Sunday Sufferance

So during my first bedsit years I was asked over on a Sunday for a roast dinner. It was so they could say they had a least seen me and so knew I was still alive or had only been dead by a week at the most ! No mobile phones back then. She also got to fill me in on how things were for her and give me a sweeping appraisal to see if I was wearing something new, looking well groomed with my face made up, though it never seemed to cheer her if I was. I was also asked to pay for and bring the joint of meat with me as they had squandered all the money Mother had inherited so far, and Fathers redundancy payout too, on endless Bingo trips and were now rather short as my Mother used to phrase it. Father now struggled to find and keep work as he was older and puffing and blowing from a lifetime of heavy smoking and what he did earn was less than he was used to. So they graciously provided the veg and I was encouraged to fork out for a nice big joint of meat out of my wage which also had to cover my rent, electric, bus-fare to work, food, clothes, the cost of laundry and anything else I needed.

I also did a few chores when I was over their house while the meat was roasting and as a treat I was allowed to have a bath while I was there, so I didn`t have to have one in that place as my Mother called it. The place where I had tried to make myself a little home because apparently I made hers unhappy, save for Sundays when I arrived with a food parcel. I`m sure I could of bought tinned food to last me several days with the money I spent on the meat, meat which they easily managed to get another meal or two out of for themselves. I should of said no, I should of stayed in my bedsit and relaxed all day after a hectic Saturday on my feet at work in a busy shop. But such was their control over me I seemed to have little independent thinking and though deep down I knew they were taking advantage I also knew they were pretty much all I had in the way of family that I ever saw, other than my dearly loved though aged Nan, and to be completely alone at 18 years of age and always one payslip away from being homeless is a scary situation, I simply did not have the courage to cut all ties. Late afternoon, when she was settling down for her nap in front of the fire, my Father was allowed to drive me into town. Only into town. "You won`t be too long will ya Geoff" Mother would bark, which was code for `don`t drive her all the way home, just to town, she can get the bus from there`.

After all the cost of their petrol must be considered and the risk of me actually spending some time with my Father which was as carefully rationed and controlled by my Mother as always. Oddly enough I was picked up by him in the morning as they wanted the meat asap to get it in the oven, me getting home though was not as important and waiting in the dark, lonely town centre wasn`t considered a problem...after all..."it was er who wanted to leave eh Geoff ?" In the summer it wasn`t so bad waiting for the bus if it was pleasantly warm even if they only ran once an hour but the dark cold winter evenings were another matter.

 Bus drivers varied a lot. Some pulled straight up to the stop and allowed you on to sit in the warm with the engine running and the heaters blowing, even if they were not leaving for 30 or 40 minutes. But some would park up away from the stop and no matter how early they were they would not pull up and allow you on until just before they were due to depart. I remember being dropped off by my Father one bitterly cold evening. As he pulled away in his warm car it began to rain. The bus was there but not up to the stop and the driver sat in his cab reading his newspaper and drinking tea from a flask, I could see him clearly as he could me.

The rain turned to sleet and the wind was icy cold. There was no shelter and my umbrella didn`t do much with the wind blowing this way and that. My feet were like ice and ached painfully from standing still. I was there for 45 mins and my fingers were nearly blue as I had forgotten my gloves. I have just searched the journey from the town centre to my bedsit on google maps, it takes 8 mins by car. 8 mins extra my Father was unable to spare me to drop my outside my door. When I got back to my room it too was bitterly cold from having no heat all day and my breath streamed out in the air. I eyed the electric meter and then my handful of change to gauge how long I could have one bar of the fire on. I feel so frustrated with the girl I was then, especially as a Mom myself now and being able to recognise how little they offered me and how very much they took in return. I really should of refused their calculated invitation and spent my money on crusty bread and soup, hot chocolate and biscuits and spent Sunday cuddled up with hot water bottles, reading and watching TV with my fur coat around my shoulders for good measure ! But I was always driven to do what was expected of me, ever in search of being needed and a place to belong, however fleeting.

