Chapter 30: Tough Guy?

After Michael was born in Thurnham Place, back in 1933, Margaret nursed the baby obsessively. She examined him carefully every time she changed him. She sought for perfection in him. There should be no blemishes in her production. She wanted to be the perfect mother of a perfect child. She felt that motherhood was her true purpose in life. She felt ecstatic. To some, it was nauseating!

One day, she noticed that two of his toes were not perfectly straight. One overlapped the other. She went to Cuthbert's shop to have the baby weighed and to buy some baby items she needed. The chemist advised on the treatment for most minor complaints. Doctors cost money! She showed the assistant the baby's toes.

"Nothing to worry about,"he said. "But you could try putting matchsticks between his toes every night before he goes to sleep. That should straighten them. In any case it won't affect his walking. But he'll never make a footballer."

Margaret never forgot to fix the splints. Michael remembered when he was older to do as the chemist instructed. It made no difference. The toes stayed crooked. It's in the nature of things to be less than perfect.

On the rare occasions when Gordon won betting on the horses he always spent his winnings on the family. When Michael was four he gave Margaret some money to buy the boy a nice new Sunday-best outfit. She took Michael up-town to have him rigged out.

When Gordon came home that evening he could not believe it. She'd bought the child a powder-blue overcoat which came down to his ankles. Seeing her husband's frown she defended, "He'll grow into it"

"It's not that!" snorted Gordon. "It's the colour!"

More words were exchanged, which developed into a row.

Once he'd heard his father's opinion of the coat, it was practically impossible to persuade Michael to wear the wretched thing. He loved his mother's attention but he wanted Gordon's approval. Gordon obviously disapproved of the blue coat. He never had the wear out of it to warrant its cost.

It was a Gordon purchase which caused another argument a few months later. Amongst Michael's 1937 Christmas presents were boxing gloves. Gordon overruled his wife's objections to their purchase. "He's too young to be learning to box!"

"He'll have to stick up for himself at that school. You know what some of those kids are like. He won't have you to run to."
"Stupid man!"

After lunch, on Christmas Day, when they arrived back from Nan's, Gordon fitted a boxing glove over Michael's right hand. It was so heavy that it made his wrist droop. Gordon donned the other glove.

"First of all you have to learn how to punch."Gordon held his gloved hand up, palm facing Michael.

"Go on, hit me!"

" Harder!"

Michael did his best, but didn't make much impression on his Dad's glove. Next, he had to learn how to defend himself. Michael held his glove up, just like Gordon had done, guarding his face. Unfortunately, poor Gordon hit Michael's glove too hard and caused Michael to hit himself on the nose and make it bleed.

Michael sobbed at the sight of his blood.

Margaret shrieked, "Bully! Stupid! I told you not to buy them, didn't I!"

She flung the gloves down the cellar steps.

All Gordon could think of saying was, "They'll come in for later. When he's a bit older."

"A lot older! When he decides! Not you! Stupid!"

Michael felt a bit sorry for his Dad. He knew he hadn't really meant to hurt him. He knew he was only looking out for him and trying to be helpful. After he'd calmed down Michael went and sat on his lap and asked his Dad to read him a story.

"Are you looking forward to school?" Gordon asked him.
" Yes Dad," Michael replied. It was a lie, of course.
" You'll look a smart lad in that new jersey your mother's bought you won't you?"
" Suppose so."
" It'll be good learning to read properly, won't it?"
" Yes,"Michael thought, "that will be good."

A few days before he started at St. Anne's, Margaret and Michael started the great porridge battle. It was a close contest which she won very narrowly on points after a bout which lasted three breakfasts.

"Why haven't you eaten your porridge Michael?"
"I don't like it. It's got lumps in it."
"Well, I've made it just the same as always. Are you sure?"
" Yes, I can't eat it."
"Mine's all right Mam. I've eaten mine. Mine hasn't any lumps," said Gwyn.

There were times when Michael really hated her. "Shut your gob you!"

"What did you say?!" Margaret demanded. "Where did you learn to say that?"

Michael chose to ignore the question. Bad language was strictly forbidden. Slang counted as bad language. "It's full of lumps. I'm feeling sick. I'm going to be sick!"

"Well outside to the lav, quick! Be sick out there, not in here! I'll make you a strawberry jam sandwich."

Round One -- Michael Watson!

Next morning, Michael sat at the table next to little Gwyn. Margaret placed Gwyn's bowl of porridge in front of her daughter, on Gwyn's Snow White and Seven Dwarfs oil cloth. She sprinkled some sugar on for her. Michael awaited his turn, spoon in hand. He gazed at the King Arthur oilcloth which his Dad had brought along with Gwyn's from Williamson's. He was still waiting when Margaret brought her own bowl to the table and started to eat her porridge.

"Where's mine, our Mam?"asked Michael, thinking that his mother must have forgotten.
"Your what?"asked Margaret.
"My porridge!"replied Michael, on the verge of tears, his top lip trembling.
"No lumps today!" said Gwyn.
"Shut-up you!" Michael hissed at his sister."Goody Two Shoes!"
"Oh, you want some porridge today do you?"
"Yes!"he said sulkily.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, please Mam!"

She fetched him a full bowl and they ate in silence.

Round Two -- Margaret Watson!

Now for the third and final round!

Margaret served the porridge as usual and Michael sprinkled on some sugar before starting spooning it into his mouth.

"Good!" thought Margaret, "That's one battle I've won. Unconditional surrender!"

When they'd all finished, Michael had left a couple of spoonfuls. She didn't say anything. He looked at her and said quietly but defiantly, "I've left the lumps!"

She did not respond to that. It wasn't unconditional surrender. She still felt that she had won -- but only just!