Early choices

Although I have now escaped the madness of suburbia, I was born and spent my early years in a big city, my parents living as they did in London.

My mother, however, came from a tiny village in Wiltshire which we used to visit on holiday. I had mixed feelings about it. I was terribly shy and I was a little daunted by my aunt Win who seemed very stern in her nurse’s uniform.

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My grandma had had a hard life and I only remember her as a person who shuffled about very slowly, muttering about “blooming things” and periodically grousing at my uncle George who always seemed to be in the way.

“Garge!” she bellowed at him in her broad Wiltshire accent.

Of Grandma’s background, I know nothing. Her husband, Charles, had a bad heart and died in middle age leaving her with 5 children. The sixth, Barbara had died in infancy.

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Tom, the eldest, became the breadwinner and was exempted from service in WW2 but was killed in a road accident with an American serviceman who had been driving on the wrong side of the road. My mother by then was married and working in London. Aunt Kay was in the WAAF, met and married an American pilot and at the end of the war went off to the States.

Uncle George was with the army in India, so it was Win who was left caring for Grandma. She was a nursing sister at Devizes & District Hospital where she worked 12 hour night shifts. A commute of 6 miles on a bicycle, often in the dark and in all kinds of weather was hard.

Yet what bothered her most were the rats in the barn where she kept her bike.

When my father decided to take work overseas, leaving my brother behind in England, it was Win who cared for him during school holidays. By then Grandma was quite ill and George had become disabled. As young as I was, I remember thinking this was a heavy burden, but Win did not complain and she treated my brother like her own son.

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After returning from India, George had got work nearby and also began breeding budgies that he kept in a big aviary. There was always a budgie in the house as well. Snowy was presumably white, but all I remember of him was that he died when the house caught fire. Afterwards came Billy, a pretty blue budgie that talked a lot and terrorised Judy, the wire-haired terrier that succeeded Bodger.

“House” is a grand term indeed for the property we visited when I was small. I vaguely remember its tiny living space. When we went to stay, two of us had to be accommodated overnight in a neighbour’s spare room. After the fire, the family moved to a place that was at least new, but it too had an outhouse.

It is perhaps with good reason that I only recall visiting in summer!

Grandma often got annoyed with George who seemed to stumble about and couldn’t keep his eyes open. He constantly fell off his motorbike and eventually he was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy. After that he stayed home and took up making beautiful rugs, though his eyesight was very bad.

George was kind and I was fond of him, but sadly never got to know him well. He did not appear sorry for himself despite the unfortunate life he had. When asked how he was, he said:

“I be o’right in paarts.” and laughed.

Years later, after Grandma was gone, Win took a very rare holiday and went to stay with my parents in Barbados. Kay and I were to fly down from New York so the three sisters could be together for the first time since before WW2.

A friend who checked daily on George one afternoon found that his heart had stopped. The family dog was with him and terribly disturbed, as dogs are in the presence of the deceased. Win immediately flew home and the reunion never happened. It was all very sad.

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It was typical of Win’s luck. She had been thrilled when my brother got engaged and excitedly prepared to attend the wedding in London, but instead found herself that day attending my grandmother’s funeral.

Another time, Win decided to visit Kay in New York, booking a flight on Laker Airways that exclusively used DC10 aircraft. The day before she was due to fly, the DC10 was grounded. Win was stranded in total chaos at Gatwick Airport for many hours before eventually being rerouted via Boston, but in those pre-cellphone days, communication was poor and we did not know what had happened to her.

Win eventually turned up, but spent her holiday worrying about how or if she would get home and her return was almost as stressful. She did take a couple more trips to the States afterwards, but unsurprisingly, she was a very anxious traveller.

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Some years after George’s death, Win retired from nursing and should have enjoyed life, but it was as if the moment she surrendered responsibilities, she withdrew into herself. Each time I saw her she was less engaged.

It is strange – ironic, how things work out. In 1987 my parents had decided to return to England in order for my mother to have a hip replacement. I was charged with finding them a home somewhere near Win, which turned out to be the house across the street.

In consequence, it was my mother who became occupied with caring for her sister when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Perhaps it was fair, after all Win had done for my brother. By comparison, my mother had had a good life, yet she suffered in her own way. She hated being separated from my brother and although I accompanied my parents to Asia, I know that because it was against my father’s wishes, my presence was a complication. Eventually I too was dispatched to boarding schools, but that is a whole other story.

In any event, although life in Asia was good , it was not always easy and my father was a very self-centered and difficult man, so Mum was not as happy as she seemed. By the time she returned to England, she was worn out and in poor health, so being confronted with her sister’s illness was a serious blow.

In America, I was occupied with my aunt and uncle who had taken me in as a teenager. My brother had a young family and they were far away in Africa. As willing as one may be to help, you can only be in one place at a time.

Such are the long term results of early life choices.

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