It`s A Lemon

One of the things my Mother loved most was to be invited over to my house for a roast dinner, or a teatime buffet perhaps. I catered to her every whim, all her dietary needs, her likes and dislikes. I made sure everything was just so and would get quite anxious inside over doing just that.

One day, with her perfectly prepared lunch on a tray on her knees, because she wanted to watch TV, the second I sat down with mine she sweetly said, in her little girl voice "Was there any salt?" as she couldn`t enjoy her salad without it. "But I put it right next to your tray for you to use"  I said, exasperated I had to get up again. "I didn`t see it" she smirks, happy she had irritated me. It was a classic move, she hated people to be able to anticipate her game playing tactics and no matter how carefully I aimed, the goalposts were always moved at the last moment. During one visit when the house was particularly busy with comings and goings she commented it was worth coming, if only for the food. That says it all really. Ironic when I consider how food provided by them for me was so monitored and controlled by her, not least by her mood swings. By contrast the times that me and my Husband, were ever invited to hers for any type of meal, well they could be counted on one hand.

There was a Sunday lunch invite one time when I think she was trying to compete with her neighbour Ruby. My parents had a hushed but savage row which we over heard whilst sat in the garden. It seemed the Pork joint was still bloody and pink inside when Father came to carve it. I diplomatically suggested it go in the microwave as both us and the veg had been waiting for a while by now. It had an interesting texture when it finally made it to the plate. If we did ever eat at their house it was usually a chip shop tea and even buttering some bread, warming plates and providing condiments turned into a bit of a bun-fight. And so one day they rang out of the blue and asked us rather grandly over for tea. We had been not long been married and I was picking up on my Mother playing close attention to how well things were going for me. She observed my neat little home and coveted all the things I bought for it.

She kept tally of meals out and weekends away she heard of and in particular they were frosty when we bought a fairly new car, afforded by working long hours and a new, better paid job I had managed to get. And so we were invited to Tea, be there at 5 was the instruction. It all seemed quite odd and we anticipated some sort of announcement though what it could be we couldn`t imagine. When we arrived they both behaved oddly, there was a smugness about them and the atmosphere felt very strange. Small talk was made and then Mother said she would put Tea out, help was refused and she pointedly said "OK then Geoff" as she left the room. "We`ve got something to tell you" my Father said, looking very self satisfied. "We`ve bought a car" he announced. OK we said, puzzled as to why we were being informed in this bizarre way. "It`s in the garage", he waits for our reaction. We glance at each other and resist the temptation to laugh and say oh thats nice instead. We are told we can see it after Tea and then we go into the kitchen and sit at the table. It was quite surreal, not in the least easy or normal and it got even more weird when the plates were put in front of us.

There were a couple of slices of ham, a tomato and lettuce, a slice of bread and butter and a bottle of salad cream on the table. it could not have been more meagre. Cottoning on that this was a thinly veiled attempt to some how take us down a peg or two husband played along saying what a lovely tea, nice ham, where were the tomatoes from...? Really ? I glanced around the table and felt like I had fallen down a rabbit hole. After a small slice of cake Father was instructed to Get it out the garage and show them. We made suitable noises and I was pleased for them but was also trying to work out why we had to be told in such a contrived way and severed a paltry Tea in the bargain. Arriving back home we did a postmortem, in between laughing whenever we made eye contact and a few "What the actual ****.....? moments. We work out that Mother must of slowly been wound up to breaking point as she watched me apparently thrive and worse still seem to be living a grander life than she was. So a plan was hatched to keep up with us, rooted in petty jealousy and resentment, hence the spitefully frugal smoke screen Tea invitation. Honestly, you couldn`t make it up. All this took place a few months after they sold their last car which was beyond repair and they both had come to realise that driving was too demanding a task for my ailing Father now.

