Ola Awonubi's Blog, page 5

Susannahs Box 2

I notice that there is a spiders web forming around the door when I open the gate.  The garden is full of weeds and the neighbours flytipping- rusty stinking cans of beans, a couple of boxes from the fast food place down the road and a cat jumping out of what used to be our dust bin.

 

It is good thing Susanna wasn’t here to see this. She used to be so proud of this garden. I can remember how she used to shout at us when we used to walk on the grass instead of the pavement.

 

I don’t know why she bothered. It was only a bit of grass, I informed her once and I got a clip around the ear.

 

It may be a bit of grass to you, but it’s the only garden we have got.

 

I let myself into the house and try hard not to sneeze at the damp and musty smell that hangs in the air.

 

I stare at the Susanna’s chair.  Almost expecting her at any time to ask me to change the channel. I brought her a remote control device and she refused to use it even when the Macmillan nurse kidded her about it.

 

I draw the curtains and open the windows, making my way past boxes and black bin-liners.  I see old Mrs Semple making her way down the road and close the windows again.

 

I make my way upstairs and head for her bedroom.

 

 

There are boxes and trunks in this room.  There is a little box where our reports and school stuff were kept and a bigger trunk full of Susanna’s best clothes. I think she also kept her passport and marriage certificate in there as well. I had promised my daughter Anna I that I would show her some of my stuff; she needed it for a project they were working on in school; Education through the Ages.  Then I spot a box helpfully labelled ‘School stuff’ and rummage thorough papers yellowed with age, photographs and notebooks from a lifetime ago.

 

 Memories of St Agatha’s Primary dance in and out of my head in little disjointed patterns.  Little women in long black robes and white rims telling you what to do, detention in cold draughty rooms, being forced to drink every drop of the compulsory bottle of warm milk long before Thatcher prohibited it.  Then there was the food…we had to get school vouchers for the smudgy green peas,  steak and kidney pie, bread pudding  and fish and chips served in the canteen.  Good stodgy food – no healthy options like salad or pasta in those days.

 

I see some of our colourful artwork and  select one- a confused painting that I had done of myself, the twins and Susanna. Everybody was wearing black and Dad and Aunty Betty were standing far away from the rest of us.  There were big tears streaming from our faces, tapering away into a blue sea that threatened to drown us.

 

I never knew why Susanna kept this picture.

 

I pick up my report card:

 

“Sandra needs to listen more in class.  She is gifted and is good in most subjects apart from Maths.  Although slightly distracted this term Might be good for the caring professions in the future” wrote Miss Y Thornton now dearly departed.

 

At five I was old enough to be  ‘Distracted’  the term Dad left.  The twins were too young to notice then.  Susanna said he had woken up one day and told her that he did not love her any more.  She said she hadn’t asked him any questions because she had felt the same way for a long time.  I think Susanna was secretly relieved that he had gone. She said he changed the minute he got off the boat at Portsmouth.

 

Miss Thornton had been really kind and understanding.  Divorce wasn’t as common back then as it is now.  Despite her predictions I had done quite well in school and gone to college to study accountancy and qualified with my ACCA.  Having grown up worrying about money I had vowed never that my child would not have the same problem.

 

Susanna kept everything. There was a picture of 4A’s trip to Brighton , birthday parties, trips to the zoo as a family.I look at the photograph of myself, my sisters and my parents grinning foolishly at the Camera.

 

I take the folder and the books and put them on the broken dresser that Dad had ruined during one of his DIY enthused moments. That’s when I spot the trunk that Susanna had told me about in the letter she had left for me after her death.

 

“There is a big brown envelope there with some letters for you. Make sure you live a good life.”

 

Susanna had been really ill for a long time and when she went to the hospice she was usually sedated.  If not she became fretful, asking for God to forgive her sins.

 

She maintained that she was an awful wicked woman who didn’t deserve to go to heaven…

 

 It didn’t make sense but the Macmillan nurse told us patients were often like this; towards the end.  Susanna wanted to see a priest to confess all and we made sure Father Patrick from her diocese came to visit her.  She seemed a bit better after that but her condition worsened that weekend and she died soon after.

