Don’t Tell Mummy Read Online Free PDF Page B

called it, of fried pancake, black pudding and egg, I washed myself at the kitchen sink. Going to the outside lavatory I was dismayed to find neatly cut up pieces of newspaper in the place of toilet rolls. When I pointed this out to my grandmother she looked embarrassed and told me they’d just run out and would get some after breakfast. It was not until several months later I realized that poverty gave newspaper several uses and that toilet paper was considered an unnecessary luxury.
    Once the breakfast dishes were washed up she boiled more saucepans of water and told me I could help her with the washing. Into the minuscule back yard we went, where a large metal bowl was filled with steaming soapy water. She placed a ridged board into it and proceeded to wash towels and shirts by rubbing them briskly up and down its grooveswith hands that were red and chapped, quite unlike my mother’s white ones with their carefully applied scarlet nail varnish.
    I helped her wring the sodden items through the mangle by holding one end while she fed the other one through, a procedure we repeated several times. When every last drop of water had been wrung out we pegged the washing with fingers already growing numb with cold onto a line suspended between the back door and the lavatory. Finally we hoisted it as high as it could go with the wooden pole that held it in place, letting it float above our heads in the chill air.
    Every evening except Sunday the still damp washing would be placed on a wooden clotheshorse in front of the fire, filling the room with the smell of steaming clothes and blocking the heat.
    Midday brought my grandfather back, not from work as I thought but from the bookies or, if he’d been lucky on the horses, the pub. I was given the task of laying the table, which was covered with clean newspaper, before the meal of soup and soda bread was laid out.
    That weekend most of my time was spent with my grandparents while my parents disappeared, not returning until I was already in bed asleep. On Sunday morning my mother saw my woebegone face when I realized she and my father were going out again and promised we would spend the following day together.
    ‘First I’m taking you to be enrolled at your new school,’ she said. ‘Then, if you’re good and stay to help your grandmother today, I’ll take you out for lunch as a special treat.’
    Placated, I beamed back at her, happy again, and she gave me a quick hug, leaving the smell of her perfume lingering in the air.
    Monday brought a weak winter sun that brightened but failed to warm the cold morning. However, anticipation of a whole day with my mother took the chill off it.
    ‘It’s only a half hour’s walk,’ she reassured me.
    After breakfast we walked hand in hand out of the narrow streets around Park Street, across the town square and into tree-lined avenues, where tall red-brick houses stood back from the roads. On reaching one that was only distinguished from the nearby houses as a school by its several grey prefab buildings and fenced-in tennis courts, we entered its large wooden-floored hall and introduced ourselves to the school secretary.
    Within a few minutes we were shown to the headmistress’s rooms. She was an imposing woman; her white hair tinged slightly blue, dressed in a tailored grey suit, which was almost covered by a black gown.
    ‘Hello, I’m Dr Johnston,’ she said, touching my shoulder briefly. ‘You must be Antoinette.’
    After talking to my mother for a few minutes she set me a simple reading test, which I read straight through without stumbling once, despite my nerves. When I’d finished she smiled at me warmly.
    ‘Antoinette, you read very well, even though you’ve only been at school a few months. Did your mother teach you?’
    ‘No, Nanny taught me,’ I replied. ‘We used to read Flook cartoons together in the Daily Mail .’ She laughed and asked what else my grandmother had taught me. She seemed amused when I said that