But then Husband reveals he has his concerns about the car. It has 3 keys....Why 3 I ask. Its what they call a lemon I think Husband informs me and goes on to explain Father showed him one key for the ignition, one for the doors and another for the boot. He tells me he is worried it is an insurance right off and quite possibly 2 cars welded together and resold. He says he cannot believe Father, a car mechanic all his life, had not cottoned on. Alarm bells were ringing and we were quite worried but when he had commented on the keys Father shut him down. We saw and heard little from them for a few months while Mother was ferried around town by her reinstated chauffeur. That was until we get a fraught call from Father who said the Police had been in touch about a paperwork issue and had, on inspection, impounded the car as it was indeed a Lemon. They lost their money and their car and naturally Father shouldered most of the blame from Mother as well as feeling like a fool he had not realised. So it all blew up spectacularly in their faces. And despite it all I felt so sorry for him.

Aunt Iris

I wrote extensively about my Aunt Iris in the post The Nanny. I covered how she was part of my early life and how I put her up on a pedestal, she had so many qualities I admired and was so many things I hoped to be. And yet because of her lecherous husband, nothing less than a dirty old man with an eye for underage girls, I was unable to stay in close contact with her and so lost someone who was so valued by me, I recognised this at the time in my very early teens and through the following years. The incident of abuse was the catalyst that drove us apart and then my being forced from my home at the tender age of just 18, when all of my focus was on simply getting by, alone and of course I am certain my Mother had a hand in keeping the estrangement going in later years. She was always quite jealous of the bond between my Aunt and myself.

She would of spun a tale or two and would not want my Aunt and I to compare notes and find her version and reality to be greatly different. But just like Uncle Jack I mourned her absence from my life. It was never at the forefront of my mind until I had my own family. My Husband came from a large family, not emotionally close or supportive, other than his Parents, but in contact at least, whereas I just had my two toxic Parents. I was so thrilled to be a Mom and so longed to share my children with some part of my own family. After that day when I called my Father, begging to be picked up to go home, I did not see my Aunt for about 4 years, until I was 16. Even the fact I told my Mother about what happened is not prevalent in my memory of those years. It was swept under the carpet and never mentioned. I can remember being very nervous about visiting again and yet longing to see my Aunt. Thankfully he, Uncle X, had made himself scarce. I had grown and changed a lot since my Aunt had seen me last, I had started work and looked far more grown up. She was never affectionate in a hugs and kisses way but I clearly remember her suddenly reaching out and touching my face, exclaiming how different I looked and her expression was full of affection for me, I could tell she had missed me though she did not say the words. And that was the last time I saw her I`m pretty sure.

I cannot remember a time after that. I do remember me being reluctant to get my hair styled when I was about 15, Mother ridiculed the way it looked and hung over my face and spitefully told me that on discussing it, Aunt Iris had told her that I liked to hide behind it. She informed me of that with pure delight and savoured my obvious embarrassment and hurt over her choice of words. As an adult I would ask them both who they imagined I was hiding from....wouldn`t that of been interesting to hear their replies ! Then came the years where I grew and carved a life for myself, my Fathers health and employment capabilities both declined and my Mother grew to a new level of evil in her resentment of me as she absorbed that her high life days were behind her now and mine were just beginning. She slyly demanded I leave my home as I made the house unhappy and when that demand was secretly enforced and I had no choice but to do just that, she then orchestrated a false united front with my Enabling spineless Father that they were shocked to the core and distraught about my departure. What lies she spun Aunt Iris about all this I dread to imagine.

In a feeble attempt to connect with her I sent an odd Christmas card though never received one back, unless they went to my Parents house in which case its entirely probable that my toxic Mother threw them away rather than pass them to me. And as I write it also occurs to me she may well have told my Aunt she had given them to me, in fact who knows if my Aunt had written a line or two for me in them. She must of slandered me to my Aunt though because I remember one time in my 20`s I called in and she was buzzing with manic energy and all smiles as she rode a high.The phone rang and it was my Aunt Iris. Mother giddily announced that I was there and did she want to say Hello to me ? As I was standing nearby I clearly over heard my Aunt snap loudly "NO, I do NOT!", Mother, in the voice of a scolded, sulky child replied "Ohhh...well alright then". The call then came abruptly to an end with Mother struggling to make eye contact with me and her mood nose diving fast. She often forgot the nasty things she said of people when she was later in a more upbeat mood and was then taken aback when she found someone still with the mindset she had previously manipulated them into. In my 30`s when I had my 5th miscarriage I remember my Mother giving me a card from Aunt Iris. Why it had to reach me through her rather than Mother just giving her my address I could say I don`t know but naturally I do, it would be a sly way of triangulating and controlling our interaction.The card simply said `Thinking Of You` and was signed Aunt iris X. And it meant a lot to me, though it was a little tainted when I proudly showed my sister-in-law to which she replied sneeringly "Er`s put a lot in it ain`t er?!" I still told Mother to thank her very much for it. I later asked if she had passed on my thanks and she gave the familiar fast nod of the head with a very quiet Yes. Just as she did when I asked about giving the photo to Uncle Jack and if she`d told my Father of the abuse. Oh how I wish I had taken matters into my own hands and responded directly to my Aunt.

