I've had to think long and hard before deciding to write something about our life abroad. I know the winter of 1946/47 was a very harsh one; for many people, the prospect of working in the Colonies was exciting and full of possibilities. I imagine when the offer of jobs overseas came up, the thought of hot weather, sunshine and the promise of an "easy life," was very persuasive. We sailed from England in 1948, and my earliest memories are of my childhood in East Africa.
For those for whom their home life was happy, East Africa was a very good place to be; for the others, it was anything but. There were functions and parties, and regular "sundowners," cocktail parties that started at sunset, and could carry on for hours. We had moonflowers, which when ready to blossom, opened very swiftly, and gave the perfect excuse for a party. This is a poem I wrote about it.
MOONFLOWER PARTY
It was any excuse for a party -
Although this was better than most;
As the creamy white petals unfolded
"Moonflower!" was raised as the toast.
The African twilight was swiftly done -
From daylight to darkness, the last rays of the sun
Settled, gently aflame the manicured lawn
For twelve hours of secrets before the new dawn.
House boys in kanzus - well trained to a man
Hovered discretely, laden trays in their hand,
With canapés, sausages and how everyone screamed
At the risqué remarks made by sweet seventeen!
With cocktails, sundowners and orange and lime,
The empties collected - worth two cents a time;
The cuckolded husbands and cheated wives
Stayed laughing and drinking, within an inch of their lives.
And in the hubbub, with the noise at its height
The guests ebbed and flowed into the night;
Into conservatories, hidden by leaves
With naught to be seen but the glimpse of a sleeve.
And shyly, unseen, its petals unfurled
Open to all who could see in its world;
Whilst the harsh, raucous party polluted its space,
To the moon, the moonflower, lifted its face.
Before Mum came to live with us in 2012, and whilst she was still in hospital, I spent so much time on the ward with her, I got to know some of the other patients well. I enjoyed talking to one lady in particular - we shared a love of literature, and quoted poetry to each other. When I wasn't there, she would also listen to Mum, and became concerned about about some of the things Mum was saying; she felt Mum was clearly deeply disturbed about things that had occurred in her past. Mum talked a lot about the time when we lived abroad, but then later would contradict what she had said. This lady realised Mum was turning things that had happened to her, on their head. She would praise people who had been awful to her, and talk really unkindly about others who had done so much for her. It seemed there was a complete "about-turn" in her attitude to people she knew.
She would talk about my father, and anyone listening would get the impression he was a paragon; I knew differently. He had been an appalling husband, and my mother had endured years of his flagrant and abusive behaviour. When we lived in East Africa, at that time "anything went," and my father took full advantage of the female opportunities offered to him. If my mother dared to protest, he would beat her; typically abusive, he would then tell her it was her fault, and he would also accuse her of being mad, for daring to complain.
As a child, I was expected to be "seen but not heard." I had eyes to see and ears to hear, and a heart to pound with fear, and I could not understand why we had to stay anywhere near someone so cruel. I entertained fantasies of escaping in the dead of night, and finding a safe haven, but in those days women's shelters didn't exist and I know now, how difficult it must have been for anyone in that kind of situation, to do anything about it. Women had no rights as such; Mum was "the Engineer's wife," and was friends with "the Doctor's wife," whilst I was the Engineer's daughter, and played with the Doctor's daughter.
Mum believed in marriage as a sacrament, but I was fearful that in our family, "'Til death us do part" might well come true, sooner rather than later. In those days, I believe many women reckoned if they had a husband who came home at night, gave them money for housekeeping, and didn't ill-treat them, they were jolly fortunate, and should be grateful. Even in the UK, I don't think things were much better. One year, when we were back in England on leave, Mum had to have a wisdom tooth extracted, under general anaesthetic. It wasn't Mum who signed the consent form, but my father who had to give his permission for her to undergo the procedure.
My mother always made excuses for him: how he had been a prisoner of war, and that must have upset him. In her mind, there was always a reason for his behaviour, and why she would forgive him and continue living with him, but I knew other men - fathers of my school friends, who had also been prisoners of war, both in Germany and under the Japanese - and it had not turned them into abusive partners.
My daughter, Wendy, who in this matter sometimes comes across as though she has swallowed a medical dictionary, firmly believes he displayed the classic symptoms of someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Such people will treat their wife/long term original partner appallingly, and go off to find validation of how wonderful they are, with someone else, "finding a new source of narcissistic supply;" after a while, when this new relationship, or "supply" begins to pall, or the new partner realises all is not well, they will return home, and carry on as before. Until it all happens again.
I'm sure my Mum was not the only woman to exist in a bad marriage, but it was extremely difficult to escape from it.
I wonder sometimes if the ill-treatment meted out by my father has hastened and exacerbated the start and progress of Mum's dementia. I am sure it could not have helped and now, with some of her memories being those from so very long ago, she can become very angry and unhappy, and it makes it difficult for us to reassure her that everything is different now, and all is well. Sometimes she repeats things my father said to her, all those years ago - hurtful, twisted words, and it is always very painful to hear his "script" emanating from my mother's mouth. We have to try and distract her and bring her thoughts back into happier experiences.
I think the past informs the present and the present influences the future; I can't change the past, but I can try and keep the present as happy and full of nice things to look forward to, as possible. I know Mum can learn new things (it just takes longer!) and I keep hoping that gradually she will begin to dwell on these happier times.
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