Two Fathers

When I was a small child my father thought it would be a good thing to give me a moral education, so every Sunday morning he sent me off to Sunday School at the local village Church of England school, which was different to the State School I attended. There were a lot of Catholics in our area. They were almost always of Irish background taking advantage of the plentiful new rented housing on offer through the New Town system intended to answer the housing shortage after the Second World War, as did everyone else. If you had a job in the area you were offered a life time tenancy of a decent home. Things were very egalitarian then. Some of the Catholic families were naturally bigger so they were allocated the three story six bedroomed houses. Our house was just two stories with three bedrooms. Because it was a new town with young families there were a lot of children living on the estate. The catholic children went to a different school to us but outside school we played together in a friendly and harmonious way. The different schools were never questioned, it wasn't important.

At Sunday school we were taught about Jesus, God, the Bible and to be kind to people, not to steal, or tell lies; all good stuff. We were little children and learnt by mindless repetition; a cynic might say it was indoctrination but it was just what people did and thought then. We had to march round the room singing children's religious songs and at the end of the march we had to put small change into a collection box which we were told was going to poorer children overseas. My dad always gave me a three penny bit for this. I once won the prize of a book about Christmas because of good attendance.

We were told to pray every night by our beds with our hands together to our Heavenly Father in heaven. So I did just that; I wanted to be a good child for my parents and for Sunday School. OK. So I had a Father in heaven. They told me this, so it must be right. But hang on – I also had a physical father here in my home, my Dad. So logically I must have two Fathers, one in heaven and one on Earth. That made sense. After a few years of Sunday School, I was praying before going to bed, and my Dad came in to say goodnight. So I told him Dad, I have two Fathers, my Father in Heaven and you my Father on Earth. He looked at me in a strange and puzzled way; oh OK, he said, yes, yes and he left the room. After a few weeks I didn't go to Sunday School any more and we did other things as a family. I heard him later talking to our catholic neighbour that he had stopped me going to Sunday School; it was good to send your child to learn right from wrong, but I was becoming too religious and that that was a bad thing.

Wiping Away The Memories

When I was small we didn't have big rolls of soft strong toilet paper in delicate pastel shades. No. We had it tough. We had to use things like Izal medicated paper, which came in little separate sheets of hard wax like parchment which came folded and intertwined from a little box. This paper was dry, shiny and very uncomfortable to use; it never wiped properly and it never absorbed any thing at all. I wonder why we used it, it never did the job. And why “medicated”. What was it medicated with? Tranquillisers? Sedatives? Laxatives?

My parents had a holder screwed to the toilet wall in which they inserted a box of Izal toilet paper and I was taught to dutifully to take a sheet out each time I entered the little room and sit on the toilet, clutching the sheet in my hand while I strutted my stuff, and then use it to clean myself. I was around two years old and considered this good fun, I was acting like adults do.

One day I entered the hallowed room and when going to take my sheet noticed that the box was empty. I shouted to my dad:

“Dad, the toilet paper box is empty, can I have some more?”. He shouted up the stairs:

“OK Sarah, I'll bring some up”, and he threw me in a box from the stairs and disappeared.

So now I had one full box and one empty holder; I had to transfer the sheets from the full box to the holder. How was I supposed to do this? Was It difficult? It was a big puzzle. I applied myself to the task. I took out the first sheet from the full box and stuffed it into the empty holder. It fitted in. So far, so good. I took out the second sheet and stuffed it in after the first sheet. Great, this worked. So I carried on with the process and got about half the sheets into the wall holder. This had now reached full volume and there was no room to put the rest in from the box. So how do they do it? How do Mum and Dad get a whole box of paper every time into the holder. I had no idea so I called down:

“Dad, can you show me how to put the rest of the paper in, it won't fit!”

He ran up the stairs and saw me sitting on the floor looking puzzled surrounded with sheets of Izal, and some hanging out of the holder. He looked puzzled too and then burst out laughing.

“No, I will show you how to do it”, he said as he lifted the sort-of empty box out of the holder with sheets flying everywhere; and then he swiftly and competently slotted the half empty box into the now empty cavity. Oh, so that's how you do it. It was so simple, why couldn't I have done it.

“Oh!” I said quietly in return. This story was told around the family Sunday Tea table for many months after, and everyone had a good laugh.

What makes a good book?

I really enjoyed it when my Dad drove me to the town centre library every few weeks. I clutched my old books in my arms and meekly queued up to have them returned to the librarian. I wanted to be a good citizen; I was always conscientious in getting them back before the expiry date. She used to go to the big drawer behind her, take out my lender's file, take out the book ticket and replace it in the pouch at the front of the book and chuck the book into a mobile book holder behind her. I was allowed to borrow four books but I always took three as I didn't want to be greedy.

Then I used to walk round the children's library shelves with my dad, excited at the choice of books. Which book Dad? What shall I choose today? I wanted to please and astound him by choosing intelligent books to show that I was growing up into the intelligent person he wanted me to be. I wanted him to love me. I found Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift. I knew about this book, I had seen a film on TV and there had been discussion on Radio Four; oh yes, I had even listened to Radio Four with my dad. I took the book off the shelf and ran over to my dad.

“Do you think I should read this Dad?” I asked with expectant eyes, love me, love me, love me more. He took the book in his right hand and moved it up and down slowly as if to weigh it. He looked sagaciously and sympathetically at me.

“Well, I think it might be a little heavy for you Sarah! It might weigh you down!”. He looked to me like an intelligent professor, I believed everything he said.

“OK Dad, I'll put it back on the shelf and look for something else.”

From that time on, whenever I selected a book from the library, I held it in my right hand and lifted it up and down like my dad did to feel its weight. If it felt heavy I discounted it and put it back on the shelf.