first family in Woodlands to have one. It was pretty basic by today’s standards – a metal tub with a lid and a handle on top, which you moved backwards and forwards to create the ‘wash’. But in Woodlands it was the height of sophistication, so much so that all our neighbours and their children crowded round our kitchen just to see it in action. Mum duly obliged, blinding them all with the marvels of modern science.
‘Oh, you’re so lucky, Ellen; I wish my husband would buy me one of them,’ a neighbour cooed.
As she twisted the washing-machine handle back and forth we heard a swishing sound from within the tub and my friends were mesmerised.
‘Oooh, can you hear that?’ one cried. ‘It sounds just like the waves of the sea!’
Mum lifted her head regally and smiled. She knew women in the village envied her with her handsome husband, three children and a brand new washing machine. However, unbeknownst to us, she had a secret – a yearning to return to her old life. Before she’d met Dad she’d worked as a barmaid at a pub on Fleet Street, London. The bar was always a bustling hive of activity, with journalists all hungry for the next big scoop. Mum loved everything about it – the buzz, the excitement and the fast pace of life. So, when she found herself stuck with three kids in the outskirts of a town in South Yorkshire, she wondered what might have been if she’d not married a miner. My parents had met quite by chance. Originally from Stafford, Mum had been in Doncaster visiting her brother when she landed a temporary job as a cashier on the reception of the local swimming baths. My father, Harry Smith, soon caught her eye. A few dates were followed by an engagement and ultimately marriage, but Mum soon felt trapped. Shortly after Ann was born, a group of her friends travelled up to Yorkshire to visit. I remember watching her eyes mist over as they spoke of London and past acquaintances.
‘You’ll have to come back and visit, Ellen. Everyone misses you. They all ask after you.’
‘Really?’ Mum gasped, her eyes lighting up. Little did we know then that she was already in the tunnel clawing her way towards a new life – one without us.
Weeks later, I’d wandered downstairs in my nightgown. My eyes were still blurry from sleep but I’d heard a noise and I’d gone to investigate. As I padded barefoot down the stairs I could hardly believe the sight that greeted me. It was my father. He was bent over double, sat in a chair in the front room, sobbing his heart out. It was a shock because my father was a strong man and I’d never seen him cry before. I knew something dreadful had happened. I automatically ran over to him and wrapped my arms around his neck, but it was no good; there was nothing I could say or do to make it better.
‘She’s gone, Joan,’ he blurted out in between deep sobs. I pulled away from him with a puzzled look on my face.
Who’s gone? What on earth was he talking about?
‘It’s your mother. She’s gone and left me. She’s left us all. She’s packed up her things and gone back to London.’
I shook my head in disbelief. Surely he’d got it wrong? There had to be some kind of mistake. Mum wouldn’t just pack a bag and leave us behind without a word. Ann was still a baby and a mother wouldn’t leave her baby!
‘Maybe she’ll come home?’ I whispered hopefully.
Dad shook his head. ‘No, it’s over, Joan. She’s gone and she’s never coming back.’
That night I blinked back the tears and wondered how Mum could be so heartless to just abandon us. She hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye. But I was the eldest and I knew I could help my father out with the little ones, so that’s what I decided I would do. Dad needed me to be strong, so I would be. I’d take as long as necessary off school so he could keep his job, go to work and bring in a wage to feed and clothe us all. I was 13 years old, going on 14. A few months earlier I’d joined the St John Ambulance Brigade as a young cadet, so I knew a little bit about first aid.
Besides, how hard could cooking actually be? I pondered.
But cooking was a lot harder than I thought and, after cremating several family meals, a kindly neighbour called Lizzie Adams took me under her wing. By then, I’d decided I would take care of everything. Just because our mother had failed us, it didn’t mean I would. Lizzie was a wily woman in her sixties, but to a girl my age she seemed absolutely ancient. However, what she didn’t know about cooking wasn’t worth knowing, and I became her willing pupil. Cooking, cleaning and looking after four people was no mean feat, and soon I’d missed days, weeks, even months, of school. But I was smart, and I knew I’d just have to work twice as hard to catch up. In the meantime, Lizzie and I spent hours in the kitchen where she taught me how to bake bread and boil vegetables so that they didn’t disintegrate as soon as I drained the pan. She also showed me how to cook a tasty roast all the way through, checking the juices ran clear, so that I didn’t poison anyone. Of course, my father was delighted to come home to a piping hot meal and three happy, clean children, but he also felt guilty because he hated the idea of me missing school.
‘We can’t carry on like this, Joan,’ he said, placing his knife and fork down firmly on the table. ‘You need to go back to school so you can learn and do well in life. You can’t stay here looking after us all; I won’t allow it. Not any more.’
Dad was right, of course, but the thing was, after a year of playing housemaid, I quite liked the idea of caring for others. I’d enjoyed making sure the little ones got to school on time with a bellyful of food and clean faces and hands. I’d hated the housework, but the satisfaction I felt when everything was neat, proper and in its place made it all worthwhile. In short, I knew it was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
‘I want to be a nurse,’ I told the St John cadet leader, a lovely woman called Mrs Hargreaves, later that evening. ‘How do I go about it?’
She explained that at 14 years old I was much too young to be anything other than a child but, when the time was right, she’d make enquiries on my behalf.
In the meantime I tried to be the best cadet I could, and thankfully I discovered I had a natural talent for first aid.
With me back at school, Dad employed a husband-and-wife team – Harry and Emily – as live-in housekeepers. But the house was already too small and cramped, so Dad and Tony were forced to share a room. We were told we should call them Auntie Emily and Uncle Harry, even though we weren’t related. Harry was an invalid. He suffered from pneumoconiosis, a restrictive lung disease commonly seen in miners, so the prospect of a regular wage and a roof over their heads appealed to Emily, who made it clear from the beginning that she had ‘designs’ on my father. Our ‘aunt and uncle’ soon made themselves at home, to the point where, as children, we were barely allowed to sit down in case we made the place look untidy. In some ways it was nice to live in a spotlessly clean house and be back at school, but I hated being told off for putting my feet up on the sofa. Emily wasn’t only house-proud, she could also be very cruel. One day, she was cross because I’d moved something and put it back in the wrong place. Dad was out at work so she knew she could speak her mind.
‘Your mother’s run off with another man. She didn’t love you. That’s why I’m here, because someone has to look after you!’ Emily hissed spitefully as she narrowed her eyes.
From that moment on I resented Emily with her tidy ways and vicious tongue. But she wasn’t the only one who said things about my mother – other people gossiped too. In fact, so many rumours circulated around the village that they soon took on a life of their own, until, just by word of mouth, fiction became fact even if there wasn’t an ounce of truth in it. I hated the other children when they said horrible things about her. Despite my own disappointment, I’d always stuck up for Mum and defended her honour. However, Ann had been a baby when Mum had left so she never, ever forgave her.
Seeing an absent mother and with her eyes on my father, Emily decided to step into the role, and she did, with aplomb. Instead of Mum, it’d be Emily at our school plays, dolled up to the nines. Emily was so sweet on Dad that I was convinced she was just waiting in the wings, ready to pounce once her husband had passed away. It was a thoroughly