Tim and I had been extremely close as children; two years younger than me, following the end of our parent's marriage we were basically all we had. But like lots of kids we had drifted into hormonal sullenness with an element of sibling rivalry in our teenage years though.
Tim excelled in his school work and I was just a bit jealous. I tried not to let it show, but pretty soon with the onset of his extremely late development his hormones kicked in making him a snobbish, bookish, over confident prig with no people skills or belief in the worth of anyone but him. Our Mother's isolationism and desire to keep out the rest of the world only made him worse.
I could still remember my mother and father being together, Tim had no memory of it at all thanks to our mother's systematic removal of him from our lives and consciousness. My Grandma Barnes had been delightful and one of those grandparents that people had in Enid Blyton books. She had a wonderful warm house with a huge garden that I could play in to my young hearts content, and a tin that was always full of cakes and an apron that almost always had a chocolate covered caramel toffee in the pocket.
But when the divorce came along, suddenly however much I begged to go to see Nanny B I was never allowed to. Grandma Barnes fought extremely hard to see us, but grandparents, even parents rights, after divorces was unheard of in those dark days.
My father fought to maintain contact with us, so Mum moved us north, starting first in the Midlands then going further north every few years as my father and his family got used to it. My pre-school youth had always seemed sunny, but from six years old my life had all the chill and darkness of a Lancashire winter. We still received birthday cards and regular visits – my Dad's trip to the family court had ensured that – while my mother just saw his interference as another way he could annoy her.
She was a hard bitch and no mistake. She hated the north and more so, the northerners. She hated their accent, the gritty 'get on with it' nature (at least up until Margaret Thatcher's destruction of much of their way of life) and their almost instinctive not to say genetic mistrust of anything southern. Mum's insistence that we never picked up a local accent was a constant bind; we were bullied at school for being 'soft southern bastards' and then bullied at home of we dared to exhibit the slightest Brummy drag or Mancunian twang.
Mum insisted we went to the best school. I failed my 'Eleven plus' examination so never made the local grammar school; at the time I was fool enough to voice the concern that my teacher had raised when she pointed out that if I'd stayed in a primary school for more than eighteen months perhaps I could have done better in that life changing exam.
Mum severed all contacts with everyone in Dad's family other than him for that. The idea that someone else in the world might have affected me just did not enter her mind. I was to discover years later that she had taken to throwing all of my Nanny B's letters to me in a box; apparently Dad has guessed this was happening and his solicitor pointed out that interfering with the mail was a crime.
I gradually learned to live without her except for my fortnight in the summer when we came south, and she died three years later, having never missing a birthday, Easter or a Christmas card up until that time I was to discover when I found the box years later. My Dad's visits reduced; with the passing of my Nan it became apparent how much he had been relying on financial assistance from her.
Her death and splitting of her estate between him and his four siblings meant that rather than once a month we saw him once a quarter or less sometimes. We grew up and he got older, quickly. The cancer in his bowel dragged the life from him fast and he begged that we be allowed to come south for a week before our customary trip in the summer holidays.
Mum argued about disruption to our exams, even though we didn't have any; eventually Dad's youngest brother, my wonderful uncle Dan, drove to Tim's school and collected him then to mine to collect me and, leaving a note scrunched between the stiff letter box flap and the draft excluder, drove us the two hundred miles to the hospital dad had been admitted to that day.
Uncle Dan was cheeky, (Mum always said vulgar) bright and spirited, something Dad had been until he married Mum, extremely clever, but above that a policeman. He'd told both schools what he was doing and the police at both ends of the trip, telling him that Mum could not be contacted, which was true. She always kept herself to herself.
So when she rang to report us missing, we both walked home from school, they told her about the emergency in London and the note through the door. She'd been had and she knew it.
Dad lasted another three days, and the funeral was arranged. Mum contacted the police demanding our return, but thanks to Uncle Dan she was put off – not something they could get away with these days. Uncle Dan arranged the funeral and everything and we went meeting all of the family, many of which we had not seen in five years, and finally Dad was laid to rest next to Nanny B.
Uncle Dan took me aside and told me that he wanted to give me some money for emergencies. I guessed this meant a railway ticket or money for phones and explained that he had put five pounds in my pocket but stitched the rest into the lining of my blazer, knowing that the clothes he'd bought for us would be consigned to the Oxfam shop as soon as we returned home. He gave me some for Tim, who even at the age had started to respond to Mum's brainwashing, and was likely to tell her about it. On our last night we sat up in front of the telly in his living room eating Kentucky Fried Chicken and defrosted cheesecake and talking about Dad and Nanny B. The following morning, wearing his uniform as a police constable he drove us back to the chilly north and the frosty reception that doubtless awaited us.
It was to a distinctly chilly house that Uncle Dan dropped us back to. Mum tried to block the door, but Dan, with the confidence of his profession and of the age, pushed past like a moment from 'Life on Mars' and had a good look round. It was obvious that Mum had started to pack again.
He said he thought it was about time she moved again, and she snarled that he had no rights to me or Tim and she'd move to the moon if it would finally stop his damned family interfering with her and hers.
Dan smiled, shook hands with Tim and playfully rubbed his head then bent gave me a hug and kissed me on both cheeks,
"Don't worry princess," he said patting the padded shoulder of my blazer I knew contained an address list of all of his family and £100 in notes, "so long as wherever you go has phones you can always get me," he looked straight into Mum's face, "just dial 999 and ask for Uncle Dan."
Mum ushered us both upstairs dragging our bags from our shoulders for closer inspection. I heard her hysterical whispers.
"You're EVIL!" she hissed, "Like your whole cursed family, EVIL!"
"Yeah," Dan said in a voice meant to carry, "you'd know about that wouldn't you after all."
More hysterical hissing took place, and I heard Uncle Dan's voice,
"Marge," he said coldly, "I hope you die – horribly, slowly and in great pain – just so you can see how much pain you caused one of the nicest and most harmless blokes on the planet earth." I heard Mum's sharp intake of breath, "you run as far and as fast as you like bitch," my wonderful warm Uncle Dan growled, "I will always be able to find my brother's children." The front door slammed and that was that for my Dad's family for five years.
We never did move again, Tim had passed his "Eleven Plus" exam it was enough problem getting him to the grammar school already. So we grew up with no contact with anyone, I would ring Uncle Dan at his station or his house occasionally. He told me he was getting married, and I sent a gift and a card, bought out of the money he had given me almost two years ago. I'd managed to keep it and the address book secret from Mum and Tim.
While I tried to remember Dad and Nan, Tim didn't have my longer memories and was soon complaining about Dad's family the same as Mum did – I don't know why, he only ever really met them at Dad's funeral.
Despite going to a 'comprehensive' school, I was able to get reasonably A' levels, and in an England where student grants and free University education was still available I qualified as a teacher at a good college in London. Tim got better marks than me of course and qualified for two colleges at Cambridge, but strangely enough didn't go, choosing to study Art at Manchester Polytechnic. I would return to Mum and Tim at Holidays of course, but it always seemed like I was intruding. Now I was studying in London, I was back in contact with Uncle Dan and that side of the family. I knew of course not to let Mum know.
I had a small framed picture of Dan, his wife Trish and their twin boys hidden under my knickers in the top drawer of my dresser. That flat I'd lived in since my freshman year was being sold so I had to move all of my stuff out.
A few days later Tim stormed into the bathroom while I was sat on the loo.
"Elaine!" he said in his affected public school nasal whine, "What the fuck is this?"
"Tim!" I snorted dropping my dress over my bare legs and knickers around my ankles, "I'm on the toilet you perv!"
