Another baby sister

Dad went to fight in the Second World War, but can only have been 16 when he joined up.  He was stationed somewhere in northern India, close to Burma perhaps.  He didn’t talk about the war, but he never wanted to travel abroad again.  He had a “war wound”; he’d lost the end of a finger when it was shut in the door of an aircraft! The nail grew out of the end of his damaged finger like a little rounded end of a peanut. He told us about mangoes before we’d ever seen one, how they were so juicy you could only eat them in the bath, and he would count to ten (ek, do, tin, sha, pon, sey, set, art, now, dus) and say “tora peachy” and “kiswasti?”, all of which must be Hindi. 

He wasn’t a great dad in many ways, because he could be so bad-tempered and unpredictable, but he was very hard-working and, I think, devoted to his family.  We would have times when he’d be laughing and joking, particularly at meal times, and he’d turn in an instant and shout about something that annoyed him. He was very strict: bedtimes, being quiet, helping at home, homework, school work, and general good behaviour and good manners were all essential.  He wouldn’t tolerate answering back, or any kind of dissent.  He smacked us occasionally for bad behaviour, but never violently, and there was a fabled stick in the “conservatory” that we were threatened with but which was never used.

The “conservatory” was really just a rather ramshackle brick and glass lean-to on the back of the house that you had to go through to get to the garden and to the outside loo!  It got very hot in summer and if mum ever had time she would coat herself in olive oil (then only available in small bottles from the chemist’s), hitch up her skirt, and sit with legs splayed and head tilted back to catch the sun, on a folding chair in the doorway of the conservatory, which could be a real suntrap.

The garden was mostly concrete but we made good use of it.  There was a tiny lawn where dad erected a swing, painted red, and with “bottoms up” scratched into the paint on the underside of the seat.  There was a japonica which grew on a trellis against the wall of the pub, and a honeysuckle that was quite wild and overgrown at times.  There was lilac and a few roses, too.  At one stage dad became interested in dahlias and he had quite a few different varieties planted between Sheba’s run and the sand pit.  He built the sandpit for us to play in; I watched him from the bedroom window.

The windows throughout the house were old-fashioned sash windows; two sections that could slide up or down, held by a sash in the casement.  Single-glazed, and with two large panes in each of the upper and lower sections, they were quite heavy but relatively easy to move.  Upstairs in the house, there was no heating at all, and on winter mornings Jack Frost would have visited, leaving thick icy swirls of frost inside the glass so that we couldn’t see outside.  A penny pressed into the ice for a minute or two would clear a peephole, which was particularly exciting if it had snowed outside, and we’d all be jostling for a peek.

All four of us shared a room when we were little. At first, there was an assortment of cots; I have an image of an uncle (Chicker?) putting me to bed one day and me proudly telling him which cot was mine.  There were perhaps only two or three of us then.  Later, we had two small double beds in the room, and we’d sleep two by two, me with Jayne, and Suze and Dinah together.  Duvets, or continental quilts, hadn’t yet reached England, and our beds would be heavy with blankets tucked in over the sheet, and a feather eiderdown on top, then a bedspread on top of that.  The bedrooms must have been freezing but I was never cold.

The morning Dinah was born, Dad was in our doorway, waking us very early. That was unusual; Mum always woke us up.  We all got up and followed him into their bedroom, very quietly, and there was Dinah, tiny, well wrapped up and lying on her back in a fold-out canvas crib. I feel I remember her face very clearly, with garnet-red lips and wispy dark hair.  I don’t really remember mum that morning, but I think the midwife was still there. I suppose Dad took a day off to look after us, and later in the day he cooked us his perfect and very memorable potato chips, which were an enormous treat.  We all must have been at home, as I was only 4 years and 5 months old, so none of us would have started school, and the very next day I’m sure mum was up and about and back into her usual routine, which must have been punishing with four children under 5 years old.