t let her win.”
Day after day I returned home from school feeling wretched and dejected, but the only one allowed to witness my pain was Ilsa, our German Shepherd dog. With my head resting just behind her shoulder, one arm draped over her back and the other nestled in the soft creamy ruff on her chest, I would cry my tears of hurt and humiliation. The sound of her heart beating against my ear soothed me and I would more often than not fall asleep.
Ilsa – my companion and guardian angel all rolled into one. A once in a lifetime friend, I loved her just as much as I did my brothers and sister for she possessed more common sense and depth of feeling than many humans, with the intelligence to know what to do in any given circumstance. Throughout her life she saved my bacon on several occasions, and it was Ilsa who stopped me from falling down the stairs before I could walk, Ilsa who alerted Mum of my distress after I drank a glass of bleach, mistaking it for water. She even dug me out from beneath a pile of coal when I brought down the entire contents of the coal cellar, trying to turn myself into a black and white minstrel. I love dogs and have shared my life with many, but there has never been another Ilsa.
Like so many other children I didn’t tell anyone about the problems at school. By ignoring them I thought they would go away; and anyway, to take those problems home would mean having to expose a weak side of my character. I knew that my family loved me but down in some deep dark crevice of my mind I wondered if it was because I made them laugh. If I stopped doing that, would they in turn stop loving me? As an adult I know that’s ridiculous but children see the world differently to adults.
Despite being an intelligent little girl, by the time I left Allenton Infants School I remained virtually illiterate thanks to Mrs. Blackleg, and my experiences there gave me a sound base for a lifetime of rebellion and quick decisions with a “sod the consequences, I’ll deal with it later” attitude.
This brings us back to the issue of hair and the lesson I refuse to learn. I always think it will work out “this time” but of course it never does. Take for instance the time one of my oldest friends invited me to her daughter’s wedding. Naturally, I felt excited at the prospect of spending some time with Yasmin, and watching Melanie walk down the aisle with the man of her dreams, but there was also a desire to impress old friends and stun my ex-husband and his entourage of mistresses.
Two days prior to the wedding I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror and miserably contemplating my rapidly expanding waistline. “Look at me, I’m an absolute porker!”
“Oh rubbish,” said Jamie. “You look great.”
“Humph!”
“You do!” he assured me. “Besides no-one’s going to mind if you’ve put on a bit of weight. They’re your friends, they’ll understand.”
“Thanks!”
He lifted the newspaper to cover what I strongly suspected was an irrepressible grin, and refused to make further comment.
We arrived in Johannesburg on the eve of Melanie’s wedding and spent the night with John, an old friend of Jamie’s. Being the perfect host, he took us out for dinner and the following day took us on a tour of the Sandton shopping mall. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window, I lifted a strand of hair and mumbled, “I’m fat and my hair needs cutting.”
“For the love of God!” cried Jamie in exasperation. “You are not fat! Here,” he said, passing me a couple of bank notes. “Go and get your hair cut.” He turned and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go and get a beer. I have a feeling we’re going to need one.”
I set off in search of a salon, convinced that in such an upmarket centre a top-notch hairdresser would be easy to find. “A decent hair cut is just what I need,” I said, looking through the window of a particularly busy salon. A heavily made up face that had seen better days appeared at the doorway.
“Your hair won’t get styled looking through the window, doll,” she drawled. Her two-inch black nails with silver tips had me gawping like a mesmerized zombie. “Mavis!” she yelled through the doorway. “Take my lady here and show her through to the back if you will.”
I turned to walk away but the talons grabbed my arm and guided me non-too gently into the shearing shed. I know this is hard to believe but the first thing she did was hack my fringe to within an inch of my hairline. “Déjà bloody vu,” I thought, looking at my reflection and understanding why Mum had laughed at my four-year-old attempt at hairdressing. But no laugh, smile or smirk graced my face when I saw how perfectly the rest of the cut accentuated the appalling frizz left by a previous perm, and as I made my way to the counter, a sickening ripple of innards accompanied every step. Multiple mirrors set at every angle confirmed with stunning clarity that once again I had become a helmet head!