 

The trunk was my father’s wedding present.  Every time Susanna had a bit of money she would put something in the box.  It was her way of rewarding herself for the effort expended in looking after her family.

 

It took all her strength – and I think the fear of losing the house kept her on the treadmill.

There was also the fear of someone from the social coming to take us away if she couldn’t take care of us properly.

Samantha worked 2 proper jobs- cleaning hospitals in the morning, working in a clothes factory in the afternoon and taking in clothes in to sew to bump up the family income. She had a gift when it came to sewing and I remember how it fascinated me as she would turn the most ordinary piece of material into something beautiful with a few stitches, embroidery and a lot of care.  I take the key she left me and turn it in the lock and open the trunk to reveal neatly packed piles of shirts, trousers, suits, kente clothes, and expensive yards of fabrics.  I pull out a little pink dress and swallow hard.

 

When I was around 8, I got invited to Jenny Pollards birthday and didn’t have a proper frock.  We called dresses frocks in those days. Susanna knew how much I wanted to go and got some pink silk from Brick Lane.  She embroidered the hem, neckline and sleeves with pretty white flowers and even came up with some shiny white pumps.  My sisters were jealous because of this outfit.

 

We don’t have any money….so how come she gets a new frock and shoes!  It’s not fair!

 

  I don’t know why I had to go spoil everything by eating so much that I was sick over everything.  Must have been the sight of that table groaning with all the food we seldom got to eat anymore; cakes, jellies, sausages on sticks, ham sandwiches, and jammy donuts. Mrs Pollard was nice about it though and gave me one of Jenny’s dresses to wear for the rest of the party.  Everyone stared at me after that and when it was time for me to go home Susanna’s face was all squeezed up as if she was in pain.  She thanked Mrs Pollard and yanked me out of the house and when we got outside she looked at me for a long time and made a hissing noise with her tongue. “Why are you disgracing me like this eh? Do we not have any food in our house?”

 

I was about to say that we didn’t- well not really nice food any way but the look on her face stopped me. We went home without a word. 

 

I never did get invited to any more of Jenny’s parties.

 

Sometimes on Saturdays when Susanna had the morning off we would climb on the bed and watch as she opened the trunk and showed us her treasures.  There were laces, gauzes, delicately embroidered laces with hand stitched jewels and pretend diamante, rich velvets and chiffons.  Her wedding gown; all cream and embroidered sliver – neatly packed with mothballs and wrapped in cellophane waiting for the first of her daughters to get married.

Becoming Miss Selena

Selena was a model worker.  She got to work early and left long after closing time. As PA to the Chief Executive her job meant rushing about making sure meetings, seminars and everything concerning The Big Boss went without a hitch.  This convinced me that she could run the world whilst remaining unruffled, perfectly poised and totally unflappable.  I could see her at the head of the table at the UN with Heads of States as they sat staring at  this elegant creature in her crisp white shirt and black skirt suit, long blonde hair swept into a chignon; reassuring them that everything was fine and that she had it all under control.

 

I was just fresh out of Poly with my HND in Business Studies and had got a job at Jones and Sons; one of the reputable construction firms in the country. The Interview had been an absolute disaster. I still wonder how I got the job with Selena firing questions at me like an automatic rifle.

 

I was going to be her assistant, the Personnel Manager informed me with a pitying glance. “It might be hard going initially but stick at it.  Selena likes things done her in a particular way.  She is a top class PA and has lots of knowledge about this place that can really help you.  So try and learn as much as you can.  She knows her job.”

 

Why didn’t she just tell me I was going to be working for a control freak? 

 

By the end of the week Selena had shown me her synchronised filing system, her diary, the company database, supplier’s lists and thousands of spread sheets and I still didn’t understand most of what she was talking about. It wasn’t that I hadn’t worked in an office before but this job was like Medusa; everywhere you turned it grew another extension.

 

She would give me work and then go over it bit by bit marking corrections with a red pen.  She timed my lunch hour to the minute.  Overtime was unpaid and something you did for the ‘Good of the company as all good workers should be prepared to go the extra mile when necessary’. Everything had to be perfect before she could leave for the day.  Besides that was how Mr Jones liked it.

