LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 6

      There was one place where I learned about love as a child, and that was at my Nan and Granddad Casey’s, Dad’s parents. Nan Casey was a big-boned woman with dark, waved hair and smiling eyes. She had a soft gentle voice and a face that was full of compassion and humour. I was usually taken to visit her every second weekend and she’d throw open the front door and run down the path to sweep me up in a huge hug, crying ‘My baby! My baby!’ She didn’t seem to get on very well with Mum, and Nigel and I were often left there with her while Mum and Dad went off somewhere else.

      We’d have such fun those weekends. Nothing was too much trouble and a huge fuss was made of us. Nan and Granddad were very well-off and lived in a big house with large gardens in Rugeley, Staffordshire. I liked to sit in the kitchen helping Nan to bake. We made fairy cakes and decorated them with coloured sprinkles, or pastry figures with currants for eyes. She had a black Aga cooker that always seemed to have a kettle billowing steam on top, and the room was very warm and cosy. In the centre was an old table with a pretty cloth covered in hand- embroidered daisies in lots of different pastel shades. I loved that cloth.

      Nan took me for walks in the afternoons and we picked wild flowers, especially our favourite cowslips. As I carried them home in my sweaty little hands, she’d say ‘Careful not to hold them too tightly or they’ll wilt and die.’

      When we got home, we would lay them carefully in her old flower press and tighten the screws on either side of the frame. We had quite a collection of pressed wildflowers that we stuck in a scrapbook. Nan drew daisies round them and my job was to colour them in. Frequently, after our walks I would fall asleep in the rocking chair beside the Aga, having happy dreams of flowers and cakes and pretty things.

      ‘I love playing with you two,’ Nan told Nigel and me. ‘It makes me feel young again.’

      She had toys in her house: rag dolls, a spinning top and a jack-in-the-box that I loved with a passion. She taught me how to play hopscotch, chalking the squares on her garden path and hopping along them herself. She was a great story-teller, never needing a book to come up with exciting tales of adventures and fairies and princesses, all of them with happy endings. I sat in her comfortable lap in the rocking chair, rocking to and fro, as she told us different stories every time.

      Granddad Casey was a tall man with a very deep voice. He wore glasses and when he was pretending to be serious, he would slide them down his nose and peer over the top at me. We had a lovely, jokey relationship when I was younger. He could always make me squeal with laughter and Nan would pretend to be stern and say to him, ‘Stop making that child squeal!’ and he would wink at me and put his finger to my lips. ‘Shush, Lady Jane, we’ll get into trouble with Nan,’ he’d say; then he’d proceed to make me squeal with laughter all over again.

      Granddad’s pride and joy was his collection of forty-odd racing pigeons that he kept in a coop out in the garden. They were soft and grey and gentle and I loved the throaty cooing noise they made. Granddad used to let me help to tag them. You put the bands through a time clock that punched the time on them, then the band went round the pigeon’s leg so that you could tell where it came from and what time it had set out.

      The gardens at Rugeley had lots of separate lawns, paths, flower and vegetable borders, the pigeon coop, and plenty of low hedges, making it an ideal place for hide and seek. There was a fishpond in the garden – about six feet square with a concrete border – and it was full of big orange goldfish. Granddad taught me how to lean over and tap the surface of the water gently so that the fish came up for a nibble, thinking that your finger was a tasty fly.

      There was a gardener to look after the grounds, and Nan had a housekeeper to help indoors, although she did all the cooking herself. Every autumn we had a special job to do when the apples and pears fell from the trees in the orchard. Nigel and I would collect them and put them carefully in huge baskets. In the kitchen we would perch on the edge of the table and remove all the stalks, while a local girl peeled, cored and chopped the fruit, and Nan would stew them on the stove before bottling them in big glass jars.

      The bottled fruits were kept downstairs in the cellar, which was reached via a door that led off the kitchen. I always wanted to go down there but Nan said it wasn’t a suitable place for little girls in pretty dresses. She was careful to tie an apron round my neck when we were bottling the fruit or baking so my clothes didn’t get dirty. I think she was wary on my behalf because she had seen firsthand the kind of trouble I got into with Mum if I got my clothes dirty.

      Once when we visited, I was wearing an exquisite outfit that Mum had made for me. It was a dress in an eggshell blue colour with white spots on it, and a matching coat that was lined in the dress fabric. It had a little velvet collar and I absolutely adored it. Granddad took me for a walk down to the farm to collect some eggs and as I picked one up it slipped from my grasp. I tried to catch it and the shell broke, splattering egg down the front of my coat.

      I was nervous as we walked back to the house because I knew Mum was there.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ Granddad assured me. ‘We’ll sponge that off good as new.’

      But when she saw the mess, Mum went wild. She snatched the coat from me, grabbed a pair of sharp scissors that were hanging on a hook on the kitchen wall and proceeded to cut it into tiny pieces.

      ‘See what I’m doing? See what you’ve made me do?’ Mum’s voice rose as she became more furious. The velvet collar fell to the floor in shreds as I watched in horror. ‘You’re a dirty, messy girl who doesn’t deserve to have anything nice!’

      Nan and Granddad tried to stop her. ‘Muriel, she’s only a child. Accidents happen,’ they remonstrated, but she was in a frenzy, not listening to anyone. I stood and sobbed, upset that yet again Mummy was cross with me, and Nan pulled me on to her knee for a hug, whispering, ‘It’s all right, don’t worry. You’ll get another coat even nicer than that one.’

      Mum didn’t often lose her temper to this extent in front of Nan and Granddad but there was another occasion when Granddad saw her wrench the spinning top from me and hurl it across the room. I suspect they knew that she was volatile and it must have been hard for them to send me back home with her again, but what could they do? It was not the done thing to interfere with the way somebody brought up their children. But Nan could see how terrified I was of my mother and how much I hated my life at home. As the time to leave approached, I’d get more and more miserable. When it actually was time, I’d be filled with dread and beg my grandmother to hide me in the cellar, but of course she couldn’t. I didn’t tell her about all the punishments I suffered at home – the bean cane, the spider cupboard, the bee stings – because I assumed these were all normal things that happened to little girls who were naughty. Nevertheless, I’m sure she could sense that my fear was in no way normal.

      I was very secure in Nan Casey’s love for me, and maybe this gave me some of the resources I needed to survive the treatment I experienced in the rest of my life. She was a traditional grandmother and Nigel and I were the only grandchildren she had to fuss over, because Aunt Audrey had emigrated to Canada by this time and Dad’s brother Graham and youngest sister Gilly hadn’t yet had children. I felt very protected by Nan when I was at Rugeley, the way all young children should feel.

      If we were staying the weekend at Nan’s, she took us to Sunday school. Once I was chatting to her as we walked home together.

      ‘Today

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