But I was grieving, striving to carry a child, hold on to my errant, alcoholic, emotionally unavailable Husband, hold down a demanding job despite losing time after each miscarriage, helping to pay a mortgage and still continue to deal with my Narcissistic Mother and Enabling treacherous Father all whilst being oblivious to and uneducated in the ways of the utterly toxic people closest to me and still striving to meet their expectations of me, as a Daughter, Wife and a `unable to carry` Mom.... It`s so very easy to see what we should of done with hindsight isn`t it ?
And so the chance to reconnect with my Aunt slipped away from me, as did my pregnancies, happiness and any self respect I had. And next I had my baby boy who died, nothing from my Aunt reached me during that time, who knows if something was intercepted by my Mother, given her rage at his funeral.....
My Mother was born in 1927 and so would be 93 and Aunt Iris was at least 5 or so years older so I imagine that she too is passed. I wonder if we could of navigated contact without ever broaching the subject of what her Husband did and if we might have been able to rekindle the closeness of the early years. She never had children of her own. In fact I had even wondered if she was my Mother given the inconsistencies and uncertainties regarding my birth. Though deep down I don`t think so. For a long time I thought I lost her because of her Husband and because of my Mother, both are true. Yet I suppose I also lost her because she could not face that she married a man who could do that. I had wondered if she believed me but she had witnessed him telling me I had come to bed eyes when I was only 12. It was never discussed that she had even been told of what happened but I`m certain she would of been, if only as a tool by Mother to get the upper hand in some disagreement. Perhaps she feared her standing in the community would be tarnished, she was well known and respected in the village where she lived. Perhaps my Mother would of falsely had her believe, that she thought I was out to rack it all up again when I got upset about her trying to elicit sympathy from me for Uncle X`s poor health, and so maybe she felt I was best kept at arms length. I imagine she would of been quite wealthy when she passed away. So lets be crass for a moment and ponder money. I, unlike my Mother did, do not have a longing for money, I simply am glad for well stocked cupboards and my bills being paid. But it has crossed my mind that my children may have also suffered from my Mothers meddling ways.

My Aunt was the main beneficiary when her two bachelor brothers passed and so would, I think, have left a healthy estate. I suppose it went to my cousins in Australia and to the woman she was Nanny to as a child, I heard they maintained a close bond over the years, and she was naturally from a monied family herself. So had she seen fit to bequeath me a little something it in turn would of been passed onto my children, for I would have had no wish to squander it as my Mother would have. But thanks to my Mother and a series of unfortunate events it seems I was not considered. It does not bother me in the least, my only regret is I lost my Aunt, because of wickedness and family secrets. I have to smile and shake my head when I remember how my Mother forever had her hand out for a handout even when it was not even needed and yet she managed to rob me and my children of so very much more than money in so many ways. As the saying goes, having a Narcissistic Mother is the gift that keeps on giving ! 
 I will be forever fond of my Aunt, remembering her thick dark hair, deep red lipstick, perfect diction and her easy air of confidence and kindness. I think we were both alike in settling for less in a Husband than we deserved, perhaps both tainted by our childhoods and never seeing our true self worth. One day when we meet again in a better place I would like to sit beside the river on a Summers day once again and eat ice cream and chatter about anything and everything..... just like we used to do.

