After finishing yesterday’s post, I remembered more about Alice’s stay in the dreadful mental hospital in Ipswich, back in the early 1960s. When my mother Jane took Clarissa to visit, they didn’t want to let them in and did all they could to delay them. Jane didn’t trust them, they were being too obstructive and she swept past, up to the ward. There were two nurses, hastily changing Alice out of a filthy nightdress and washing her face. The conditions there were appalling. I suppose many of the unfortunate residents had no visitors. But, as I said, Alice was not even mentally ill, she had been given a combination of drugs that had temporarily made her confused. But, even if she had suffered from dementia, it was awful treatment and there was no reason for it. She was a gentle woman, not difficult to manage and she was understandably afraid and upset.
After that, Clarissa and Alice came to lunch every Thursday and they came to stay with us for their birthdays and Christmas. My parents being hospitable, with a strong sense of duty and kindness to others, invited several people for Christmas who’d otherwise have been alone. This was no fun at all for Wink and me, I’m sorry to say. We were talking about it last night, when I told her I was writing about Miss Fitt and we agreed that Christmas was always a disappointment. Like any children, we looked forward to it so much and much of my memory of the day is about glumly watching Disneytime on the television while several old ladies bickered about the respective quality and quantity of their Christmas presents. We couldn’t make any noise or do anything really, as mummy was busy in the kitchen and daddy vanished and we had to be on our best behaviour. I don’t think anyone really enjoyed it.
But I digress, not in a good way. In due course, Alice died and Clarissa kept coming. She was welcome to and yet no one actually liked her. She was an awkward old lady. I suppose she’d needed to be. Looking back, I wish I’d taken to her more and been the sweet little girl she’d have loved to pet. But I was an awkward little cuss too, very much in my own world.
That was very kind of your parents. My grandparents would always invite “aunties” over at Christmas. They were Norwegian American widows with no families. They paid little attention to children. I do remember being about four years old, sitting on the living room Persian rug and staring at the ladies calves which were very chubby and incredibly hairy. I later told my mother what I’d noticed and she was glad I’d not said anything out loud at the time.
Fascinating. I’m glad you are writing down your memories for posterity.