Black Sheep – part ten

Every family has black sheep, and my family was no exception. We had several. Now that they have all gone to that great meadow in the sky, they can be talked about publicly, without fear of a law suit.

Grandma ruled her family with a rod of iron. As a woman raising her family alone, she had neither the time or the money to deal with her children getting into trouble, however, as they grew up she had less control and a couple of her children strayed from the family fold.

The most notorious of these was my aunt Kathleen. She was quite a lot younger that her siblings and got away with a lot more misdeeds. I was too young to know about much of her antics but her name became legend in our small town in northern England.

During the latter part of the 2nd world war, there was a G.I. base located just a couple of miles from grandma’s house and apparently, my aunt soon found out the benefits of “entertaining the troops”. The war had led to many shortages in much of Europe and our area was no exception. However, my aunt was one of the girls who always had nylon stockings, chocolate and gum.

I remember my other aunts telling me how they had used eyebrow pencil to draw lines up the back of their legs, so it looked like they were wearing nylons. However, Kathleen always had the real thing. I’m not sure how my grandma handled the shame of her wayward daughter as grandma was Godfearing and very proper. These exploits were before my time but, once I was old enough to be aware of this glamorous relative, who now lived in the big city of London, I was smitten.

Aunt Kathleen would make appearances a couple of times a year and she always looked like she had stepped off the cover of Vogue. She wore make-up, which was certainly a novelty in gran’s house, she also wore storebought clothes, not the home made variety that we all wore. In fact, to my young eyes, she was gorgeous. She always travelled to our town by train and then a taxi, which was really decadent, as we walked everywhere, no matter what we were carrying. So Kathleen’s golden blonde hair and silk clad legs, climbing out of taxis was an eye opener for all the street.

I was about seven years old when she arrived with her boyfriend in tow. This was a good looking, coffee coloured man named Algie. Looking back, I guess the rest of the family were too dumbstruck to say anything about his arrival. This was the first person of colour that I had seen in my life and I was fascinated. He was fun and seemed interested in everything and he also insisted on helping around the house. This was certainly a novelty as when my other uncles visited, they sat like lumps on logs, while my grandma waited on them hand and foot. Not so with Algie, he made gran sit down and he made tea.

He was the first arrival of quite a few gentlemen of various coloured skin. I was too young to notice but the whole family were probably appalled and it would certainly be the talk of the town. Ours was not a cosmopolitan area, in fact most people were born, married, raised their families and died, in the same house, or certainly the same area. Kathleen’s male companions must have created quite an uproar.

My aunt moved around the country quite a bit and had a variety of husbands, usually someone else’s. She finally settled down with a married man and his children, where she became quite domesticated and stayed there for her the rest of her life.

One of my uncles became notorious in the family for a rather strange reason. I was about four or five when family gossip started to centre round uncle Albert. He had been a navy career man and was very smart, soft spoken and really gentle. His brother was just the opposite but they still got on well.

As a child family talk did not really interest me and I would just read during family get togethers. However, there is nothing more likely to attract the interest of a child than lowered voices, this is when the good stuff is discussed.
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A new word had crept into family discussions. Arsy. I knew that arse was a very rude word and not used in polite conversation, however arsy was new to the vocabulary. I asked a couple of times and was quickly hushed, but I didn’t forget.

Around that time I met Nellie, she was going to marry uncle Albert and I was to be a bridesmaid. Dressed in my lovely frilly dress, I was thrilled to take part in the very long-winded wedding. I was to be a bridesmaid at every family wedding as I was the eldest girl and behaved well, due to a strict upbringing.

There was to be a new baby in the family. This was so exciting and I couldn’t wait. The new little girl, arrived and I was allowed to sit and hold her, I was thrilled, I was even allowed to take her a walk. However, the next year, another baby arrived, followed at yearly intervals, by four more.

Other aunties had married meanwhile and had produced babies so we had children springing up all over the place. In my exalted position as being the eldest girl, I never felt jealous of all these new arrivals, but was allowed to hold them all and do general duties with bottles and toys.

It was our family tradition and probably that of many families, to meet on Sundays for “the walk”. This would start from grandma’s house and we would all walk about three miles to the Barn. This was a Norman era barn, by an old stately home. In the afternoon, tea and refreshments were available and many families would arrive for some fun on the grassy meadow. Most of us would sit on a blanket and grandma would rent a chair as benches were not very plentiful in those days.

Our whole family would play ball games while the younger toddlers would sit and watch. All aunties and uncles came along, but never auntie Nellie. She usually stayed home with the latest baby.

After three or four hours, grandma and I would catch the bus home while the rest of the family walked. We would get the afternoon meal ready, which was always cold meat and salads followed by canned fruit, jelly and Carnation evaporated milk. By the time we were ready, the rest if the family had arrived and we all crowded around gran’s big table for our meal.

I guess I was about twelve before I found out that aunt Nellie was the arcy, and it meant she was an R.C., a Roman Catholic. There were many catholic children in my school and the only difference between us at school was that they got to leave morning assembly, before it was time for daily prayers. Why was being an “arcy” such a big thing and why did she never feel comfortable around the rest of the family. It puzzled me then and still does. Nellie lived on the edge of a big family but was never included. Her children were always happy when visiting gran or the other family members but Nellie wasn’t really welcome.

These things have always puzzled me. Why does religion make a difference? Isn’t there only one God, who truly loves us all, despite our differences? If God is our true Father, he must be terribly upset that his children have so many wars over the correct way to worship.

No wonder there are wars over religion. The word Muslim has grown to be feared, simply because it is not understood by non Muslims. We all have to begin at home to try and create world peace. If each family could get rid of their own prejudice and try to understand the needs of others, instead of insisting that our way is the only true way, maybe the world would be in better shape.

It is time to stop lowering our voices when we mention the arcy amongst us
and try and accept them as part of the family.