With my Love X

Our Jack`y

My Mother was the 6th of 7 children. The youngest of the brood went by the nick name Jack`y. I will call him Uncle Jack for the sake of privacy, though that was not his birth name. My Mother was very fond of him, he was one of the few people that I never heard her say a bad word about, any issues she had with their relationship were blamed on his wife, who I always quite liked. As previously covered their childhood was a hard one, she and Jack`y were the two youngest and close in age and I think they found comfort in each others company. Uncle Jack was courting his wife-to-be around the time my Mother was courting my Father and I believe they both married around the same time too.

He doted on his wife who I will call Aunt Jill. My Mother did not like her but managed to hide it well, probably as she did not want to alienate her brother. She would spin the tale that she, her brother and their respective spouses were all good pals and enjoyed regular drives out to the country for drinks, that was at least until my Mother became pregnant with me. It seemed that Jack and Jill had no plans for any children and things cooled considerably after my parents announcement that I was on the way. My Mother would say how she was sure Jack`y would of loved children and how he would love to make a fuss over me until Jill arrived and then he would keep his distance. Bearing in mind my Mothers Narcissism, that all sounds like projection on her part, mirroring how she subtly bade my Father to both keep his distance and limit his affection for me. I could never quite work out what was at the root of their odd relationship over the years. For as long as I could remember, a few days before Christmas, Uncle Jack would call round, always on his own. He would stay for exactly one hour and in that time they would fill each in other in on the years events. My Mother doing most of the talking with detailed updates on all her ailments and also asking an odd probing question to find out any family gossip which were met with gentle but brief replies from her Brother. With both him and his wife working and without the expense of raising children they were very comfortable financially as my Mother would put it.

He would bring a couple of bottles of spirits for my Parents and a nice gift for me, I remember they bought me my first real perfume, a bottle of Miss Dior which I absolutely treasured. And my Mother would usually later beam and whisper that he had given her some money. She loved money and was in the habit of often dropping hints to her brothers about being a bit short. The money was mostly squandered on unneeded and soon forgotten clothes or Bingo trips. Until I was in my teens we were also invited over for New Year. They had a lovely house in a good area and there was a generous buffet laid on and a fair amount of alcohol drunk though that did not stop my Father from driving us home in the early hours. I liked to go. Aunt Jill was good fun and had an infectious laugh which my Mother always sneeringly referred to as `er saft squealing`. Other peoples laughter always seemed to grate on her. There was a warmth about them both, though my Uncles was understated, I suppose he was a classic introvert. He was a smallish man and had a shock of dark hair, a thick moustache and dark twinkly eyes. I remember he seemed besotted with Jill. They had many interests and hobbies but it was clearly a case of `if Jill was happy then Jack as happy`. He was devoted to her and attended to her every need. There was a lot of love there and she in turn was totally at ease with the roll of being adored. It appeared to be the perfect partnership. I was drawn to the kindness and care my Uncle exuded and always had the urge to run into his arms in the hope there may be a little love left over for me too and that he would scoop me up and spin me around, though I never did.

But the annual New year invitation stopped for some reason which was never really clear. The unspoken rule was that contact between our Jack`y and his sister was always on a strict `once or twice over the festive period only` arrangement. On an odd occasion when she was in a depressive state or histrionic and in need of attention she tried to ring Uncle Jack but was disappointed in his lack of response to her attention seeking. She never was able to get him to be at her beck and call. I think he knew her well enough to realise if he ever began reacting to her hysteria he would never be free of her. She then always laid the blame for his lack of response firmly on Jill, saying that he wasn`t allowed to be close to anyone but her. More projection I think. As an adult I saw neither Uncle or Aunt and was just informed each Christmas that Jack`y had called in and given her a bit of money. Other than one time, when driven by my remembered affection for my Uncle I knocked on their door with a Christmas card and a boyfriend in tow. The front door was barely opened, the card accepted but it was clear we were not going to be asked in, in spite of him being just as pleasant with me as he always had been. I think by then my Mother had been bad mouthing me for some time. Which leads me on to my Mothers sly way of slandering me, not being honest about how I readily stepped up to the role of dutiful daughter and I believe she managed to isolate me from the little family I had. Family which I always longed for a relationship with, needing some normality and connection.

