Wigs, Plaits and Yellow Feathers

I can still vividly recall the moment I first saw my mother’s wig; that day, although I didn’t realise it at the time, was doubtlessly a turning point in my youth. I haven’t managed to obtain and preserve many particularly distinct or powerful memories from my infancy, yet that instant on the doorstep of my own home has remained engraved upon my memory for the past fourteen years.

At only five years old, I here reached the dreaded crux of childhood uncommonly early; the moment of realisation, which all the Innocent must eventually face, that in fact, despite all the wonderful things you have read in fairy tales, life is not as good and fair as it seems. On that frightfully chilly January morning on the front porch, my mother exposed the truth. The ruthless realities, which youth has always chosen to fatally overlook, were then imposed upon my carefree child’s world.

My dad had taken my sister and I to our primary school ‘Winter Talent Day’. I remember being immensely pleased with myself having showed off my paintings and paper-machés and read aloud to a whole room of people a story I’d written in class. I owed much if not most of the inspiration for my story, ‘The Princess and the Goblin’, to one of my favourite films, titled as such, which was conveniently not well known, so I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about pinching the idea. It was on arriving home again that Sunday morning, both my sister and I wearing our favourite lilac jackets and feeling considerably high-spirited, that our mum opened the front door and we saw her new haircut for the first time.

The words slipped off my child’s tongue in an excited squeal, ‘Oh! Have you had your hair cut?’

I remember mum smiling, but after that the memory blurs a bit. What I realise now is at that moment, for the first time in my life, I’d stood on a threshold that was both familiar and yet completely foreign to me; on the verge between the naiveties of childhood and the realities of adulthood.

In retrospect, it appears that for the most part I remained blissfully unaware of the private grief and fear that gripped the rest of my family during the few painful months when my mother was fatally ill. Whilst they were all engulfed within the same nightmare, I was instead encased within a kind of dream, where nothing made sense and everything became a blurred frenzy of comings and goings. However, I do distinctly remember the intense feeling of insecurity, a sense seemingly also shared by my sister, Sophie, who was only four at the time and who – confirmed by both photographs and word-of-mouth – clung to me like a leech during mum’s time ‘away’. Perhaps it was this feeling of bewilderment and vulnerability which encouraged me to become so protective over my sister during this time. I took to looking after her as if she were my own daughter; I’d entertain her every weekend morning by telling her stories and putting on shows using the Aladdin plastic Disney figures, or the ‘Puppy in my Pocket’ collection-cards. I also liked to plait her hair for school; two French-plaits, each tied at the end with a silky red ribbon, with added wisps of blond beside her ears to give a softer impression. I fed the fish, I made our beds; I even kept childish lists (perhaps an early indication of my future obsession with making lists) of what we had to do every morning, which included brushing our teeth, doing our hair, having breakfast… I loved the finality of it; the idea that in ticking it off the list I’d completed something worthwhile. Even today, I still maintain many of the personality traits that I, as a surprisingly organised and controlling five year old, emphasised in my youth.

I wasn’t only a shelter for my sister but also became increasingly protective over my mum after she returned home from the Royal Marsdem after her most intense period of chemotherapy. I remember how she often used to rest her bobbed blonde wig over the rounded end of the banister in the hallway. The more I looked at that round banister post, with the artificial dirty blond fridge hanging sympathetically over the edge, the more it resembled a miniature ghost-white faceless head, framed by a floating mass of fake yellow hair. However, I distinctly recall one particular occasion during the spring of 1994, as mum progressively began to get better, when she thoughtlessly left her wig on the patio table in full view of our next-door-neighbour’s meddlesome daughter, Samantha. My mother has always been a particularly unobtrusive and private person, so even as a child I knew she didn’t want people knowing about or sympathising with her sickness. Even now I still resent the way Sam self-importantly stood on top of those dustbins, sneaking looks over the fence, intruding into my mother’s private concerns.

‘Why is there a wig on your table?’ she asked. I remember how she grimaced like there was a dirty smell under her nose, and proudly shook her golden locks from her eyes. Sam had always genuinely considered herself significantly superior to both my sister and I, simply because she was older than us, and she continued to think so until we moved away five years later. In my innocence I was usually awed by her authority and ‘maturity’, but at that moment her tone was saturated with such insensitivity and egotism that even as a child I felt more anger than admiration.

