Calling autumn


By
T Morgan


They say a woman’s intuition is indisputable, well I don’t
know about that, my mother always used to tell me that she
knew when something was not quite right with me, like if I
was in some kind of trouble at school, or if I were about to come down with a sickness, people can say all kinds of things. Maybe there is an ounce of truth, or maybe its just fate lending a helping hand. My father was a believer in spiritualism and was a regular at tender to the local spiritualist church, all his life he believed he could hear the dead talking to him, he once told me I had the gift but that I kept it suppressed inside of me, he told me “Anna you sometimes have to let go of your feelings and let the spirit of the holy ghost help you fulfil your destiny in life”. I loved my father dearly, but I have never heard the dead talk once, nor have I seen any thing that may resemble a ghost; but if anyone had intuition I would like to think it was my father and now in my later years I realise that if ever anyone had come close to discovering my secret it was him.

I was born in 1941 on a council estate in south Yorkshire, the only child of Alfred and Mary Champion. My father was a plumber and spare time clockmaker; he loved his tinkering as he called it and lived mostly in his shed at the bottom of our garden, “every man needs a shed” he would tell mother, she would reply “yes and you would move in permanently if you could” My mother kept house very proudly; and only used our dining room to entertain guests, not that we ever really had any, except for the uncle Joe, mums brother. He called every other Sunday and would usually bring one of his many lady friends, much to the annoyance of my mother who was very moral in all things, but she always left enough slack to over look her brother’s slipshod moral ways and would always treat him with a sincere fondness that did not sit well with her own moral view of the world. Uncle Joe was never married and had always lived alone as long as I could remember. He worked on the railways as an engine driver; he always used to tell me he was a bit like a sailor who had a woman in every port. “I have a woman in every railway station in Britain” he would whisper to me. “And not one of them is as pretty as you Anna”. This used to make me blush because I had always thought of myself as a bit of a plain Jane. Dad liked Uncle Joe he used to call him a free spirit and joke about it to mother. -“That’s how all men should live”. - Father would say. - “Most men do” was my mother’s stern reply. Uncle Joe was a beacon of light, people would smile and come to life in his presence they would open up, relax and start to laugh at his many stories. When he died it was like a light in my life turning off; Uncle Joe had at times been a big distraction from my secret.
My father was very easy going. He always listened to an argument before he passed any thought or judgement on it and most always gave a balanced opinion that saw both sides of an argument. “Wars have been fought on misunderstandings.”- He would often say, taking a long puff on his pipe. – “People need to listen and not go poking there nose into other people’s affairs.” Mother would just raise her eyes and give out a loud sigh. “sometimes you need to poke about a little.” - She would argue. – “to get to the truth.” Dad would smile, and then nod his head and lean forward to tap out his pipe onto the fender that surrounded the fire; he knew how this annoyed mother. Mum was the driving force in this semi ordered relationship; but father was the decision maker and he always used his gentle persuasive way to blunt the sometimes abrasive nature of my mother, who most always liked to have the last word in an argument.
I was at the very centre of my father’s world, he inspired me with his enormous passion for life and when mother was in a particularly moral way, he would lay back in his chair and take another long puff of his pipe and say “Mary I have lived through two world wars, and I have seen a lot of bad things that people do to each other, and if your a good person that has done something bad, it does not make you a bad person but in conclusion, if your a bad person that has done something good, that does not make you a good person”. “Sometimes Alfred Champion you make no sense at all” mother would say. But I always knew what he meant.
I hold no photograph of my secret to remind me, no letters, and no one to ask, I have nothing to show to you, I have nothing to touch except a painful memory. They say that your sense of smell never sleeps, I know this to be true, it is the one smell I often get that reminds me of that night, a hot sweaty dirty smell, sanitised, yet cold and painful, a smell that lingers to this day, a smell I can taste, a smell that never goes away; It wasn’t the smell, I discovered later in life, the smell associated with things of that nature, that was a much nicer smell, much nicer.
