20th of February 1975 to the 19th February 1976
Moving into the spring,..
…everything seemed back to normal, on the surface anyway.
The routine of my constantly arguing sisters getting ready for school in the morning, when at one point my mother had to order Katherine (by then she would have been 9) to sit down away from Susan (12 years old, and who was obviously still preening herself for the day ahead), don’t move and basically shut up, next to the front door, which on her other side, was right next to the fish tank the family had at the time. We also had a cat, who’d been around long before I came around, and who had been named (and I’m assuming that my sisters had a part of this process too) Winkey. Such merriment would come around later on in my adult life, when a work colleague pulled up some meme from Facebook about working out your porn-star name by using your first pet as your first name, and your mother’s maiden name as your last. Thus I had them rolling on the floor when I told them that I would be called Winkey Keefe.
After the mayhem…
…of my sisters out of the way, once they’d both taken themselves off to Bell Farm middle school just round the corner on the main road from ours, the house would fall quiet again and Mum and me would settle into whatever the routine would have been. My mum probably helping me get dressed, and then I’d be off playing with my record player indoors, or outside to play in the garden, while she made the beds, tidied up the mess my sister’s had left, and then into the kitchen, Bakelite radio on up on the far wall, and washing up breakfast. Some days, Perry Como, or some other LP or singles stacked onto the spindle, would be put on the record player instead, and I’d help her listen to that while we looked after each other.
My Dad…
…would have been out of the house hours before all the madness would have even started. Him now fully into being a postman since the previous year of 1974. Quite how that was going for him, I couldn’t really tell. I never saw too much of him to be honest. Taking on that new job had had a profound effect on his sleeping pattern by this point.
His routine was roughly about getting up at around 3:30am, getting himself ready for work in his postal uniform, riding his post bike (a big red sturdy, but heavy thing, with a flat black metal grated shelf on the front to put his post bag) in all weathers up to the Half- Way (as it was known by us locals – being halfway between Hersham and Walton), into the sorting office to sort what letters he had to deliver, then he’d have been off on his rounds a couple of hours later, and once all was done, he’d be back home by the early afternoon, usually as early as 12:30pm, maybe slightly later if he had a second round to finish off.
Once he was home, he’d usually have some lunch, then after a while, head back off to bed to sleep before my sisters returned home and the house would liven up a little more again.
It’s one solid memory that stays with me, and which ran throughout my whole childhood, even when I myself was coming home from school, of our Mum constantly warning us to “be quiet and keep the noise down” because Dad was asleep upstairs.
To me, it ended up feeling like I was one of the Three Billy Goats Gruff, carefully stepping over the bridge so as not to disturb the troll, except in my version, he was above me, not below me.
However, back at this point,..
…before I’d started school, I was still having afternoon naps myself.
After a busy morning in my own little world, I would have had lunch, probably about the same time my Dad was, and then I’d watch the children’s programme on the BBC, which would be on around 1:30pm, hopefully something like Chigley which I loved, and knew all the words to the train song, then I would most likely fall asleep on the sofa for the next hour or two. If it was a bit chilly, I’d find that Dad had put a coat over me to keep warm while I slept. I think I was still sleeping a lot, even then.
Once my sister’s were back,..
…then I’d have probably woken up as well as my Dad, I would have played a bit more while my sisters did their own thing, and my Mum made dinner, then it was time to get ready for bed. My Dad would’ve stayed up with Mum while us children went up. He’d always ask me to come over so I could give him a “buster” (basically a kiss goodnight).
I would then always be escorted by my Mum usually, and we’d both climb the stairs either by me being a wheelbarrow (walking up on my hands while she held my legs) or as a giant, just like in my favourite book Jack and the Beanstalk (where she’d hold my arms up and I’d basically walk up on her feet). Then she’d tuck me in so tight it was hard to move under the bed-sheets, Mum and Dad would then spend the evening together.
The routine seemed to work most of the time, but I do wonder if it eventually took its toll on Dad too much, having to break up his sleep pattern like that. Plus, the first few working hours of his day having to interact with all the other postmen so early in the morning each day, before he could get on his bike and trundle off to make his deliveries on his own.
He wasn’t that much of a people person at all, only to those who he really knew. This would be something I would come back to revisit about him a lot further along my own road.