 

I would sometimes catch her looking over my shoulder when I needed to get an address on the Internet; this was to deter me from surfing during work hours; as if I would dare when I sat under her nose.  Then when I answered the phone I could feel her cobalt blue eyes boring in to me.  Sometimes she would correct me while I was still dealing with customers.

 

“Its Jones and Sons….not Jones and Jones.  Mr Jones likes his documents prepared like this, his tea and coffee like that and don’t forget to note the numbers for all faxes that go out…”….I felt completely useless and wondered whether I should resign before they gave me the shove.  I talked to my best friend Alison about it.

 

“You’ve never been a quitter you know.” She advised, “Give it a few months and see how it goes…”

 

So despite my misgivings I stuck at it and gave it my best shot.  I bumbled along under Selena’s hawkish glare wondering whether I was doing a good job.  A month dragged into three and then into six.  I felt I was beginning to actually understand what needed to be done and how it had to be done.  We had a conference and she let me sort out the planning for the catering and it all went well.  Then we had some international visitors over. I handled the hotel bookings and soon I stopped noticing her surveillance whilst I did my work. I learnt how to use PowerPoint and did some presentations for Mr Jones’s important meeting with some new clients that got us a contract.

 

One day she announced that we were going for lunch.

 

I stiffened and then she smiled.  I had never seen her stretch her lips that far apart before. I stared again to make sure it was actually a smile.

 

Then she laughed. “I owe you lunch…. we will eat and talk.  Got some news for you.”

 

I was in a daze until lunch break.  Then we went to this cosy Italian place just behind work where I had been a couple of times and had Lasagne.

 

“How do you like Jones and Jones?” She said twirling a piece around her fork and popping it through her lips.  I sat watching her wondering whether the lipstick would smudge. It didn’t.

 

“I like it.”

 

“What about the work?  How do you think you’re coping?”

 

You tell me. I shrugged. “I’m doing my best.”

 

Her blue eyes pierced mine. “I know I have been an absolute ogre for the past few months. Tyrant, witch…you name it…I deserve it.” Her lips curved into a smile again, “I know I’ve been a terrible task master but I needed to know whether you were the right person for what we have in mind.”

 

I stared at her. “We?”

 

“My job. I’m leaving Jones and Sons.  You were employed as a possible replacement but we wanted to check you out first.”

 

My fork clattered noisily onto the plate; my mouth falling open. “Me. PA to the Chief Exec….but I can’t do it…Il’ make mistakes.”

 

Selena laughed. “You have handled the past few months well. I know you can do it.  Besides it’s too late now.  I’ve already told Mr Jones and he trusts my judgement.”

 

More money.  More prestige but more stress and more work.

 

If Selena said you could do something you had better believe her. Compliments never exactly dripped from her lips.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Her gaze held mine again. “Look at me Jane.  I’m the office freak.  I have spent almost twenty years of my life doing this job. Il’ be forty soon and I promised myself that Id be living my dream by then. I’ve had the money and the highflying job and now I’m downsizing and going off to South Africa with my fiancée.  He is a Doctor in a little beautiful war torn village and Il’ be teaching English.” She looked faraway as if she was already there. “I want what I do to count for something.”  Then she turned to me again. “So what do you say?”

 

I went home that day feeling a bit light headed. I had said yes.  I thought of little orphaned kids deprived of everything because of some senseless war and Selena Harper going in to sort everyone out and bring some kind of order.

 

Maybe she might end up teaching the UN something

 

 

 

 

Unbelonging at Waverley

Work in progress ……

Ruth 1957



The journey to Willow Oak Farm, a little place tucked away on the Hampshire dales is long and tedious.

A young woman sits uncomfortably in a neat blue suit – as if she is uncomfortable with the kind of outfit. She looks out of the window at the passing countryside – a sea of green meadows, trees dotted with sheep.

“What was she like when she was young?”