Forever hopeful of being good enough I catered to my Parents on high days and holidays for years. Especially after my Fathers death my Mother always came to me on any holiday and was treated like a queen just as she demanded to be. And so a few years before she died she told me our Jack`y had been as usual before Christmas and relayed this conversation. Mother: I was showing him the photos of the Grand children and I told him what a lovely Christmas dinner you cook. And he asked `Oh do you go round to Amanda`s for Christmas then ? {She relays the question in the very surprised tone he used} Of course I do she replies, ya don`t think I stop ere all by meself do ya ? She then glances quickly at me and changes the subject. I pondered this later. And slowly began to deduce that Uncle Jack had obviously been kept in the dark about how involved and supportive I was in my Mothers life, to the point where he was shocked that I would even bother to invite my Mother over on Christmas day being of the impression I would be quite OK with her spending it alone in her bungalow. Briefly she reacted and replied as if that very suggestion, that she was so undervalued and overlooked that she would be forgotten about, had offended her narcissistic self, hence her quite affronted response. She realised she revealed to me his understanding of our relationship and the treatment of her by me....that is of course the false impression of it she had fostered and spun him, not the truth of how she had me dancing to her every whim. It was classic gaslighting by my Mother.

Painting a very different tale from the truth, giving everyone a poor opinion of me and occasionally slipping up, allowing me to work out what she was up to. Though it was no real surprise. I also left a small photo of my daughter with her to give my Uncle when he called. It was a gorgeous photo, she was about 2 and had the most beautiful smile {she still does !} I harboured a hope that it may trigger a little interest from him. When asking if she had passed it to him she replied simply `Yes`, What did he say I asked ? Well... she said, he took it but said they weren't much for photos in his house. I have remembered his reply often. I am still torn between it being his way of keeping his distance from her and therefore me or that she didn`t give it him and wanted to pass over the topic. I would rather believe the first but truly I doubt she did actually pass it to him. Both are sad possibilities really, both examples of fractured relationships I was ever in hope of repairing. And so upon her death I had the first direct contact with Uncle Jack `our Jack`y` for years. I sat on my Fathers old chair beside the phone in her living room, gazing around at the scattered remnants of her life frozen in time from months ago when she had last been home.

I went through her phone book, I found no number for my Aunt Iris, her sister, but Uncle Jacks was there. I gathered myself knowing it was difficult news to hear over the phone and from a Niece he had not spoken to for many years. On hearing his voice as he answered the call I was taken right back to when I was a little girl and liked him so much. I spoke as kindly and softly as I could and broke the news, he was surprised but not shocked, commenting that with her health it`s amazing she had lived to 79 really {an opinion formed from her endless moaning rather the truth of the full life she always managed to lead}. I told him I had no number for Aunt Iris and he assured me he would let her know. Wondering to myself if she would be able to come to the funeral I then asked if Uncle X, my abuser, was still alive, Uncle Jack faltered and mumbled `As far as he knew`, which in it`s self was an odd response.

I must insert here that a year after my Mother`s death, a friend of mine who had access to public records through her job, did a little research for me during a time when we were both discussing our histories of abuse and she surprising informed me that Uncle X had been dead for a while at the time I asked my Uncle. As he was in touch with Aunt Iris I am certain he would of known of the death and yet answered me with `As far as he knew`...

 I told him I would make all the arrangements and call in a few days and let him know the funeral details. When I hung up I was relieved it had been so easy to speak with him and I harboured a faint hope that we may now grow a little closer....perhaps it would be me who he would call on once a year, I would of been quite delighted with that and would not of expected nor accepted a bit a money either ! And then an odd thing happened. As I was able to make an appointment to arrange her funeral the very next day, as soon as I was home I decided to call there and then and give Uncle Jack the details, I suppose I was eager to continue the re-connection. There was no answer so I waited an hour or so and called again, still no reply.

