Henley-in-Arden 2 :: the not so good

1935 and now we both have bikes!

Unpleasant experiences? 'Hardly a one' I was going to say; but as I start to think about it, more keep popping into my head, which is only to be expected, for that is life.

I remember the physical agony of falling into a huge bed of stinging nettles, as I ran down the hill behind the village in the dark, after celebrating King George V's Silver Jubilee with a bonfire and fireworks in 1935.

I remember being worried when my father stayed in bed during the day, looking pale and bruised after a motor accident. Fathers are not supposed to be vulnerable - that's what little girls are.

I remember being sad when I was given a letter from my mother's mother, telling me that she was poorly, and that my visit to her would have to be postponed. Shortly after I was told that I should not be able to see her again, as she had gone to heaven.

I remember being embarrassed and remorseful when I broke something in a shop, and my mother had to pay for it, making it clear to me that she could not afford it.

I remember being frightened when I managed to shut myself into the clothes press in my parents' room. Another heavy oak antique, it had once been a harness cupboard, with doors which opened only in the upper part, leaving a deep dark well at the bottom for a child to climb into in. I was shut in alone there for much longer than I cared for.

I remember being terrified when a large (entirely friendly) alsatian bounded up to me and stood with his front paws on my shoulders, at which point he became taller than me, and his weight nearly knocked me over.

But the memory that has proved most disturbing, as it turns out, is one I recalled under hypnosis when I was having psychotherapy some years ago. I remembered that I had been unusually naughty (though I did not recall what I had done), and equally unusually, my mother had smacked me, then shut me in a bedroom and left me alone. What made it worse was that it was not even my own room, but a spare room.

I was astonished to find how much pain was still attached to the episode, when I realised that I had felt as though my mother had withdrawn her love from me. As I spoke those words to the therapist, a sort of electric shock passed through me, and I continued for two or three days to feel a childish distress and need for comfort. Nevertheless, I found this a fascinating and healing experience, and would have been interested to try it again, but I never have.

In January 1936 the King died, and that same year we had to leave The Corner House. One of my father's business associates had made off with all our money and we were in dire straights. By the end of that year we were living with my maternal grandfather in Handsworth, a suburb of Birmingham.