B. Johnson - House Mother Normal

this was what I was. In that seaside town in

France, France where Jim had got Gassed, though

not the same place, of course, and I think

Clarissa’s father may have had something to do

with it, it was the first time I had seen a

man’s parts when he tried to get me down on

my hotel bed, since Jim’s, that is, and I think

that must have made me realise there were other

men in the world, seems silly now, though at the

time it was a frightening thing to happen,

perhaps if he’d asked me, or gone about it in a

different way, I’d have let him, though I knew

it was wrong and I respected his wife, I might

even have enjoyed it, it was two years since Jim

had gone, but he was so rough and arrogant with

it, he seemed to think because I was a servant he

could order me about in anything, order me to do

that like he could order me to clean his shoes,

which I didn’t like, the brazenness of it, just

came up to me while I was at my dressing-table,

unbuttoned already he was, and seized my hand and

made me hold his part, and when I drew back,

naturally, he got rough and threw me on the bed and

would have had his way with me had I not yelled and

screamed fit to make the whole hotel hear. And

so he got up and buttoned himself up with his back

to me, swearing all the time vilely at me, and

little Ronnie woken up by all this noise, standing

up in his cot and wondering what was happening to

his Mum. And of course I didn’t last long after

that, he couldn’t look at me after that.

Clear up now. Nearly finished. Just scrape off

these last two.

There. Now give them all a wipe.

And put them all back in their nice little cardboard

sockets. One two three four

five

six

seven

eight

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

sixteen

one two

three

four

five

six

seven

twenty-four

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

sixteen

one

two

three

four

five

six seven forty-eight, two cases of

twenty-four is what I started with. The satisfaction

of finishing. A job well done.

Here, Missus, I’ve finished .

How nice to be thanked. The warmth.

Very pleased indeed, she said.

That pleases me. A job well done. And the time

passed, too. Now what’s she want?

Pass the Parcel? We used

to play that, didn’t we? Don’t want to

play much now. Why does she give us games?

I just want to sit quietly after working so much.

But I suppose I’d better be sociable.

Me to start?

Off. Pass it to Charlie. What is it? Brown

paper, soft.

It’s stopped at Mrs Ridge first, but she won’t be

able to open it all in time.

Oh! It’s stopped at me!

Open, open, get the paper off, I won’t be the

winner, there, it’s started again.

Stink…. What is it!

Ron’s got it, he’ll get it open. What is it, Ron?

How disgusting!

Why does she do a thing like that?

Glad I didn’t win, glad I

didn’t win!

It was the third husband I’d buried, I was getting

used to it. All the market crowd in Strutton

Ground chipped in and gave him a great send-off,

he was a popular landlord. Flowers, I never saw

so many flowers. And the customers, too, bought

the odd one for Fred, they did. But

it didn’t worry me too much. The brewers let me

take on the licence, and within weeks it was just

the same, as though he’d never existed. That

pub used to have a sort of life of its own, then.

And during the war of course you didn’t have to

sell beer, it sold itself, it was getting hold

of enough of it that was the difficulty. Oh yes.

And crisps. There was only one place you could

generally get crisps, then, and that was up on

the North Circular Road. Many’s the time I’ve

caught a trolleybus up the Edgware Road to Staples

Corner and come — Exercise? Haven’t we

had enough? Oh well, up we get. It’s not

for long. She thinks it does us good, perhaps it

does. It doesn’t kill me, anyway.

I’ll push that George Hedbury

round. Not much company, but there you are.

Off we go! George, can you hear me? Deaf as a

post, deaf as a post, daft as a doughnut.

One two three four! Round and round, round and

round!

And so it goes on. That Laura

was a great one for her Guinness. Sometimes I’ve

seen her knock back thirty in an evening. But

she was a quiet drinker. You’d never know

she’d had too many till she fell down when she

tried to get up. This bloody pushchair needs

oiling or something. But she was a good friend

to me, we had many a good time together. She

pulled me out of many a dark time. Like when

Ronnie married that Doris. And after the cat

got run over, Maisie.

We kids used to run about in felt

slippers then, they were the cheapest, a cut above

the barefoot kids. It was our way of

Tired of pushing. But still carry on. Slog, slog.

They were the good old days, it’s true.

And where were we when we were wanted? Oh, we

were there all right, slapping the sandbags on

the incendiaries, ducking down the shelters when

the HE started. All that sort of thing.

That’s enough. I can’t push any more. I’m going

to stop whether she likes it or not, going to stop.

A sit at last,

rest my legs.

Sport! She certainly keeps us on the go.

Tourney. That means me pushing someone, I suppose.

Up again, Sarah, you can do it.

Lean on George’s bathchair till I have to move, take

the nearest corner, Charlie’ll have to go further

with Mrs Bowen.

George doesn’t seem too well. Prop the mop under

his arm, keep it steady.

Ready!

Go!

Trundle, trundle, not as young as I used to

be, get up speed. There!

Silly old fool let the mop drop and caught

hers in the chops!

Not so fast this time.

Keep up the mop now, George!

There, that must have hurt him.

You all right? Seems all right.

I should think it

is the last time!

Ooooh! That surely

hurt him. But he says nothing, George, just takes it.

Wheel him over to his place and sit down again.

My legs are getting

worse, I’m sure they swell up with all this standing.

It’s like a dull ache.

Poor old thing. Let her talk

away, I’m not interested, it’s a rest for me. And

my poor legs.

On his back for months, my Jim, going slowly, you

couldn’t see it day by day, but suddenly I’d

realise that compared with a month or so before he was

definitely down. And he found it difficult to talk,

more and more. For days I knew he was trying to

bring himself to say something, and then it all

came out. He’d been with some girl in Franco, they

all did, he said, went to some brothel, and he was

so guilty about it, as though it were some great

crime he’d committed. Perhaps it was to him, then.

But to me it didn’t matter, because I could see

he was dying, everybody could, nothing seemed to

matter but that fact and that I had to make the

most of what there was, nothing in the past

mattered, neither the good things nor the others, his

guilt was of no interest to me, or the girl, I