Wake Up, Mummy Read Online Free PDF Page B

making it impossible for anything or anyone to hurt me.
    The very best part of every day was the early morning, when my grandmother came into the bedroom I shared with my mother – when she bothered to come home at night – and whispered to me, ‘Wake up, sleepy head. God has blessed us with another beautiful day.’ Or, sometimes, ‘God has sent rain to make the farmers smile.’
    As she tiptoed out of the room again, I’d jump out of bed, quickly get washed and dressed and then almosttumble down the stairs in my eagerness to reach the kitchen, where I’d sit at the table and wait for her. As everyone else rushed to get ready for work, my grandmother and I would eat toast and marmalade and talk to each other. It was a wonderful way to start the day and I’d always leave for school full of confidence in the knowledge that my grandmother loved me, and therefore I was someone special.
    Having been used to being considered an irritating nuisance (by my mother) and a completely worthless waste of space (by my father), I’d always assumed there was something wrong with me, something I didn’t understand that made me unlovable. So I could hardly believe that someone as wonderful as my grandmother actually wanted to sit and eat her breakfast with me every morning.
    During the two years we lived with our grandparents, Chris and I built very special bonds with them. They became the parents we’d never had and, perhaps most importantly of all, they made us see that there was another way of living. Until then, like all children, I’d simply accepted the hand I’d been dealt. I’d been completely unaware that other people’s lives might be different from my own. If I had ever thought about it, I’m sure I’d have assumed that all mummies got drunk and that all daddies shouted and swore and punched themuntil they cried and blood ran down their faces. But living with my grandparents and having close contact with my aunts and uncles made me realise that some people are kind to each other, that they live together happily, without screaming and fighting, and that maybe it was possible to choose what sort of life you wanted to have.
    My grandfather still worked in construction and he often had to go abroad on contracts, sometimes for weeks at a time. My grandmother would go with him, as she’d always done, and so would my brother and I during the school holidays. During term time, however, we stayed at home in my grandparents’ house, ‘looked after’ by our mother, although it was actually our aunts and uncles who fed, clothed and cared for us. My mother’s sisters and brothers had countless arguments with her as they tried to make her understand her responsibilities towards us. But however furious and frustrated they became with her, they were always good to my brother and me and always careful to make sure we knew they weren’t angry with us.
    It seemed that my mother always had her finger on a self-destruct button. When she left my father, she’d had a choice between her children and her love of alcohol, and she’d chosen the latter. Surprisingly, though, considering the amount she drank, she somehow managed to holddown a job in an office. She was young and attractive, and there was no shortage of men willing to pay for her evenings out. So she rarely came home after work other than to wash and change her clothes before flying out of the front door again.
    I don’t remember ever missing my father or wishing he was there and, fortunately, during that time neither he nor my mother really figured in my life. They’d both become strangers to me and I was happy for my new life to revolve around my grandparents, aunts and uncles.
    My mother had impressed upon my brother and me as soon as we moved in with my grandparents that we were never to call her Mum or try to hold her hand in public. She told us she didn’t want her new friends to know she had children. I didn’t really understand what she meant, and it felt as