I Had A Good Life

Where I come from doesn’t matter, its where I’m going to….

I’m old and weary but I’ve had a full life.

It will soon be time. I want to go with just Libby by my side – we’ve been together for so long.

 I’ve left all my instructions with my bank – where my money will go and the whereabouts of my book. No-one ever got to read because I never sent it to the publishers but at least I finished it.

 Of course Libby will eventually be in a cat home, a good one, but I can’t dwell on that because it makes me feel very melancholy. I’ve organised for her to be picked up from here when the time comes – I know she won’t be on her own for long and her food bowls are overflowing with biscuits!

My life is fading away with each deep breath. They feel shallower than the one before and use energy I don’t have, borrowed energy, borrowed time.

The chill in the air touches me with its tentacles and I pull the blanket closer. I see the colours that have faded over time.  I remember when the children loved to hide in a cardboard box and pull the rug over the top.

“You can’t see me” they would call out, finger poking through the holes in the crocheting, and I would pretend I couldn’t.

 In later years I had wished they had been my own children but it was too late then. You can never turn back the clock.

A loud chime shatters the silence and it startles me. It’s the grandfather clock in the hallway, dark polished wood smelling of beeswax. I can’t quite remember where I got it from but does it really matter?

It keeps chiming loud and strong and I count them in my head three, four, and five. ‘Oh it must be evening already’ I think.

Drifting in and out of sleep I reach my hand down to the side of the couch and feel the soft fur of Libby.

What would I do without my constant companion? “Beautiful girl” I whisper to her and she moves slightly and then settles once again, sleeping not because of tiredness but just because.

Thinking back to when I first brought Libby home gives me a warm and comforting feeling of melancholy and appreciation rolled into one. She was so tiny and I could carry her around in the palm of my hand, a tiny ball of fur.

I found her when I was walking home one day. I had to pass through the woods and as I stepped into the coolness of the trees I thought I heard a soft meowing sound. Standing perfectly still I listened and could hear a far off cry of a bird but the meowing had stopped.

I was a detective walking about, watching and listening for clues and sounds – then I stood still and turned my head. The tiny squeak was coming from the direction of the lake. I hoped and prayed that it wasn’t in the lake because I couldn’t swim.

As I got closer the sound was easier to hear so I wandered into the arbour. There on one of the wooden benches I could see a shopping bag moving around.

Tentatively I walked over to the bag and open it up, peering inside I could see a fluffy and tiny tabby cat kitten, just one.

“Oh my goodness” I gasped “who would do this to a tiny kitten?” I said aloud and gently lifted it out of the bag. The kitten didn’t looked hurt and I stroked the little furry frame, feeling it’s backbone.

From that day she never left my side. In the evening when I was reading,  or just sitting down, she would jump onto my lap, curl up into a ball and sit there purring until I made a move. She was my constant companion.

I’ve been blessed. I can leave this world content knowing I have loved and been loved, by children and animals.

I’ve had some adversities, but who hasn’t? I’ve lost but I’ve also gained more. The scales of my life are tipped onto the positive side.

I didn’t really have a good start in life but it got better and not worse. You can’t choose your parents because if you could I would have chosen differently. I did forgive them in my heart a long time ago for my unhappy childhood and I think it made me a better person.

My parents weren’t happy people. I know my mother could have been and maybe was for a while when she first got married but it was short lived. And perhaps when she was a girl she was light hearted and frivolous but I will never know that. She or my father never once talked about the families they had come from and I knew of no living relatives to ask. It was just the way it was and I accepted it.

My father was a drunk, a bully and a violent man and my mother bore the brunt of all of it. I could only stand back and watch or hide under the covers and try to blot it out – what can a child do to protect their mother? You can’t stop it.

It turned her into a kind of recluse; she never left the house, just cleaned, cooked and took beatings.

It happened through most of my childhood and probably started before I was old enough to remember. Most nights I would lie with my pillow over my head, fingers in my ears reciting nursery rhymes to keep out any of the yelling and swearing and later in the night, the sobbing and whimpering.