Problem was, he didn’t know how to work through it, and all frustrations in him would end up coming out when he got home and faced my Mum who, to be honest, wasn’t exactly attuned to his mood swings, and wouldn’t have been patient enough to actually sit down and talk about it; but then, back then, who did?
There was one particular moment that I remember so vividly, when things came to a head and quite literally and painfully, snapped.
Apart from Perry Como,..
…my Mum also used to adore the musical voice of Michael Holliday, the UK’s vocal answer to Bing Crosby.
She had one of his original singles on that dark green Columbia label, which I think was “Starry Eyed“. A single she’d most likely had, and cherished for the past 15 years.
When I listened to it, I remember the vision it used to bring into my head, with those female backing singers ‘Bong’-ing at the beginning. For me, it painted a dark blue 1950’s type cinematic background with flickering stars, but my mind went deeper and envisioned a frosty landscape, with animated penguins, who independently bounced to each ‘bong’. Thus, to my infant mind, Michael was singing with a backing of penguins who would individually bounce when their note was played.
Now, I don’t know the first flickers…
…of the powder-keg which was primed to explode. I just remember the aftermath.
It’s around the middle of the day. It’s bright. The sun is coming through the kitchen window, and I’m sitting on the worktop with my feet in the kitchen sink. I’d probably been playing in the garden beforehand, and so Mum was giving my legs and feet a wash.
Dad walks in through the back door and all seems normal. He’s either just finished work for the day or he’s been home a short while and been down the shed.
I don’t really take too much notice of the conversation my Mum and Dad are having. Since a young age, I’ve either learnt, or been taught by my sisters, to keep out of the way when they do. However, I’m up on the kitchen counter, practically almost chest height to both of them. My Mum with me, my Dad in the entrance to where the kitchen goes into the dining room.
Everything seems a bit…off. There is some sort of tension in the air.
My Dad seems calm but isn’t, my Mum is holding her ground next to me. Whatever it is, she’s not backing down. There are no voices being raised by I could sense some sort of atmosphere, some bad feeling. And it wasn’t backing down either.
Dad walks into the dining room. He must have gone over to the record player, as he comes back with her precious Michael Holliday single.
Suddenly my mum is first confused, then defensive, then unbelieving. My own eyes must have gone wide. My dad stands there calmly, takes the single in both hands, and before my mum has a chance to say, or do anything, he snaps the single in half.
My Mum at that point made a shriek so guttural, it drops her to her knees and away from me.
I’ve most probably started crying at this stage.
My Dad, throws the single down, and that’s the last I see of him for now. I’m assuming now he disappears off to bed.
My Mum is so inconsolable it scares me; and in my head, for the first time in my little life, my Dad is a monster.
I eventually get lifted down and I try to help somehow, but I don’t know how. I don’t know why. It’s hurt me just as much, as I love records, but this single had meant a lot to my Mum.
This wasn’t just a random attack. He wanted to hurt her as much as he could, so went for that one single in particular.
I remember I stood there with Mum, us now being about the same height, while she took the two halves and sobbed for what seemed like ages. A short while after, she would get a piece of paper, stick the two halves back together with tape, and write a note and stick it to the label. When I asked her what she’d written, she said it was for the dustmen to look after this single; almost like a note sending it to heaven. It meant that much to her.
That moment,..
…had such a profound and lasting effect on me. One that I never forgot.
To me that moment held so much; but most importantly, it solidified my belief that a simple 7-inch 45rpm single could hold so much more than just the music within. It held memories so cherished and became something that could hold happiness and love from a time long gone into the distance. It kept something alive. But on that sunny afternoon, my own Dad broke not just the record itself, but something inside my own mother.
Even though my Dad eventually tried to make it up to her, by buying her an album of Michael’s greatest hits. To me, and most probably my Mum as well, it just wasn’t the same.
Many years later,..
…after my Dad had passed, I searched for that single and sent my Mum a replacement.
I remember she rang me up, wondering if it was me who had sent it.
There was no real thank-you, she just sounded a little bewildered by this single showing up at the house again.
Maybe, she’d forgotten the whole thing. It had been over 40-years by then, but I always wondered. Did that day back then destroy something inside her? I think it did; and like someone who buries a trauma so deep, they make sure it can ever escape again, I think she buried something that day, brushed herself down and carried on.
And I find that incredibly sad.
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