Oranges and Sunshine: Empty Cradles Read Free

put some pocket money in an envelope for the National Children’s Home to help deprived children. I wrote long essays on the perils of drinking and gambling and the joys of a sober, honest life. What remained a mystery to me, however, was that while I was being told that drink was the source of most human misery, many neighbours seemed to enjoy themselves immensely in noisy and cheerful pubs like the Sherbrooke Arms at the end of our street. Many was the night I heard a raucous rendering of ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’ resounding from behind its profane doors, and wondered what devilry was going on inside. Was this what he meant when the minister said, ‘Why must the devil always have the best tunes?’
    My parents owned a large Edwardian terrace house on a long road near the river and the playing-fields. Since my grandfather had been well known in business circles it was natural, perhaps, that my father had inherited his outlook as a Conservative voter. It wouldn’t have mattered, had we not been in a predominantly Labour constituency: everyone around us lived in rented accommodation or new council houses. When it was voting day I didn’t dare go outside. All the other people had their red Labour posters on display, while our sitting-room window sported a large, provocative, blue rosette.
    ‘Why aren’t you going out?’ my father asked me during one General Election.
    It never occurred to him that I ran the risk of grievous bodily harm from my school friends! At times I felt isolated in our neighbourhood, but its saving grace was the presence of my wonderful grandmother. Selflessly devoted to her sense of public duty, Grandma had served the St John Ambulance Brigade in a senior role for many years. On Saturdays, I would accompany her as a cadet to local events at the skating-rink or football ground. It was expected that my uniform would be immaculately clean, my badges shining, my black shoes gleaming with polish and my white cap starched so fiercely that it almost cut your hand. Her high standards were softened by her calm temperament and warm, accepting smile. I adored her.
    I attended good local schools and my parents were proud and pleased when I passed exams. They believed that hard work should be rewarded; their maxim was: There’s no such word as can’t. The word is: you can, you will. They drummed this into me day and night, especially my father. I was very shy, and quite happy at home reading books or going for a ride to the Embankment on my treasured Raleigh bicycle. In those days, my bike could be left outside the sweetshop for a few minutes without it being stolen.
    I didn’t want to mix a lot. I’d say, ‘I don’t want to go to that party.’
    ‘You must go, and you will,’ my father would say, in a firm but caring voice, followed by a smile and a wink.
    In his book, there was no such thing as failure. You had to grasp every opportunity with a positive approach. However, I have never felt that I reached my full potential at school. As children growing up in the post-war period, we were expected to breathe life into other people’s hopes and expectations for us. Yet I was too young to remember the war and I had no idea of the hardships earlier generations had endured.
    Although our home enjoyed few modern amenities, it was comfortably furnished with large, dark oak sideboards, cushioned sofas and big open fires. In the evenings we’d listen to The Archers on the radio and when it finished my father would always say, ‘It’s up the wooden hill to bed, young girl.’ Every year, as a family ritual, we’d all listen to the last night of the Proms and feel proud and patriotic.
    I inhabited a secure and relatively restricted little world with my home, school, library and church all within ten minutes’ walking distance. Occasionally, at weekends, I would venture beyond this familiar territory. My father’s saloon car, a black Austin Seven, was his pride and joy. It provided one way of