Marianne Talbot Mum and dad had, in effect, two families. Christopher and Judy, 1940 and 1944 respectively, then I was born in 1955 and Richard in 1957. Two boy/girl pairs. But there the resemblance ends.
Christopher and Judy were war babies, brought up by mum whilst dad was fighting. Mum (20 when she had Christopher) and dad (23 when he was called up) were still growing up themselves.
When dad came home in 1946 he was, according to mum, ‘impossible’. Wanting to establish himself pater familias he set out to impose his authority.
He once, for example, took Christopher’s egg ration for himself, deciding he needed it more. Mum, who was standing behind him, said it was the final straw. She hit him smartly on the head with the spoon she was holding.
The echo of the !!!BOINGGG!!! it made, and dad’s bellow of pain, followed her as she rushed to the loo and locked herself in. She refused to come out until he agreed to drop the Acting Major Talbot bit.
Similar scenarios must have been playing themselves out all over the land.
By the mid 1950s though, family life largely established, mum decided she wanted another baby. Two, indeed, because one would be desperately spoilt. Against dad’s better judgement I was soon on the way.
This was dad’s chance to be a proper father and he took to it like a duck to water. In fact because mum was busy getting qualifications Richard and I were largely brought up by him, especially at weekends.
He took his duties seriously. On Saturdays, as he made his own breakfast, he would make us our ‘strips’: half slices of fried bread lovingly spread with egg yolk and bits of bacon, sausage, egg white and tomato. Then we had ‘specials’ – small bowls of jelly babies, dolly mixtures and maltesers, the only sweets dad allowed us (mum’s rules were completely different, a fact we exploited mercilessly).
Then we would sit, one on each side of him on the sofa whilst he read our comics, The Robin for me and The Eagle for Richard. Dad was brilliant at doing the voices and making the noises (Whizz! Whoosh! KERRpoinggg!).
Then he would mark the homework he had set us. Each of us had a notebook in which dad would painstakingly have written out a number of questions: (‘244 – 37 = ?’, ‘The heroine of Moby Dick = ?’, ‘The famous river in Eygpt = ?’ ‘Write a short essay on...’). His satisfaction when we got it right was palpable. As was his disappointment when we didn’t.
I still have our homework books, complete with dad’s comments. When I come across them it is almost as if he is beside me.
But when dad developed dementia, I didn’t even consider caring for him in the way I care for mum.
I still get pangs of guilt.