Desperation leads people to make strange decisions and so it was that on our return to John’s apartment I decided to brighten up my helmet with some colour while reading the latest magazines.
“How long are you supposed to leave that stuff on for?” Jamie asked curiously.
“Oh about twenty minutes,” I replied nonchalantly looking at my watch. “Err…I don’t suppose you remember what time I put it on do you?”
He shook his head. “Nope, sorry don’t have a clue, but I’m sure it was more than twenty minutes ago.”
I headed for the bathroom with more churning in the lower regions and knew that I’d made a bugger up, I just wasn’t sure of the extent. After carefully rinsing off the peroxide I took a deep breath and lifted my head to inspect the damage.
“Aahhhhh!” My cries of despair reverberated off the walls. “You stupid bloody idiot! What the hell have you done?” Frankenstein’s grandmother grimaced back at me. With the exception of five or six round dark patches where the peroxide hadn’t done its job, the rest of my hair gleamed snowy white! Mortified, I wrapped my head in a towel and went to sit outside.
“So?” Jamie asked, as I plonked down in a miserable heap.
“So what?” I snapped back.
“What does it look like?”
Mere words could not explain so I let the towel slip down into my lap and looked at the skyline, waiting for the inevitable roar of laughter. In the silence that followed I wondered for a moment if I had seen an illusion in the mirror. Perhaps it had turned out okay after all. And then I heard him gasp, trying to catch his breath. I looked over to see tears cascading from his laughing eyes as he rocked backwards and forwards in his chair.
“Oh my God,” he eventually managed to splutter, “You look like a hyena!”
Three hours before the wedding saw Jamie squeezing the last few drops of peroxide onto the dark spots.
“I can’t,” I groaned, watching him in the mirror.
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t go looking like this.”
He stopped rubbing the skin off my scalp for a second and peered at me over the top of my head. “Yasmin will kill you.”
“Can’t you phone and say I’m ill.”
“No.”
“Please! Tell her I’ve got chicken pox.”
“No!”
“What about glandular fever?” I said hopefully.
He chuckled. “Look, why don’t you just phone a hairdressing salon and let them fix it.”
“Oh don’t be silly. It’s Saturday afternoon! They’re all closed.”
“Maybe we should try a different colour then,” he suggested.
I looked back at him, dumbstruck for a second by the sheer simplicity of the plan. “BRILLIANT!” I yelled, finally convinced that I’d married a genius. “Absolutely bloody brilliant!”
He raised his eyebrows and slowly shook his head.
“Come on then,” I said, running for the car. “What are you waiting for?”
We found a chemist and while I hid in the car beneath a towel, Jamie ran back and forth from car to shop until he found something I thought might be suitable.
“Golden blonde,” I muttered, fingering the umpteenth packet he’d brought for me to inspect. “This should do the trick.”
Back in the apartment I cursed my lack of dress sense as I hauled the low cut floral dress out of my suitcase and hung my head in despair. The large yellow flowers on the red and blue background now matched my buttercup yellow hair beautifully, but looking at the style and tiny waistline it suddenly struck me that I hadn’t worn it in years.
With much shoving and pushing I finally managed to squash my large bosom into the ridiculously small cups at the front of the dress before manhandling the belt onto the first hole. The effect was quite startling. I turned sideways and eyed the bulging stomach with distaste. Holding it in with muscles unequal to the task resulted in a nipple bounding over the top of the dress like a puppy let out of a cage. While attempting to get it back in, I searched in vain for the shoes that matched the red handbag lying on the bed.
“Everything all right in here?” Jamie enquired from the doorway.
“No worries mate,” I drawled. “Look like a hooker, packed a red handbag and black shoes, broke the chain you bought me for Christmas, brought the wrong coloured eye shadow and no deodorant! Otherwise it’s all good luv.”
