Oranges and Sunshine: Empty Cradles Read Free Page A

broadening my horizons, though many of our family outings ended with roadside repairs on Trent Bridge rather than the intended picnic in the countryside.
    My parents believed strongly in helping those in less fortunate circumstances. My mother would not hesitate to knit five school jumpers for a local Catholic family whose mother was expecting another baby.
    They both worked hard. Father was an engineer with the Electricity Board, Mother ran her own haberdashery shop. She often let local families have considerable amounts of credit before their bills were eventually paid – long after they were due. My father was not amused.
    Another key figure influencing my outlook, as a child and in later years, was George O’Gorman, a firm and trusted friend of my parents, and our family doctor. He often came to dinner on a Sunday. An Irishman and a Catholic, he would tease my parents about their more traditional, conservative views and habits. Dr O’Gorman had an open mind, an extroverted personality, and a wicked sense of humour. He helped contribute to the feeling I had that, all in all, my childhood was secure, ordinary and quite predictable, as if it rested on solid foundations.
    When I was twelve years old, however, that ground began to shake. Gradually, I realized that my father seemed to be at home more and more when I returned from school in the afternoon. He would tell me he was tired, but none the less he’d always help me with my homework.
    ‘I can’t do it,’ I’d say, knowing full well what the answer was going to be.
    ‘No such word as can’t.’
    Soon he began to take whole days off work. It was not long before cancer was diagnosed.
    One night, I heard my mother tell Dr O’Gorman that she would not allow my father to be admitted to hospital. ‘No-one’s taking him away from home,’ she said.
    ‘Well, Margaret can’t stay here then,’ replied Dr O’Gorman.
    Within a few days, I was sent to stay with my mother’s sister. As I left, my mother said, ‘When you go to school in the morning and when you go to Aunty’s at night, you mustn’t call in here.’
    ‘Why on earth not?’ I asked. ‘I want to pop in to see you.’
    ‘You must get straight on the bus to Aunty’s, you see.’
    I didn’t see. I didn’t know what my mother was thinking of by sending me into exile at my aunt’s house on the other side of Nottingham.
    It was only much later that I realized my mother probably hoped that I would retain a memory of my father at his best. Or perhaps she simply felt unable to care for my father at home and cope with my reactions. However, this was not explained to me at the time. I was just aware of everyone telling me, ‘Your dad is getting worse.’ I didn’t need anyone to tell me that. I knew he was very ill but I felt powerless to help and marooned by my family’s good intentions.
    Then one day I came home from school and Aunty looked very serious and solemn as she put her hands on my shoulders. In a soft voice, she said, ‘You know what we said was going to happen? Well, I’m afraid it’s happened.’
    My mind struggled to find the right answer to this puzzle. ‘What has? What’s happened?’ I asked.
    ‘Your mother will ring you in half an hour.’
    When the telephone rang, my mother said simply, ‘Your daddy died this morning.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ I replied, ‘what do we do now?’
    ‘You can come home after the funeral.’
    I wanted to go to my father’s funeral but my mother had clearly decided against it. I felt strongly that it was wrong for me not to be there, but I did not urge Mother to let me go. She was busy trying to appear as if she was in control of her emotions, though her voice betrayed the true extent of her sadness and confusion. I guessed that she wanted to shield me from the grief, but instead it only made it more difficult for me to come to terms with my father’s death.
    Nobody told me when it was the day of my father’s funeral. I must have gone to school as