Mum

It is just over a year now since Mum passed away.  The sadness is still with us; there is a hole in our lives that, I am sure, will not be filled.

Mum never wrote much.  She wanted to do so and made notes but it never came to anything.  She was good at letters and crossword puzzles but putting a book together was too much.

Ultimately, when she was 94 or 95, she died and it was now too late to record any of her memories.

We were unable to determine her exact age because she was a foundling.  She was discovered, at the age of around six week, in a bag on Barnes Common in London.  From thence she was transferred to an orphanage in Richmond, Surrey, where she lived until she was eight years old.

Nobody registered her so there was never a birth certificate.  She was fostered by a couple I knew as Nan and Grandad Heardman who had already fostered a difficult child called Muriel who had never settled down anywhere.  Nan Heardman was not to be beaten and brought Muriel up to be a lovely lady.

Mum’s life was coloured by her abandonment and upbringing.  She always believed that she was not wanted, that she had no value even if all the evidence was to the contrary.

When Mum was left in the bag it was 1916.  During the First World War.  Abandoned babies were commonplace then.  Not all of them were due to soldiers coming home on leave, knowing that they were unlikely to return again, and seeking solace in the arms of a loved young girl or lady.

Many of these babies were the result of a liaison between the Master of the House and a servant girl.

In both cases the girl was left with a tough choice.  There was, at that time, no Welfare State—only family.  Poverty was rife and most of the men had gone off to die in the trenches.  The girls could either keep their babies or their jobs.

How many broken hearts were there knowing that they had to give away their last link with a lover who had been killed?

The servant girls could not go back to their families with an illegitimate child, it was the workhouse or their job in the ‘Big House’; the baby had to go.

Times were hard.

In the orphanage things were also tough but it was the only life that the children knew.  They had nothing to compare it with; they went about their education and chores willingly because they thought that this stoic and Spartan regime was normal.

When Nan first collected Mum from the orphanage she wanted to buy Mum a toy.  They went to a toy shop where Mum was asked to select anything that she wanted.

She chose... a dustpan and brush.

These cleaning implements were always shared, to have one of her very own was almost bliss.  Mum had no concept of ‘play’.  It would never occur to her to choose a doll.

One story I liked, and this is the point of the ‘Blog’, really, is when they had a concert for a visiting dignitary in the orphanage.  Forty or fifty of the girls were formed into a choir to sing for the visitor.  Remember that there were no TV’s or radios then so this kind of entertainment was quite normal and very much enjoyed.

When the girls had finished singing the visitor applauded and said to the girls “Who was that singing in such a sweet voice?”  This being, of course, a rhetorical question for the benefit of all. 

Mum immediately put her hand up and said, “Me, Miss.”

Everyone who entertains others, irrespective of how they do it, yearns to be appreciated.  We should all like to put our hands in the air and say, “It was I, Miss.”

Of course, there’s the money.  Who does not appreciate a little cash appreciation?  But, for most, it is the plaudits, the pat on the back, the “Jolly good show, Old Chap,” that we crave.

Is it Attention Deficit Disorder?  Is it a necessary part of being an artist?  Painters, writers, actors, orators, film directors, singers, musicians, chefs all feed off the acclaim of ‘the public’.  It is the energy that keeps these people going.  The acclaim is measured, very often, in earnings; the more popular the artist the more cash comes to hand.

Everybody, in all walks of life, wants to be reassured that what they do is appreciated.

I just think that artists who are creative need that recognition.  Certainly I should hope that my stories bring pleasure and the only way to know that is if people tell me.  That always brings a soft glow inside.

And then it saves me sticking my hand in the air and saying, “It was me, Miss.”