Love and Belonging

Love and Belonging

By  H J Burgess

Preface

Elizabeth watched in silence as her mother suffered a violent marriage and from an early age learned that looking after number one was the best way to deal with the hurt. Confusion about love, friendship and family would leave her damaged.

Her story begins in the East End of London; in the year 1953. It highlights attitudes, taboos, and expectations of that time. We follow her from childhood, through into a beautiful and independent woman. Experiencing personal loss and love in its raw, unyielding way. She makes one of the most damaging decisions of her turbulent life and protects herself with a web of lies and deceit. A shocking discovery creates a dilemma that threatens to destroy relationships and those closest to her to suffer the consequences.

Chapter 1

A loud crack, a noise like a walnut being opened by nutcrackers at Christmas wrecked the silence. The China ashtray that had sat patiently waiting for a stubbed cigarette flew across the room and landed on the plain tiled floor. Father was in a rage again. Previously, he had kicked the small table by his chair; the ashtray had survived its flight but this time it was broken into several pieces. In a way it was fortunate that the table was there; his anger could have been towards my mother or me. She would no doubt offer another excuse for his frustration, defending his actions as normal and to be expected. Seemingly his life was not to his liking.

His job as a slaughterman working the permanent night shift at Smithfield Market was hard. It had its compensations though, as we always had a good cut of meat on the meal table, even the occasional chicken. Mother liked his shift work as she was able to see him off to work at 9 pm and then after I had gone to bed would read her favourite books. Love triangles and the like. Refined people dressed in exquisite clothes, living in large stately houses with extravagant lifestyles. These fantasies took her mind away from the reality of my father’s homecoming.

He finished work at 4 am but spent the next two hours supping ale in ‘The Black Swan’ the public house next to the market which was kept open just for the meat men. The locals called it the ‘The Mucky Duck’. Occasionally, a London taxi driver, theatre usher or off-duty policeman could be found here. Everyone who wanted cheap meat went there as most of the men traded a joint or two of meat for cigarettes or another glass of ale. It was a perk of the job to take home something each night. The chickens were still in feathers and their eyes popped out at you. The cigarettes were foreign; Mother disliked them and often said she would never go to France if they all smelt like that.

Mum was a simple woman with simpler ways. Her ambition had been quashed by my father many years ago. I remember as a small child her singing as she rocked me gently to sleep. Her excitement when I completed my first day at school. We had strawberry jam on chunky doorstep slices of fresh bread. She would hold the loaf to her breast and cut the slices off the top. A dangerous thing to do but made it easier as the bread was so fresh it fell apart if cut on the breadboard.

Happier times when we all went to the cockle sheds, on the edge of Margate beach for our afternoon tea. Nothing compares to a plate of cockles with lots of white pepper and malt vinegar splashed over. I did not like the whelks though; it was like eating rubber with little taste. Dad would disappear for an hour while Mum and I would collect whole shells off the beach. Staying in a caravan for our holidays was great fun then, but now things had changed. Somewhere along the way Dad had become a bully and Mum had lost the will to live.

Mum rose from her crouched position, crossed the room, and picked up the broken ashtray. Looking at the table it was obvious it had not survived either and its remnants were lifted out into the garden.

‘I want some breakfast’ he roared, then slumped into the armchair and went to sleep.

Mum started cooking his bacon and eggs along with fried bread. Very soon it was ready, and she called to him. He did not move, so was prodded to wake him. Nervously she stood back while he opened his eyes.

‘Where is it?’

‘It’s on the kitchen table with your cup of tea’ she replied nervously.

He staggered across the room and supported by the door handle passed through into the kitchen.

‘It’s bloody cold and look at all this fat; it’s been set for ages’

‘It’s only been a minute or two’ she tried to explain.

Placing the kettle back on the cooker, she lit the gas and turned around. His clenched fist buried itself between her breasts with such force as to knock her across the room and she hit the wall with a resounding thud and fell to the floor.

‘I’m going to bed, wake me at 12 o’clock, I’ll have lunch at the pub’

With no marks to show for her ordeal Mum could never get anyone to believe what happens in our house. He knew this and always hit her where it would not show.

