‘Give me strength,’ Mum sighed through gritted teeth. ‘That woman will be the death of me.’
I went down with her.
‘Can the child come and sit with me for a while?’ she said as she saw me lurking in the doorway.
‘I suppose so,’ said Mum. ‘Rene, come and talk to Miss Higgins.’
‘Do I have to?’ I sighed, but just one look at Mum’s stern face and I didn’t dare say another word.
I sat and stared at Miss Higgins. She always looked very straight-laced and she never, ever smiled. She had long white hair, and a white frilly nightie with a high collar and a knitted bed jacket on. Her bed was white, too, and she was half propped up with a pile of pillows. She was a bit like Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, a strange ghostly figure all in white. I wasn’t frightened of her, I just thought she was the most peculiar woman that I’d ever seen.
She stared at me with a very disapproving look on her face.
‘Talk to me child,’ she said. ‘Do you like arithmetic?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, what do you like doing then?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Rene, don’t be so rude and answer Miss Higgins,’ Mum told me.
‘I like w-w-riting stories,’ I stammered. ‘And d-d-drawing.’
You see, that was the real reason why I didn’t want to chat to her. I didn’t want this strange old woman to know that I had a terrible stammer as I was really embarrassed about it.
My brother Raymond had developed a very bad stammer after our father had died, and when I turned four I had started stammering too.
‘Are you sure you’re not just copying your brother?’ Mum had asked.
But I knew I wasn’t. I just couldn’t stop myself stammering. I was fine with my friends and family and people that I knew, but with strangers it was a different story. I would get nervous and I would hesitate and the words just wouldn’t come out, or I’d be halfway through a sentence and I couldn’t finish it without gasping for breath.
‘I can’t understand what you’re saying to me, dear,’ said Miss Higgins.
‘She just stammers a bit sometimes, that’s all,’ Mum told her.
It was so frustrating sometimes. Like the morning that there was a frantic knocking on the front door.
‘Run and get that, Rene, will you,’ said Mum.
I went downstairs and opened the door to find the coal man standing there. He was in a terrible state.
‘Me ’orse,’ he said in his broad cockney accent. ‘Me bleedin’ ’orse is dead. He had an ’art attack comin’ up the ’ill.’
I looked out and there was the coal man’s huge white horse lying in the middle of the street. Every day the horse would lumber up the hill near us pulling tonnes of coal in his cart, and then the coal man would tip it down the chute outside each house that led to the cellar so we could all light our fires and ranges.
I wanted to say how sorry I was about his horse, but no matter how hard I tried the words just wouldn’t come out.
‘I-I-I-,’ I stammered. ‘S-s-s-.’
‘I don’t understand you, love,’ he said. ‘Is yer old man in? I need some ’elp to try and drag him out of the street.’
It was so frustrating. All I could do was run upstairs to get Mum, sobbing at the thought of the coal man’s beautiful horse lying dead in our road.
There was no help for people with stammers in those days. It wasn’t something that you went to see the doctor about, and there was no such thing as a speech therapist. It was just seen as something you had to live with and hopefully grow out of, which was what Raymond had done as he’d got older.
One weekend Mum took me to the hairdressers as a treat. I had dead straight hair, and since I was little I’d always worn it in long plaits like my mother with two ribbons on the end.
‘Please can I have my hair cut?’ I’d begged her for months.
So we went to the local hairdressers and they chopped it into a bob and pinned a big orange bow on the top.
The next day Mum and I were walking back from the shops to our house and I was proudly showing off my new haircut. I was still wearing the bow that the hairdresser had pinned in it.
I was skipping along, hand in hand with Mum, when suddenly we heard a strange noise above us. I stared up into the sky to see what was making the racket.
‘Look, Mummy!’ I shouted.
There were two planes looping and rolling all over the place, and they were flying so low I could hear the machine-gun fire and see the sparks as the bullets bounced off their wings.
‘Wow!’ I gasped.
I thought it was really exciting to have this battle going on right above our heads, but Mum looked terrified. Much to my surprise, she pushed me into a hedge.
‘Get down, Rene,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’
‘But my bow!’ I said. ‘I don’t want to squash my brand new bow.’
‘Don’t worry about your blessed bow – just stay there and don’t move,’ she hissed.
I could see the fear in her eyes as she crouched down in the dirt with me.
‘What is it, Mum?’ I asked. ‘Why are those two planes shooting at each other?’
‘It’s the war,’ she said. ‘I think it’s started.’
It was Sunday, 3 September 1939 and life as we knew it was about to change beyond all recognition because of a man called Adolf Hitler.
3
I watched out of the window as my mother dragged the old settee into the garden. Then she got a saw and started sawing the arms and the back off it. It was hard work but she was strong and determined, and even though it took her the best part of an hour she managed it in the end.
‘Rene, come and help me pull it into the shelter so we’ve got something to sleep on tonight,’ she yelled.
As part of the Government issue, an Anderson shelter had been built at the bottom of our garden. It was a little brick hut sunk into the ground, with a corrugated-iron roof and a door at one end.
Now the war had started, the air-raid siren would sound every evening and we’d go in there as it got dark to save us from having to get up in the middle of the night and run outside in the pitch black. It was just Mum and me, as Miss Higgins refused to leave the house.
‘I’m going nowhere,’ she told us defiantly. ‘I’ve not been out of bed for fifty-odd years, and I’m certainly not going to start now just because of the Jerries and some silly war. If the house gets bombed and goes down, then I’m going down with it.’
I think Mum was relieved that she didn’t have to carry her out there every night, and it was fine by me as the shelter wasn’t very big and I didn’t fancy being squashed up with that strange old lady. It was dark and dank, so Mum was determined to make it as cosy as possible for us. I helped her drag the settee in there, and that night it made a comfy bed for us to lie on. Mum had got a little oil heater and a paraffin lamp, and we snuggled down under a big eiderdown.
‘You