The older woman’s clothes are not as well-tailored as the young woman’s but they are neat, clean. She also looks like a woman who is more used to dressing casually. Her grey hair is scraped into a severe bun under the black little hat. A black suit accompanies this with sturdy black boots. She smiles at her niece, “Just like you Ruth. Very beautiful, all the men wanted her but she was having none of it. Wanted to go to the big city and make something out of her life she was the one with the brains. The rest of us were happy on the farm. I used to look at her growing up – and knew that our little village wasn’t going to be enough to hold her. She had a mouth on her too, just like you. Quite the little madam.”

Ruth sighs and looks down at her hands snug in her pale blue gloves a last treat from her mother. “I’m sorry I said mother hated you and the rest of the family.”

“Like I said your mum was always one for speaking her mind. I guess she probably meant it at the time. When she turned up at the farm, I thought mother was going to faint. She called to me and said Cath…darlin’…see what the winds brought back to us. She was so happy and I ran in from the fields …cow muck all over me and I saw your mum all pretty and smart-looking like Ava Gardener in this smart red coat and little black hat. Like something out of one of the films she was. I was ever so proud. She must have been around 23 at the time.” She coughs and looks out of the window. “Then we brought her in and put the kettle on and she took off her coat. Then Mother did faint……when she came to, she asked your Mother how far gone she was.”

There is a knock on the carriage door and the porter pokes his head round the door. Did they want anything? Yes please. Two teas and sandwiches would be lovely. The two women are silent as he pours the brew.

Ruth clutches a torn diary full of old letters.

The porter took his leave and the two women sipped their tea.

Aunt Catherine sniffs. “We were horrified….It was the early 40s and girls from good God-fearing homes just didn’t off and get pregnant.”

Maybe mother wanted something of her lover to remain with her….just in case he never came back. “So what happened?”

“You have to understand …things were so different back then – it’s not like now with women bold and brazen, wearing trousers and running around with men on motor bikes. It was a different world.

“We arranged with her to go up north …there was a convent there. The sisters were used to dealing with things like that. We weren’t. It is such a small village. People talk.”

“So you sent her away.”

“It would have killed our father if he knew then. When you were a bit older – mother broke it to him.”

” So that’s how I got my name then…something biblical ….from the nuns.”

“I guess so. Edith wasn’t an overly religious woman.”

“What about Lord and Lady Waverley…..did she ever tell them?”

“I told her to. Said it was your rightful heritage as the daughter of their first-born son but your mum wasn’t having any of it. Said that the family was poison and that your dad was the only good thing to come out of it. Besides she wasn’t prepared to take the whole thing through the courts should they want to contest whether he was really your father. She said she didn’t need their money – by this time she had a good job as a teacher in a Girls grammar school in London. We got the odd card at Christmas and birthdays she didn’t really want much to do with us. I think she was a bit hurt about how we handled her getting pregnant.”

Ruth stares out of the window again. ” It all happened so fast. One minute she is kissing me goodnight and saying she is going out to the pictures with a friend and the next, there is this policeman with a red face standing in the sitting room next to our landlady Mrs Summers. She was wailing like a banshee so I knew it had to be something terrible. The bobby was so young. I think it might have been the first time he had to tell someone their mother had got knocked down on her way home.”

Ruth knew she hadn’t cried. Displays of emotion weren’t the done thing in her family. She had realised that when her mother’s sister had turned up in the dressed in the same black suit she had on now and looked at Mrs Summers, who had been dabbing at her eyes.

“Is this the young lady then?”

Mrs Summers had nodded. “The poor girl has refused to eat anything for the past few days locked herself into her room reading some kind of diary. I’ve had the doctor in….that’s how I got your address. She had you down as next of kin.”

“That was sensible of her.” Blue eyes harder and smaller than my mothers had glanced in my direction. “Hello. Ruth.”

She had barely looked up.

“The poor thing must still be a bit shocked.”

Her mothers elder sister bustled in and went to the kitchen. “I daresay we could all do with some kind of a meal – and you too Madam. You’ll be needing some energy in you to sort out all your mums stuff. Anything you don’t want to keep…goes to charity, and mind you – don’t pack too much. You wont have need of anything fancy up on th’ farm.”