Discarding the dress and handbag in favour of an old but still respectable pair of trousers, I lay on the bed and once again pulled in my stomach while Jamie hoisted up the zip. I slithered upright to examine the fully exposed metal fastening, pondering on the implications of eating more than one lettuce leaf per day, when Jamie asked,
“Darling? Did you pack socks for me?”
With my confidence in tatters, I could only manage a small and hesitant, “Yeees.”
“Do you mean these?” he asked, holding up a pair for me to see.
“Um, yes.
“My sweetheart these are not socks. See?” he said, holding them up. “These are the slippers that airlines hand out to their passengers on long flights.”
We arrived at the church as late as we dared and sat in the darkest corner where I tried to remain incognito. The enormous bobble encrusted jersey hid my trouser zip, and the sunglasses hid my face, but when Yasmin turned to watch her only daughter walk down the aisle, her eyes, and those of the entire congregation, were drawn to the startling and splendidly yellow helmet head sitting at the back of the church.
* * * * *
Chapter Three
My next venture into the world of education took me to Carlton Avenue Junior School in 1966, and although I prepared myself for a new start, the stage had been set and my part assigned. A dislike of schools is in my bones – I just can’t handle it when people tell me what to do rather than ask me, so consequently I’m often in trouble for bucking the system.
If you hear someone laughing uproariously in a bookstore with a joke book in hand while their mother hides in the next aisle; it will be me. If you see a woman at the PTA meeting of a conservative Christian school wearing a dress that is only suitable for dancing the samba, you’ve guessed it; it will be me.
Even the formality of a dressage championship cannot subdue my enthusiasm for living life my way. On the busiest day of a Royal Show event I completed a dressage test and handed Mokkasin to the groom while I popped over to the pavilion to get a quick drink. By the time I made it back to where I’d left them, the bird had flown. Tired and in no mood to walk all the way back to the stables in my long boots, top hat and tails, I noticed that a friend of mine had just finished showing her horse in a working hunter class, and partially in jest, yelled at her to give me a lift.
“If you can get on him you can have a lift,” she laughed, knowing full well that I battle to get on any sized horse, never mind her rather hot and high event horse. That’s when I spotted the flagpole and shinnied up it, waving Cathy in close enough for me to get a leg over the front of the saddle. I had just performed this remarkable feat when the horse suddenly stepped sideways, leaving a gaping chasm between saddle and flagpole.
“Cathy, move him back you wally, I’m going to fall!” I squawked.
“So jump!” she laughed.
So I did. Unfortunately, the reins became trapped under my bottom as I landed, and with no way to steer or stop we left the arena at a gallop and headed back to the stables helpless with laughter. Yelling, “Fore!” as we charged through hordes of milling people didn’t endear me to the local committee members, and neither did my braying laugh which they could hear on the other side of the showground.
I know this type of behaviour isn’t acceptable in the dressage world, and luckily, the only injury sustained that day was to my reputation as a serious rider, but sometimes there are just too many damn rules not to break a few and enjoy an unexpected adventure.
At Carlton Avenue Junior School, the teachers presumed that my inability to read and write stemmed from lack of concentration or stupidity. I cared little for their opinions. I’d been lucky enough to cadge a ride on a horse from a local stable yard, and from the first time I put my bum into a saddle I knew without a doubt where I was going in life – to ride horses and become a world champion at show jumping. Determined to make my dreams come true, and thinking that an education would not be necessary, I spent more time dreaming than learning.
Fights with other children were also part of my weekly curriculum, more often than not because I felt it my duty to defend my best friend, Kate. Dreadful eczema on both her hands gave rise to unmerciful teasing, and when the boys called her, “The Leper”, I reacted as any decent knight would, and gave them a good bashing.
Mum told me that eczema is not contagious, and the children at school were being silly and very cruel, so I always made a point of holding her hand as we walked home. My brash show of supposed bravery during fights almost disappeared when it came to holding Kate’s hand, and it took all my willpower not to cringe whenever I felt her dry scaly skin. But as her friend I would have felt far worse watching the poor girl suffer untold humiliation on a daily basis.