In 1961 at the age of twenty I met frank, I was working at the local post office at the time and frank had come in to buy a stamp to post off his application to join the Royal navy; “I’m going to see the world.”- He told me. “What’s wrong with Yorkshire” - I asked. “Nothing to keep me here is there.”- Was his answer. “Not even a pretty girl” - I joked stupidly, not for a minute meaning me. “Why?”- He winked, -“Do you know any”? I blushed and laughed at the same time. “What’s your name” he asked me, “Anna” I said in a whisper, without giving him eye contact. “Tell yer what Anna let me take you out tonight and I might just think it’s worth staying in Yorkshire for a little while longer.” I was never a great one for making friends of any kind. I was always a bit of a loner; I had always believed it to be the best way of protecting my secret. Frank was an electrician working for the local council, he was quite a good looking bloke with thick black hair and like Uncle Joe he made me laugh. Frank was my first boyfriend, my first real boyfriend. He and father got on great and shared a love of tinkering with all things mechanical. Frank was always popping in and out on his rounds and I would often come home to the sound of laughter coming from the shed at the bottom of our; garden where he and father would be busy taking apart and rebuilding old clocks or radios.
“Your going to lose him to the shed if you don’t put your foot down” mother used to say. But I never really minded, and would make light of it saying “Now mother every man should have a shed”. Upon she would reply rather seriously, “You have to show a man whose boss, or before you know it he’ll be running around like your uncle Joe and that wouldn’t do now would it”. Father was becoming very fond of Frank. “He’s a dependable type” father would tell mother, “our Anna could do much worse than marry him; he’ll make a good provider for her”. Frank was as keen as both mother and father, and so slowly I felt steered into a marriage I didn’t really want. I liked Frank, but I don’t think I ever loved him, not in the way you should love someone you’re going to spend the rest of your life with; it seems stupid now that I never spoke up but that’s just how it was. Frank was older than me by four years, not that it mattered, but in the summer of 1962 we married and Frank got to stay in Yorkshire for good.
Two years later nearly to the day, our beautiful daughter Charlotte was born. I never really took to motherhood in those early years, not like a mother should and my secret kept popping more and more into my head, and more and more I retreated into my own world and yet all the time I wanted to scream out to the world what my secret was. I wanted to unburden myself from the terrible thing I had done.
I cried a lot after Charlotte was born. Mother put it down to baby blues and would look at me like I had been a naughty girl. She came from a time when probably you just had to get on with it. Once she caught me crying and slapped me in front of dad. “Pull yourself together girl, you made your bed now lay on it.” – She told me firmly. It was the first time I ever heard dad shout at my mother. “Mary”. – He snapped with fire in his eyes. “don’t you ever let me see you hit my daughter again, you hear me” When mum had ran from the room Dad held me in his arms and I felt safe, like I was a little girl again. “You cry lass, you cry all you want to I’m here now”. I Held onto my dad so tightly that I never wanted him to let go. I wished now I had told dad my secret at that time, because I really believe now that he would have understood and made things as right as he could have. But too late now for that.
My parents both died within two years of each other, my mother died after a short illness in 1979. My father missed her terribly and just two years later he went to bed and fell asleep forever; they had been married for forty three years, that’s a long time in anyone’s life. I wish I could have said the same about my marriage but I can’t. I was still married to frank at the time of my mother and fathers death and it was he alone that helped me get over the second worst time in my life, Frank was a good man but it had always been a strained marriage and I blame my secret for that, and so shortly after the passing of my father in 1981 I decided to end the marriage and try to live a more simple and stress free life, Frank never understood, how could he, it was my secret, a burden I thought I must carry to the grave, a secret that cost me my marriage. Charlotte always blamed me for the break up of the marriage and eventually left to live with her father. We kept in touch once a week by phone call, then sometime she would make a flying visit and stay for an hour or so just to see if I was ok, then she would report this back to her father, to let him know how I was doing. It was very comforting for me to know that he still cared for me but the flame they call love had never burned very bright for me. Frank married again three years late. He liked to keep in touch for our daughter’s sake, but over time and as our daughter grew, the contact between us became less and less, this I suppose was to be expected.
In 1982 Charlotte went to university in Newcastle to study law but to both mine and frank’s disappointment she dropped out after only two years into her degree to go travelling around Australia. I got the odd postcard from the different places she would pass through; she reminded me a lot Dads description of Uncle Joe, a free spirit, and I envied her for it.