……………………………………………………………………………………….

1986

Ellie picks up the diary.

Ruth 1960

I now live with my Aunt and my grandmother.

I hate it.

I’m not used to having anyone tell me what to do except my Mother and she had been quite a liberal parent. She didn’t let me smoke and warned me to be careful around men but she allowed me to express my feelings and talk about the kind of things that most girls of my age knew nothing about. Knowledge is power she said. I’m 17 and some say too young to have opinions about the sex, the Pill, Macmillan, the Korean War, communism, capitalism and a lot of other things that would have had Ms Johnston my Head mistress back in London, quite horrified. Not that my mother minded – she often shared some of her opinions with some of her colleagues. Some laughed politely and others kept what they thought to themselves.

Looking back now I realise my mother was a creature before her time. She was born in a period where a woman’s main function was to follow the footsteps of her gender before her – marriage, children and domesticity. If she had lived any longer I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had found her way into politics. She felt really strongly about the social conditions that we faced along with the rest of the country, after the war.

I remember her sitting down watching the box and shouting at it.

“Some things never change. We go to war and the class divide disappears …all men are one in the trenches then in peacetime the upper classes want to erect it again.”

She turned to me…I must have been about thirteen at the time and wagged a finger at me. “You are going to University my girl. I don’t want you have to be a victim of the class system.”

*****************

I have my own plans although they don’t know yet. I want to go to two places that were a part of my Mothers life. I hadn’t lost her – I still carried so much of her within me. It was like a yearning, an unfinished business.

I want to visit the little convent where she stayed for eight months before and after I had been born and Waverley where she had met my father, William. All I know about him are the entries in her diary and the old tattered picture and letters, I found out in her wallet, that I got back from the police.

She must really have loved him. I don’t know many boys but I can think of any I would want to keep in my purse, should I get killed and someone find and say – oh look at that – such a nice bloke.

My dad looks like a nice bloke.

William Waverley is film star handsome in his military uniform, a cap over his head at a jaunty angle in a photo taken a few months before getting shot to pieces somewhere over Europe . Mother hadn’t mentioned exactly where in the diary and since she and the Waverley’s were not in contact and it wouldn’t be the proper thing to write them after he’d died and say – where exactly in Europe had he been killed she had just left it. His parents hadn’t forgiven him for joining up to fight – it wasn’t expected of the privileged elite of that day but he’d gone any way against their wishes. Mother had mentioned one day that she didn’t think they had forgiven him for dying as well.

Every Princess has good Hair

I would stand in the front of the mirror and hate what I saw. A dark face, round nose and wide lips framed by lots of woolly hair. Mum said I was a princess. So I spent years looking for a someone like me to show up on the telly.

No-one did.

Then I started wishing I looked like Susan. Can you imagine that? She had big blue eyes like the doll I had when I was a baby and like a baby she could open and close her eyes and make whining noises which most boys seemed to like listening to. She had long blonde hair which she liked to flick in everyone’s face so I got my black cardigan, stuck it on my head and swished my head around until I felt a bit sick.

Mum saw me and laughed.

Dizzy, I tore the stupid thing off my head. “I wish I had long hair like yours”.

She smiled. “You look lovely. Why do you think people go on holidays? So they can look just like you…”

I wasn’t convinced. Nobody stared at you when you had a tan that faded by autumn. I was a little ‘coloured girl’ every day of the year.

I kept on searching and one evening I saw the Supremes on ‘Top of the Pops.’ They were beautiful, sophisticated and could sing.

They looked different but it was a good different.

My hair was short and grew in clumps (because Mum couldn’t do a thing with it) it grew wild like the back of our neighbours garden. I had to wait for Mothers fortnightly visits with The Comb. This iron implement was used to coax my curls into lying smoothly across my scalp but as they couldn’t betray their heritage, they would stand up at a degree of approximately 90 degrees every time.

It wasn’t fair. After all Mother wore a wig like the Supremes which meant that she did not have to go through all this pain to look like a Princess.