At that time the stitching that held together the fabric of my home life began to pull apart and as each thread broke, more started to unravel. I sensed the animosity between my parents but chose to ignore it, and concentrated on the excitement leading up to Christmas which still held the promise of miracles. As the only one in the household who still believed in Santa Claus, the rest of the family encouraged my childish fantasies, and I managed to push aside my feelings of insecurity.
Sherri and I shared a room as did the boys, but we slept in a double bed instead of two singles, with soft flannel sheets and a thick eiderdown to keep us warm in winter. On Christmas Eve, Dad came in to say goodnight, bringing with him the wonderful aroma of pipe tobacco and after-shave. Mum followed in a long evening dress, with small golden bell-shaped earrings and the distinctive scent of Chanel perfume that filled my nostrils long after her departure.
I lay listening to the sound of my sister’s gentle breathing and the laughter and music from the party below; sure that Santa was on his way. Straining my ears for the sound of sleigh bells as the reindeer passed overhead, I crept out of bed and went to the window.
“What are you doing?” asked a sleepy voice.
“I’m opening the curtains so that I can see Santa when he comes past,” I answered quietly, before climbing back into bed. Snuggling down into the warm covers, Sherri wrapped her arms around me.
“Santa is very shy and doesn’t like people to see him,” she murmured. “He always knows which children are awake so you’d better go to sleep or he won’t come,”
I gazed out of the window and up into the night sky. The snow clouds had gone and as I looked up a shooting star flew across the heavens. “It’s Santa coming, I know it is!” I whispered, just before closing my eyes.
We awoke the next morning to pillowcases overflowing with presents, and I ran down the corridor pausing only long enough to bang on the boy’s door and shout, “Come on, Santa’s been!” Not bothering to wait for the inevitable mumble, I hurried along to get Mum and Dad for the present opening.
When the contents of the pillowcase had been thoroughly examined and were lying in a heap on the bed, I darted into the lounge and stopped short, catching my breath at the sight under the Christmas tree. Parcels of every shape and size wrapped in multi-coloured Christmas paper and ribbon presented a treasure-trove that few children are privileged to experience. As I sat in the lounge that year surrounded by my family; watching their happy faces, hearing their laughter, and feeling the warmth of their love, I consciously knew that it was one of the happiest moments of my life.
Not long after that wonderful day, circumstances forced me to face the truth one night when loud angry voices woke me from a deep sleep. Feeling sick with apprehension, I crept out of bed and tiptoed down the passage to the lounge. The door stood slightly ajar, and although I could not see Mum, Dad stood near to the window, his face bright red with fury. Accusations and cruel barbs flew back and forth, each one making me feel more wretched than the last. Uncertain of which way to turn, a sudden silence had me running for cover and I dived back into bed, under the blankets, and put my fingers into my ears to block the sound of my world collapsing.
I didn’t say a word to anyone about the argument, thinking that if I pretended nothing had happened the problem would simply disappear. But during the summer holidays the increasing quarrels and tension between my parents led to the steady decline of our family relationships. My eldest brother John, a sixteen-year-old angel who had helped to bring up his younger siblings, stoically tried to ignore it all and carry on as normal. Robert, sixteen months younger and a daredevil deluxe, made sure he was never at home, and Sherri started to emerge from her shell and became a tad rebellious. My aggressive streak began to show itself as a self-defence mechanism and I became increasingly difficult to handle. With a complete disregard for caution, I had a series of accidents that resulted in broken bones, deep cuts and scars. The latter impressed the boys at school, and my reputation as a fighter grew stronger.
In 1969, after Robert had a horrific motorbike accident that almost took his life, Mum and Dad took us all to Wales where they rented a furnished house near the sea. Sherri and I spent much of our time wandering around the small town or beach, while John and Rob held competitions to find out who could drink the most beer.