The next morning he would go off to work as if nothing had happened, taking with him the sandwiches she dutifully still made for him. She would keep silent about the night before, concealer dabbed on the bruises on her face, but not really concealing anything.

One day I plucked up the courage to ask my mother why she stayed with him…and she replied, without even looking at me “He doesn’t mean it, it’s the drink.” And then as I went to walk away from her not knowing what I should say, she actually stood in front of me and looked at my face. “He wasn’t like this when we first married”.

I still didn’t understand how someone could be nice in the beginning and then change so much, becoming to someone you are supposed to love. It happened time after time but still my mum just carried on as if it was meant to be.

“Don’t ever say anything though, promise me that” she said to me touching my arm.

I made that promise to my scared mother and I also made a promise to myself that as soon as I was able, I would leave.

So I grew up in a house where love didn’t seem to exist where, nobody ever spoke – it was just a house and never a home, a place where the years passed but nothing much changed.

I had my books. I would just read my way to another time, place and sometimes planet. I was content with that.

At school I knew I was wasn’t like the others, outwardly you wouldn’t know…the same school uniform, school bag, and nothing looked different.  But inwardly I had my secret which I kept from everyone. I told nobody what happened at my house and I acted like everyone else. I learned to be the best excuse maker and fabricator of the truth, but people aren’t stupid, and I knew a few of them guessed what was going on. But sometimes it is easier to not ask questions.

I was top of the class in English and could write stories that won praise from both teachers and the other students. I collected awards which my parents didn’t even know about; they lay in a shoe box at the bottom of my cupboard.

“How do you do it Sally?” one of the other girls asked me. “You write such good stories “and all the while I knew it was because my whole life was a story, I could paint such great pictures of my home life using just an imagination.

My house was like an island. No one could get to it unless invited and nobody was ever invited. We couldn’t let the world know how it really was - not an idyllic tropical island, lush and green; it was more like a bar of sand where a tornado had just passed through, leaving destruction in its wake.

When I was sixteen I woke up one morning to the sound of yelling coming from the kitchen, something I was used to.  I opened my door quietly; just a crack and tried to hear what it was about this time. It was too early for the booze to be the catalyst, so it was probably something else like money.

My mother cleaned other people’s houses. And her meagre pay had to be handed straight over to my dad. He was in control of it all. He gave her what she needed for the food and household things but it seemed like he never had enough left for his alcohol these days.

Just as I gently pulled the door closed I heard the words “More hours, and I’m in charge” so immediately knew it was about money.

I stayed in my room until he had gone to work – I heard the front door slam. And then I came into the kitchen to find my mother crying into her arms that were folded on the red laminated table top.

As I neared the table, she looked up, her face pale and etched with lines of regret and hopelessness. Red eyes blinked and her tears streamed down her cheeks - as she stared at me I felt not only sadness but annoyance too. I didn’t want to think it but I knew that if she was stronger and had her own voice then we wouldn’t be looking at each other like this.

“I’m leaving Sally” she blubbered. “I have to”. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Are you going by yourself?” I felt the answer inside of me before I heard it and my breathing quickened.

“Yes just me but only because you need to finish school, and after that you can come and live with me…ok?”

“Where are you going? Why can’t I come now? I don’t want to stay with him.”

My mother said nothing else. She wiped her eyes and face and looked at me as if it was for the last time.

“Please can I come with you Mum?” I begged her not touching her – I was angry. Then I said something that I regretted ever since. “Go then, leave me, you’ve never been a good mother to me anyway. You’re weak, WEAK” I shouted tears streaming down my face.

I watched on as the small diminutive figure picked up her case and walked through the front door, and I knew I should have hugged her, told her I loved her, that she was as good a mother as she could have been, but for some reason I didn’t.

How strange that a man who had inflicted such physical and mental pain on his wife could be so distraught at her leaving. I had never seen my father like this ever before, not even with a tear in his eye let alone sitting crying in his chair. Of course he tried to calm his distress with alcohol because some things never change.