After tidying the house, she sat in the garden saying nothing to me; book in hand she quietly read for about an hour. I was unable to wait any longer. Slowly approaching I cast a shadow over her. She looked up at me and smiled.

‘Are you all right mum?’ I quizzed.

‘Yes dear’ she replied, as she stretched out her arms and I sank into them.

‘What are we going to do my darling Beth?’ she whispered.

I had no answer, so just held her tightly.

‘Go and play with your friends now, as I’ve got to wake up your father’ she urged, patting me on the head as I stood up.

‘I do love you Mum’ and I kissed her on the forehead.

Within seconds I was outside in the street. It was 1953 and a new Queen was in the making. Our street was decked out with tables borrowed from St. Stephen’s Church Hall and some chairs from Robert Petersons, my old junior school. There was to be a street party and most of my friends had already been busy blowing up balloons and making streamers from rolls of crepe paper since incredibly early.

Mrs Andrews from number 47 came over to me.

‘What do you think?’ she said excitedly and continued

‘I’ve tried my best to make it look like a million dollars

I didn’t know what that meant, so just agreed with her, then made my way to the far side of the street to find good old Mr. Peacocks’ wooden fence being pulled down and put across the end of the street. A big sign had been placed on a pole telling people not to take their cars through.

‘Do you want to help?’ called a voice.

I looked around.

‘You can help me lay out the plates if you want’

‘Can I?’ was my eager reply.

The man was not known to me but seemed nice.

The party was due to start at 4 pm and I figured out that I should sit opposite the red brick house. It did not have a number just a name, but I could not read it. Someone told me it was in Spanish. The house had new shiny black gates. My father did not like them or the man who lived there, Mr. Jamieson.

‘He’s got a bloody cheek’ he had once said.

‘We all had to give up our railings and gates during the war effort to make armaments and here he was wasting good metal on such an extravagance’

I did like his son David though. He was a little older than me and I thought he was lovely. He had dark features and dark eyes; his mum looked foreign. I secretly hoped he would be outside his house, and I made two reservation cards and placed them next to each other on the table.

I finished my work and with a great bounce in my step went home to change. I wanted to wear my new pink dress with sparkles sewn into the neckline, so hurried along the road. It was about 2 pm and Father would still be at the pub.

I expected to find Mum busy in the kitchen but as I opened the back door she called out from upstairs. Quickly, I rushed to her, only to find their bedroom scattered with clothes. His were still hanging in the wardrobe but mums were hastily being thrown into a suitcase that lay open on the bed. We only used the cases when we were going on holiday to the caravan, so I was confused as nothing had been mentioned.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked

‘No time now to explain, your stuff is in those bags on the landing, grab them and put them by the front door’

‘But’

‘Don’t argue, just do it’

The urgency of her voice said a lot and I dutifully carried them down. Mum followed and within a blink of an eye, we were soon making our way along the front path.

‘Oh my God, where’s the taxi?’ her face full of torment as she looked in both directions.

‘The street is closed for the party’ I called out.

Mum was already moving towards the corner, almost running but for the weight of the case and bag, she was holding as I followed at a distance. My thoughts were torn between the party and my seat next to David and my mother’s erratic behaviour. I started counting the seats from his place, four, five, six and so it was, I was leaving him. I thought of Father coming home and us not being there. What would he think, the mess in the house and no clean overalls for his night shift? Mum would be in trouble, that is for sure.

A group of mothers watched as we passed by them. I heard one of them say

‘It’s about time’

Another agreed and added

‘Well, I would have gone years ago’

One of my bags was heavy and I changed hands to try and balance the weight. My arms felt painful, and I was starting to wheeze as my asthma took over. The taxi driver called me to hurry as the meter was running.

A friend of mine, Janine ran over as I struggled the last few yards and helped with the bags.

‘Where are you off to then?’ her innocence clear in her voice.

‘Don’t know yet’

‘I do love surprises, don’t you?’ she quipped.

I did not have time to answer her and was frogmarched into the taxi by Mum. The look on Janine’s face changed,