Robert, still with a calliper on his leg, hobbled down to the beach on his crutches each morning and once there, hopped on one leg to the water’s edge with an arm around John’s shoulders. We swam, sunbathed, played games, and generally had a good time, completely unaware that it was the last family holiday we would ever have together.
In March 1970, I sat on Robert’s bed with a heavy heart, watching John pack a suitcase.
“Why do you want to leave home?” I asked miserably, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “Don’t you want to live with us anymore?”
He stopped packing and sat down beside me. “Just because I’m going away doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“Then why are you going?”
He stared at me in silence for a while trying to find the right words. “Look sunshine, leaving home isn’t anything to do with you or anybody else. I’m just not cut out to be a welder. Do you really want me to spend the rest of my life working in a shed with a welding torch in my hand and a visor stuck on my face, hating every minute of it?”
“No,” I answered, trying hard not to cry.
“Hey, what’s with the tears? I thought you’d be glad to get rid of your grumpy brother.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders
“You’re not grumpy!” I said sharply. “Well, only first thing in the morning.”
He pulled the corners of his mouth down and lowered his eyebrows until I giggled. “You look just like a hungry beetle when you do that.”
“How do you know what a hungry beetle looks like?”
“Well I don’t, but I bet if I did see one it would look just like that.”
He laughed and gave me a hug. “Come on, get yourself ready and you can come with us to the airport if you want to, but no more tears. Alright?”
I nodded my head and climbed down off the bed. “John?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s going to help me with things?”
He glanced up at me, tears filling his own eyes this time. “I don’t know sunshine.”
John’s departure left a huge void in my world that no one else could fill and without his steadying influence I felt lost and bereft of guidance. I turned towards Sherri, now a teenager, and clung to her like a lifeline, hating her friends and playing tricks on them. They in turn sent scathing comments in my direction and called me names. The insults I could handle, but there were times when Sherri didn’t come to my defence and that hurt a lot. The name-calling became worse and the circle of resentment spiralled out of control.
Not surprisingly, my school grades plummeted into the bowels of the earth, my insolence grew to phenomenal heights, and I began to run wild. John returned home briefly and persuaded my parents to pay for horse riding lessons. To me it was a godsend, and although the riding school was far from good with a motley collection of horses, it gave substance to my dreams. I frequently fell off, but relished any new skills that I acquired and felt quite happy to teach myself during the busy times.
After one particularly good morning with the horses I rushed home, eager to see Ilsa and tell her about my latest achievement. Still my constant companion, she shared my world as any true friend would, but her advancing age meant that our roles had reversed and the protector became the protected. I helped her when she painfully made her way up and down the stairs, and we walked rather than ran across the green.
Opening the back door of the Brackens quietly, clutching a half-eaten bag of crisps, I tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs and rattled the bag loudly. Even though her hearing had diminished somewhat, I knew the sound of a crisp packet would catch her attention, and laughing inwardly, I popped my head around the railing and looked up at the landing.
“That’s odd,” I muttered, looking at the empty staircase. “I wonder where she is.”
I ran up the stairs two at a time and dashed into the kitchen calling her name.
“Ilsaaaaa!” I bellowed.
Mum stepped out of the lounge. “Ilsa isn’t here my love.”
“What do you mean she isn’t here?” I scowled.
A sudden overwhelming sense of emptiness started in the pit of my stomach and crept up toward my heart.
“Darling come and sit down, I need to talk to you.”
“No! I want to know where my dog is.”
Mum walked slowly towards me and grasped my hand in hers. “Come,” she said, pulling me toward the stairs. “I think we need to take a little walk.”
“I don’t want to go for a walk; I want to know where my dog is!” I shouted, the pitch of my voice rising with every word.
“I know and I’ll tell you as we walk. I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling very well, I really do need some air.”
We walked across the road and onto the green where Ilsa and I had spent so many hours playing together. I could picture her running around in the snow, her beautiful eyes full of excitement and laughter. The image, so clear that I could almost reach out and touch her, brought with it a sense of knowing.