I didn’t know what to do. I had no one I could tell or ask for advice so I went up to my bedroom and read. I took my self to Spain, olive groves, oranges, sunshine and festivals, happiness and laughter….and afterwards I fell asleep clutching my book.

The next morning I experienced a great emptiness, a sadness that crept from my heart right up to my throat. I felt as if I might vomit a few times I had tests at school and needed to be there. So I breathed deeply and slowly whenever the feeling came. I pretended to myself that I would hear from my mum in the near future but I’m not sure I believed my thoughts. I felt abandoned…by the one person who is supposed to keep me safe.

I heard the front door closing so went down stairs to make some toast before my trek to school. I knew that I needed all my strength today to cope.  I couldn’t let my guard down no matter how I was feeling. A hurricane had just devastated the island.

My father never mentioned my mother ever again. I hardly ever spoke to him so I never talked about her either. Sometimes I imagined there might be a letter waiting for me after school, but there never was, and I began to lose all hope. I felt disappointed in myself that I no longer felt the intense sadness in my soul I had at the beginning when she left, but perhaps that was for the best.

I left school a few months after my mother left, in the November. I didn’t know where she was so by the January I had secured myself a position in a house as a children’s nanny.

I never had a family who wasn’t kind to me.  I felt privileged to be a part of these families – I had a beautiful room of my own, I got meals and I was paid. They were good to me and entrusted their children to my care - and I appreciated that. I had never before known what happy families were like but I did now.

I intended this type of work to be a stepping stone to employment that was perhaps a bit more challenging but as the months rolled into years I realised that I was very happy doing this long term. I felt grateful for being a part of something and of use.

 I was always a bit empty when I left a household, not really needed any more as the children were grown up. For a while we would keep in touch and then gradually drift apart. But I had the warm memories and always a photo of the children when I left.

 I was in my forties when I began to write a book. One night when I was sitting in my bedroom after putting the children to bed, I realised that if I suddenly died, no one would know anything about me, nothing about my life. My childhood was not a good one, but I still had memories. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone about me, and I think that was from having to be so secretive all of my childhood.

I didn’t know if my book would ever be published but I had an urge to write it. It was a ‘stop and start’ project and I thought I would never finish it.

My last job where I worked was for a wonderful family with four children, one a new born baby. I was made to feel a part of the household – an extension of the parents. I would never try to replace them but I basked in the joy that they got from the children. It was like the vessel in my life that had always been empty was slowly filling up by just being around these people. I felt as if I could have stayed for ever but the Grandmother of the children who lived overseas got very ill. The family decided that she needed to come and live with them – she would have around the clock care from a professional but would never feel lonely or isolated in her sickness.

I wasn’t asked to leave but in some ways I had almost overstayed my welcome anyway…the baby of the family was now sixteen and I was basically a pseudo Grandmother for the last two children at home. So my decision was made for me when I heard the news about the ‘real’ grandmother coming over to live in the house. That was her position, not mine.

There were tears and more tears when I said my goodbyes, but mostly from me, and the youngest family member. Of course my employers were sad too and genuinely so but they had other things to deal with now. They insisted on buying me a gift for all the ‘wonderful years of service and genuine love’ I had provided for not only the children but the whole family. I asked for a photo, of all of them together.

“Oh I missed that family for quite a while. Didn’t I Libby?” I said to her. She just purred.

Over on the wall are a collection of my photos of all the children I have even looked after and of course the special family photo I asked for. I put a photo of Libby up there too.

I feel so tired. Libby snuggles down beside me, warm and soft, her purring gentle and hypnotic. “Good girl. I’ll miss you”.

My doctor pops by every other day to check in on me and so I don’t worry about Libby being left for days on end.

She purrs and licks my hand as if she knows something and as I touch her for the last time tears start to fall.

It’s strange….my last thought is of my mum and dad and I wonder if they ever missed me and even cried for me. I’ll never know.

As I drift off to a faraway place, peace ebbing into my being, my pain and weariness ceases and I feel as if I’m weightless.