At My Mother's Knee by Paul O'Grady Read Free Book Online Page B

her a decent tip; I'm
sure he did because he always tipped more than he could
afford as he liked people to think that he had a few bob. Grace
made a nine-year-old boy very happy. Not only did she teach
me to sketch with pastels, she also cleared up a few questions
I had concerning the female anatomy.
    I was crazy for the Isle of Man when I was a boy. It ticked
all the boxes and suited every nine-year-old's requirements. I
thought it was rather chic, with a whiff of Monte Carlo about
it – not that I'd ever been to the South of France. The Isle of
Man had palm trees and a casino and I'd seen these on an
episode of The Saint , so they made Douglas an extremely
glamorous location. I wouldn't have been the least surprised if
Roger Moore had turned up at the door of Seaview in his white
dinner jacket, eyebrow raised, enquiring after a room.
    We took coach trips to various parts of the island, driving over fairy bridges and shouting out as we went, 'Good morning,
little people, and how are you today?' to the fairies who
lived under the bridges, because, as the driver explained, if we
didn't the unpredictable fairy folk might put a curse on us. My
mother would mutter under her breath that they needn't
bother as she was cursed enough, thank you very much, and
continue to suck contentedly on a boiled sweet and stare out of
the window at the scenery. Headscarves bearing images of the
Laxey Wheel and other notable landmarks of the Isle of Man
would be brought back as souvenirs, together with 'amusing'
ashtrays and boxes of fudge. On the crowded beach my dad sat
in a deckchair wearing a shirt and tie while my mum poured
tea from a flask and handed out fish-paste sandwiches from
the meagre packed lunch provided by the hotel. Giggling girls
with beehives and skirts that stuck out strolled down the prom,
their arms linked as leery lads with Brylcreemed quiffs trailed
behind them making inane remarks. Cheery pensioners sat on
benches contentedly licking ice-cream cones and watching the
world go by. These images were unconsciously absorbed and
would re-emerge much later on when I was creating a world
for Lily Savage to live in. I believe that comedy is formed in
childhood and fortunately for me I had a wealth of memories
to draw from.
    On one of the rare occasions when my mother and Rose Long,
our neighbour, were on speaking terms, Rose graciously
consented to rent out to my mother, at a reasonable rate, her
much-envied static caravan in Talacre, North Wales , for a
week in July. I can only recall going there once, when I was
about four. I got a fat lip from my cousin Maureen when I ran
round a corner and banged into her head on. I remember so
well the horrors of a hand-knitted pair of bathing trunks,
highly impractical but, for reasons better known to parents in
the fifties and early sixties, de rigueur for children on a beach. My mother had knitted mine and they grew heavier and
heavier with each trip into the sea as they gathered a mountain
of wet sand in the crotch. As the day went on they would sag
and swing between your legs obscenely, forcing you to swagger
as you walked across the beach with your legs bowed – much
to the merriment of the grown-ups.
    Rose Long was a permatanned peroxide blonde, who wore
open-toed sandals that revealed toenails painted blood red. She
had a bit of a mouth on her, did Rose, and was usually at
loggerheads with most of the women in the neighbourhood. 'A
dyed-headed bitch' was how my mother dismissed her. It didn't
help that she was a member of the Orange Lodge and grew
orange lilies in her front garden either. On 12 July, the day that
the Lodge marched through Birkenhead and then over the
Mersey on the ferry boat to Liverpool to catch the train to
Southport for their annual bash, Rose Long would open her
windows and play a pipe and drum band's loud and rousing
version of 'The Sash Me Father Wore' on her radiogram.
    This inflammatory act would ignite my mother's Irish
Catholic blood, bringing it