Free Don’t Tell Mummy by Toni Maguire Page B

husband, a thatched house and one pretty daughter.
    On our ‘family’ visits my mother would sit with an expression that I had already come to recognize. It was an expression that showed she was there on sufferance. A polite, slightly patronizing smile would hover on her lips, a smile which showed toleration of those visits but never enjoyment, a smile I knew would disappear immediately the visit ended and our car turned out of my grandparents’ road.
    Then a steady trickle of condescension would float in the air until, drop by drop, it fell into my ears. Each relative received my mother’s verbal appraisal, accompanied by a laugh with no humour. I would watch the back of my father’s neck growing redder as mile by mile she reminded him of his origins and, in comparison, her own worth.
    If my mother’s memory of my father remained locked on the handsome ‘Paddy’ who had danced her off her feet, in his eyes she remained for ever the classy English woman who was too good for him.
    As my mother regurgitated her views of the day, my pleasure would evaporate until, by the time my bedroom was reached, it was a distant memory. The game of happy families had ended and I knew it would not be played again until the next visit.
    Just before our last Christmas at the thatched house we visited my grandparents again. To my delight, in the tiny back room where my grandfather had at one time mended shoes, was a strange-looking bird. It was bigger than a chicken, with grey plumage and a red gullet. A chain attached to one of its legs, secured it to a ring in the wall. It looked at me with what I saw as hope. Hope for company. Hope for freedom. On asking my grandparents what it was called they simply said ‘a turkey’.
    I promptly christened him Mr Turkey. At first, mindful of his beak, which was considerably bigger than a chicken’s, I simply sat and chattered to him. Later, seeing how docile he was, I grew braver and reached out my hand to stroke him. The bird, disorientated by his surroundings, allowed me to pet him without protest and I believed I had made another feathered friend. No one told me what the fate of my new friend was going to be.
    My grandparents had invited us for Christmas Day, and I dutifully wore the uniform and played the role of the child of a happy family. A small Christmas tree, overburdened with red and gold decorations, stood in the window of the small cramped sitting room. Chattering relatives occupied every available space, while plentiful drinks were poured, passed round and consumed. My father, flushed with alcohol, was the centre of attention. He was the joking, jovial, favourite son and adored brother in his family, and I was loved because I was his.
    My grandparents had moved their small table from its place by the window, where the tree now stood, to the centre of the room. The table’s extensions were so seldom used that they seemed to be of a lighter wood, once it was extended to accommodate eight people. Cutlery had been polished, Christmas crackers arranged beside each setting and borrowed chairs had been placed around it. I was seated opposite my father.
    Delicious smells wafted from the tiny kitchen along with the noise of great activity. Meat, boiled vegetables, crispy roast potatoes all swimming in gravy were put onto plates and carried to the table by my grandmother and aunt. My mother had not offered to help, nor was she asked to.
    As I looked at my piled-high plate of food, my mouth watered; breakfast had been a hurried weak cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. Impatiently, I waited for the first adult to commence so that I could follow, and then my father pointed to the meat and told me what had happened to my friend.
    Nausea replaced hunger, silence hung in the air for a few seconds as I looked around the table in disbelief. My father’s eyes both mocked and challenged me. I saw the amusement in the adult faces as they exchanged glances and I forcedmyself to show no feeling.