Perhaps they were out for the day I thought. I called again at around tea time and again early evening, still no reply. I double checked I had the right number which I did. And finally when I tried one last time around 8ish in the evening I got a continuous tone, as if the number was disconnected or....the phone had been unplugged. I was bewildered by it given the ease with which we had spoken just yesterday. And, newly bereaved, anxious and a worrier by nature, I was so concerned I could not reach him that I sat down and wrote a letter, explaining I had been unable to get through on the phone and gave him all the funeral details he needed. I rewrote it as I did not think my handwriting was very neat ....forever striving to be good enough, even for someone who chose not to answer the phone. I went straight out and posted it there and then. The next day, still with my head whirling with everything that was going on, I made one last attempt to call him. He answered almost immediately. I explained my being unable to reach him by phone and then apologised for writing a letter as I assumed the phone was out of order, which I was afraid I had already posted, he offered no reason as to why they hadn`t taken my call and though polite we were brief as he seemed not to want to make any unnecessary conversation. After hanging up I ruminated if I had done anything wrong, handled things clumsily or even made a nuisance of myself. But honestly, I knew I could not have been more gracious to him, you see I was earnestly trying to let him see I was a decent person and undo any poison my Mother had spread about me.

And so the funeral came around. I did not even have a chance to speak to him and Aunt Jill until we made our way outside to view the flowers. Aunt Jill was warm and friendly and complimented me on the eulogy to my Mother that had been read. Uncle Jack though stayed a good few yards away from us and though as I chatted I glanced back and forth between them, hoping to engage him, he would not look my way. I commented on the beautiful flowers they had sent. And they really were beautiful, a huge double ended spread of all red roses, the type you would see at a Hollywood stars funeral. They seemed to make a statement. As if he wanted her to have the very best....acknowledging in some way all that they had to go without in their childhood, a childhood endured together. There were just 6 of us at the funeral, me and my Husband, my cousin, Uncle Jack and Aunt Jill and a neighbour of my Mothers. Her two closest neighbours, who she had behaved badly with for years, did not turn up. And because it was such a small group I had not arranged a wake of any sort which I explained to them. Uncle Jack quickly said they were off to the vets with their cat now anyway and with that they left. He barely said goodbye to me and I was choked as I saw him walking quickly off....`take care` I called after him, still struggling to make some connection. He neither answered or looked back. I have thought of him often over the years. How I would of loved to maintain contact with him, no matter how limited. I so wanted him to know my two children, I so wanted them to know someone from my family but I never plucked up the courage to reach out to him again. I had to accept that in every way he had made it clear it was not something he wanted. And it hurt me. It still does. For a few years, each Christmas I would wish he would come to visit, even if only for the hour he spared my Mother, an hour would of been better than nothing.

I would pause at the window sometimes, imagining him pulling up and the children running to greet him, showing him drawings and toys and we would have a cup of tea and laugh and chat and in those moments I would have family. Of course it was just make believe. He never called and and I never dared to either, another rejection would of been too hard to bear. I just had to accept that as always I had not been good enough. I imagine that he has passed away now, if so I was never told.
Why it was this way...well there are several possibilities I have toyed with in my mind over the years.
Was he just a true introvert that had no need for anyone in his life other than his adored wife?
Was Aunt Jill possessive over him as my Mother always said....but she always seemed so warm and friendly even if she understandably never fostered a friendship with my Mother.
Had my Mother been truly successful in painting me in a horrific light and I was considered toxic and someone to be avoided at all costs ? Without a doubt she would of torn me to shreds whenever I was not dancing to her tune and fallen out of favour but then would her own brother not know her well enough to realise there was far more to it than the edited version of her story ? Given she had let slip that she always spent Christmas with me ?
OR, had she shared my truthful accusation of Uncle X`s abuse and flipped my ordeal to use against me and make out I was a trouble maker and wanting to dredge up the past and get revenge ? And he therefore was determined not to be dragged into it.
Or perhaps my Uncle`s childhood had damaged him so that he was unable to be close to people, perhaps he worried I would enquire about their early life, ask questions that would trigger terrible memories and he wanted the past to never be bought up ?
Who knows the real truth, it may even be a mixture of all of the above to varying degrees. Whatever the reason I still acknowledge a sense of loss over his absence in my life and as usual a feeling of rejection and unworthiness too.