and on about the weather, her latest boyfriend or some other useless tittle-tattle which made no impact upon John or his mother.
‘Tiptoe boy, do not disturb your mother,’ or ‘no noisy toys, take care,’ were constant reminders that his mother was an invalid. Nobody ever explained to him what her illness was but he guessed that it must have been something serious. There were no motherly chats, walks in the park or birthday parties. He craved attention from this weak and listless woman but it was not forthcoming.
He would creep into her bedroom when he knew that nobody would be watching and became expert at tiptoeing around the room to look at the objects that his mother called her treasures. He was intrigued when he saw the faded old brown photographs depicting grandparents he had never seen and who were dressed in stuffy Victorian clothes. There was one of his mother as a small child nursing her favourite doll and one of himself when he was a baby of only few months. There were a number of elegant china ornaments, figurines and delicate hand-painted vases his mother had collected over the years which were carefully arranged in a small china cabinet. When he thought she was asleep he would open the cabinet doors and run his small, sometimes dirty, fingers over them. He would perhaps collect some himself one day. He liked them and tried to remember some of the names stamped underneath the ornaments although they were not all easy to read. Sometimes he would carefully remove one of the books about antiques and china she kept on a bookshelf by her bed and turn some of the pages so that he could admire the objects portrayed in them.
‘Mum,’ he sometimes whispered in his small childish voice in the hope of getting some response, even if it was only a pat on his head, a gesture of recognition, but he rarely did.
‘Don’t worry me, darling,’ or ‘Run along now, me dear, it is past your bedtime,’ or ‘Go and play now, Nanny will be looking for you,’ she would say in her soft Irish lilt, and that was all would remember about her voice.
Jack Lacey knew nothing about his Irish wife’s family and was not interested. His wife had been a disappointment to him. He had wanted someone who would entertain his business associates and provide him with several children to take over his business when he retired. In his view she had let him down. He was left with one quiet academic child who did not, in his opinion and to his regret, exhibit the promising entrepreneurial traits for which he had hoped.
Too often the oppressive smell of the sick room pervaded the young John’s nostrils and he had been glad to escape to where the air was fresh. Rough pine stairs led up to a nursery tucked away in the attic, a room devoid of comfortable carpets, where a small camp bed was tucked into one corner in readiness for his afternoon nap and a desk and stool in another in preparation for his studies. It was sparse but his father deemed it good enough. There was one compensation: a small wooden dappled grey rocking horse named Parker that he adored. The horse had soft painted black eyes that were friendly and welcoming and John spent many happy hours rocking himself on the horse. The rocking was soothing and the current nanny, more often than not, was grateful to discover that he was occupied. He could rock himself ‘silly’ as far as the nannies were concerned so long as he did not get under their feet.
Circumstances ensured that John developed into a quiet introverted child and although he was cared for by a variety of nannies over the years, some young, some old, not one of them was able to provide him with motherly love. He found it impossible to achieve a close and emotional relationship with any of them; his father’s choice of carers for his son was abysmal.
‘Behave yourself boy, look sharp,’ was the ultimate nanny’s favourite phrase. He did look sharp or had a quick slap with a large bony hand across his legs. Bedtime
‘Tiptoe boy, do not disturb your mother,’ or ‘no noisy toys, take care,’ were constant reminders that his mother was an invalid. Nobody ever explained to him what her illness was but he guessed that it must have been something serious. There were no motherly chats, walks in the park or birthday parties. He craved attention from this weak and listless woman but it was not forthcoming.
He would creep into her bedroom when he knew that nobody would be watching and became expert at tiptoeing around the room to look at the objects that his mother called her treasures. He was intrigued when he saw the faded old brown photographs depicting grandparents he had never seen and who were dressed in stuffy Victorian clothes. There was one of his mother as a small child nursing her favourite doll and one of himself when he was a baby of only few months. There were a number of elegant china ornaments, figurines and delicate hand-painted vases his mother had collected over the years which were carefully arranged in a small china cabinet. When he thought she was asleep he would open the cabinet doors and run his small, sometimes dirty, fingers over them. He would perhaps collect some himself one day. He liked them and tried to remember some of the names stamped underneath the ornaments although they were not all easy to read. Sometimes he would carefully remove one of the books about antiques and china she kept on a bookshelf by her bed and turn some of the pages so that he could admire the objects portrayed in them.
‘Mum,’ he sometimes whispered in his small childish voice in the hope of getting some response, even if it was only a pat on his head, a gesture of recognition, but he rarely did.
‘Don’t worry me, darling,’ or ‘Run along now, me dear, it is past your bedtime,’ or ‘Go and play now, Nanny will be looking for you,’ she would say in her soft Irish lilt, and that was all would remember about her voice.
Jack Lacey knew nothing about his Irish wife’s family and was not interested. His wife had been a disappointment to him. He had wanted someone who would entertain his business associates and provide him with several children to take over his business when he retired. In his view she had let him down. He was left with one quiet academic child who did not, in his opinion and to his regret, exhibit the promising entrepreneurial traits for which he had hoped.
Too often the oppressive smell of the sick room pervaded the young John’s nostrils and he had been glad to escape to where the air was fresh. Rough pine stairs led up to a nursery tucked away in the attic, a room devoid of comfortable carpets, where a small camp bed was tucked into one corner in readiness for his afternoon nap and a desk and stool in another in preparation for his studies. It was sparse but his father deemed it good enough. There was one compensation: a small wooden dappled grey rocking horse named Parker that he adored. The horse had soft painted black eyes that were friendly and welcoming and John spent many happy hours rocking himself on the horse. The rocking was soothing and the current nanny, more often than not, was grateful to discover that he was occupied. He could rock himself ‘silly’ as far as the nannies were concerned so long as he did not get under their feet.
Circumstances ensured that John developed into a quiet introverted child and although he was cared for by a variety of nannies over the years, some young, some old, not one of them was able to provide him with motherly love. He found it impossible to achieve a close and emotional relationship with any of them; his father’s choice of carers for his son was abysmal.
‘Behave yourself boy, look sharp,’ was the ultimate nanny’s favourite phrase. He did look sharp or had a quick slap with a large bony hand across his legs. Bedtime
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