As well as free spirited, Charlotte had always been the independent type, she would speak out about injustice and world poverty, she would argue her case well and not have her mind changed by what she would call small minded and ill informed politicians who have no knowledge or experience of the jobs they do and would say out loud for anyone to hear. “What the hell do they know about starving children in Africa, have they ever had to bury a child that has died of starvation or walk miles just to find food or shelter. She wasn’t like me in any way thank god, and in a way I was glad when she chose to go and live with her father instead of me; she was always a reminder of my secret and sometimes when we were alone together she would catch my eye. “What’s troubling you mum”, she would ask. “You look miles away” and I would lie and say, “Nothing love, nothing is troubling me”. But all the time deep down I knew that she sensed something, something I had tried to hide for far too long and she would sit beside me hold my hand and ask me to tell her what it was that bothered me so. I wanted to, I really did but something inside wouldn’t let me, the secret was old now and had gone on for far too long, nothing good could come out of me sharing it with her, it was mine alone, I couldn’t burden her with it now, not now I thought, she would hate me for it I was sure. “Everything’s fine I told her, really it is”. But she was never convinced by me. I know that now.
In the winter of 1986 I received a letter from Charlotte, telling me that she had met and fallen in love with a man from York who was out there working in Perth Western Australia for an oil company. He was called Harry. “he’s wonderful mum, tall intelligent and very good looking” she told me over the phone a week later, “you’ll like him I’m sure of it. I’m so happy.” – “I’m happy for you too” - I lied, but what about your Dad? – have you told him yet.” –“yes mum dad knows, he’s happy for me, he even knows Harry’s family, he did some work for them once, he”. “Well then”- I interrupted. “I trust in your father’s judgment”. – “Oh mum just be happy for me please”- Charlotte begged. There was helplessness in her voice at that moment that reminded me of me! “I love you Charlotte, I’m sorry I haven’t always been there for you” – I sobbed down the phone line. “Oh mum”- Charlotte cried back everything will be fine you’ll see everything will be fine”. Harry had been married before; Charlotte had told in her letter, but was widowed. His wife had died during childbirth three years earlier. The baby had survived; she was called summer and was being looked after by his first wife’s mother.
The wedding took place three weeks later in Australia without any of the parents to the bride or groom. Charlotte called it a low key affair and added the reasoning behind it was the fact that harry had been married before and that you and dad had not seen each other for such a long time that it may have been awkward for everyone and I agreed. But I do believe that Frank her father would have been upset not to have given away his only daughter.
Charlotte told us they had planned to return to England as soon as his work out there had been completed and asked if I would mind putting them up for a short time until they got a place of there own. It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to do after being on my own for so long but I agreed to let them stay for a while and started getting ready the spare room.
The Friday before charlotte and Harry were due to arrive there was a knock on my front door. “Anna” said a rather elderly lady, as I opened the door. “Anna Champion”. - “Yes I replied. – eyeing up the woman. -“Can I help you”. The old woman looked at me for a while clutching tightly onto her brown leather shopping bag. “You have changed Anna, to how I remember you, but then you where only a 15 year old school girl not much bigger than a kitchen table as I remember”. I’m sorry” – I replied searching her face for clues. “Aye lass you don’t remember me do you, we all change I suppose, older and more wrinkles with every day.” - She smiled. “I’m Mrs Johnson; I lived along the road from you and knew your mother and father very well”. I suddenly felt my knee’s buckle and my throat went dry. “I’m sorry I don’t know you”. I blurted out. But before I could shut the door Mrs Johnson had stepped inside. “Its all right lass”, - she said stopping to put a hand on my shoulder. – “I’m not here to make trouble but events have come to a head and they need sorting”. She said in a matter of fact way.
Mr and Mrs Johnson were northerners from county Durham, Mr Johnson had moved his family to Yorkshire to work in the coalmines at the end of the war, something south Yorkshire had a lot of at the time. Mr Johnson was a short stocky man with not to much hair. He always wore his flat cap, in or out of the house as I remembered, and was also a good friend of uncle Joes. During the war they had both shared an allotment together and through out the war had supplied half the street with fresh salad and veg, Uncle Joe had once told me. Mrs Johnson was a thin medium sized woman she had a very strong north eastern accent and as I remember, used to sell home made toffee apples for a penny from her back kitchen door during the summer school holidays. She was always a well dressed woman with never a hair out of place, and loved children. But after the death of her only son she never again made toffee apples. I tried not to believe my past had returned to haunt me.