‘We’re playing dressing up,’ I snapped back in an irrefutable tone. Sam looked vexed that she’d not been invited to join in; I on the other hand remember feeling delighted, as was my mother, who was so moved by my protective nature that she’s never forgotten the incident in fourteen years.

Nevertheless I believe it was the time spent at Gran’s house during the Christmas of ’93, which eventually led me to bridge the gap between the naiveties of childhood and the realisations of adulthood on the front porch that January morning. That December dad was compelled to leave Sophie and I at my Gran and Grandad’s house for a few weeks, up north in Lytham, St. Annes. It’s difficult trying to recollect any accurate emotions during these few weeks; the exciting comings and goings of different people, Gran sharing out the pennies from her money-jar, her home-made apple pies, and decorating the Christmas tree probably kept us more than occupied and wiped any childish traumas about mum from our minds. More importantly to us perhaps was the excitement of once again seeing Gran’s yellow canary, Cheeky, who coordinated perfectly with Gran’s similarly yellow kitchen. During my childhood I never thought twice about the colour of the kitchen; only now, when I actually consider how the kitchen table, the upper cupboards, the lower cupboards, the fridge, even the toaster and the microwave were all the same dazzling shade of daffodil-yellow, do I actually begin to appreciate Gran’s apparently appalling taste in household decoration.

Cheeky’s cage sat on top of Gran’s yellow kitchen surface beside her traditional tune-in radio and her Nivea ‘extra-moisture’ hand cream which she always kept close to the kitchen sink for use after washing up. For Sophie and I, allowing Cheeky out of his cage was the highlight of our hour. To this day I can still vividly imagine his soft yellow feathers as smooth as velvet fluttering around the kitchen as he soared from the roof of his cage, to the clock above the sink, to the rectangular mirror beside the cupboards… I remember how he lived up to his name by only agreeing to return to confinement if we offered an assortment of sultanas and currants; his tiny beak would tenderly nibble away at your fingers as you poked the currents daringly through the bars of the cage.

I find it strange that it’s only since my Gran and Grandad died four years ago that I’ve really begun to recall much about them or the house itself. Many of my early experiences seem to have been lost somewhere within the turbulent ocean of my memory; yet these few particularly memorable months between the autumn of ’93 and the Spring of ’94 repeatedly re-surface from the depths, breaching the boundaries of time. It’s strange how that short time I spent at my grandparents’ house has left me with some of my most vivid yet strangely meaningless memories; I distinctly remember the heaviness of the sickly yellow duvet covers in our bedroom, the softness of the fluffy white rug in the hallway, and the intense heat of the electric fire in the lounge. I remember the salty taste of Gran’s ham and pineapple evening-dinners, the sweet smell the bathroom soap left on your hands, and the distinct colour of Grandad’s favourite mustard-yellow tie. I remember the cool soothing feeling of Gran’s white cotton blouse against my face, the burning after-smell of Gran’s hair-rollers, and the shade of her beige high-waist polyester trousers and rosy-pink slippers. I remember Grandad’s burgundy Vauxhall Nova, how every morning Sophie and I would stand at the lounge window with Gran and watch for the red double-decker bus, and I’ll never forget the mouth-watering taste of the chocolate Christmas tree decorations that Gran treated us to that year.

Gran used the same Christmas tree decorations for years; those outdated cheap glass baubles, which always smelt musty because they had been up in the attic for so long and made your hands dry because of the countless layers of dust. She also used the same miniature artificial tree for years – in fact, it looked more like a small shrub than a tree – which she stood on a little table in front of the bay window so the rest of the world could also admire it. However, this year Gran had treated us with chocolates to hang on the tree; different shaped Santas all sporting various coloured suits with strands of golden thread protruding from their heads. I recall how, even though the atmosphere was cheerless and the evening was cold and dark, Sophie and I left elevated and excited.

During these last few weeks of complete childish naivety, I felt truly spoilt. In my child’s world, I couldn’t be touched. I was safe with my Gran, and the universe seemed a wonderful place. Yet only a few weeks later I’d find myself gazing up at a mother who was no longer invincible. Having been robbed of all maternal protection, I’d face the realities of the world alone.