True Confessions of Margaret Hilda Roberts Aged 14 ¼, Page 2

  School dinner (sorry, lunch. Will I never get it right?) was unnecessarily extravagant. I counted two sultanas per square inch in the spotted dick. I complained to the school cook but she rudely told me to ‘move along’ claiming that I was holding up the second-helpings queue.

  Had to endure a double period of English Literature in the afternoon. I will be pleased when we have finished Hard Times by that obvious communist Charles Dickens. I offered to balance the lesson by reading aloud from Queen Victoria’s letters but Miss Marmaduke refused and asked me to sit down. (A word in the head’s ear would not come amiss: Miss M. is recently back from a cycling tour of Russia.)

  As I walked home (alone as usual) I saw the man claiming to be Tebbit messing about on a grass verge and pretending to mend a puncture. He was in the vicinity of Snooty’s sumptuous stable, so I felt it was my duty to report the matter to our Bobby on the beat. It is a well-known fact that the unemployed are horse stealers. Police Constable Perkins thanked me in his broad Lincolnshire dialect and I continued home.

  After a scrumptious home-baked tea I settled down to four hours of even more delicious chemistry homework.

  After the shop closed I helped father with the accounts. I was horrified to discover that Mrs Ark-wright of Railway Buildings owes sixpence for groceries. I made father promise that he would never extend credit again. He said, ‘Margaret, the woman is a widow with five children to feed.’ I said that by granting her credit he would not be helping Mrs Arkwright to mend her reckless ways. I offered to call on Mrs Arkwright and ask her for the sixpence, but father reminded me that it was nearly midnight and that we still had not chopped and bundled the firewood for the shop. (We are taking advantage of a late BBC weather forecast predicting a cold snap.)

  Finally got to bed at 2am, recited ‘How now brown cow’ one hundred times and will now lay my pencil down and go to sleep.

  Tuesday May 24th

  Had a lie in until 6am. Then got out of bed and had a brisk rub down with the pumice stone.

  I opened the curtains and saw that the sun was shining brightly. (A suspicion is growing in my mind that the BBC is not to be trusted.)

  Father and I hastily split the firewood into toffee apple sticks and Mother was sent into the kitchen to make three hundred toffee apples. Dear diary, I’m rather worried about Mother. She looks more timid and nervous every day. I simply can’t think why: she has her baking, her duties in the shop and a full social life with the church, so I don’t understand why, whenever I address a remark to her, she twitches and stutters and backs away from me. She has also taken to wearing a large crucifix.

  Wednesday May 25th

  Went to see Mrs Arkwright and managed to get threepence farthing out of her. I spent some time on her ill-scrubbed doorstep explaining how she should cut down on household expenses. I told her that one could make excellent substitute tea by boiling dried nettle leaves, for example. Mrs Arkwright said it was a bad day for England when a person couldn’t afford a cup of tea, but I retorted that it was the duty of all of us to make sacrifices in order to finance the munitions industry. Mrs Arkwright sarcastically asked what I, as a grocer’s daughter, went without. I answered that I had given up applying Vaseline to the sores on my legs caused by my wellington tops rubbing.

  Mother simply stank of garlic tonight. Is she turning Catholic?

  Thursday May 26th

  Police Constable Perkins called round to the shop to report that the cyclist Tebbit had been held at the Police Station for three days of questioning but had now been released without charge. I was rather put out by this apparent evidence of police laxity, but Perkins said, ‘His spokes were in a proper state by the time we’d done a strip search of his bike. So don’t worry, Miss Roberts, he won’t be riding around no more Lincolnshire lanes a’ bothering young ladies. No, he’ll be pushing that bike all the way back to London town!’

  We all had a jolly good laugh and Father invited Perkins to join us in a cup of tea at the side of the bacon slicer. He didn’t stay long, because, as he explained, it was the scrumping season, and he was kept busy catching young boys and fracturing their eardrums.

  When he had gone, Father and I did the daily stocktaking and were shocked to find there was a tin of salmon and a small Hovis missing.

  My mother claimed that Constable Perkins had slipped them into his truncheon pocket as he left the shop!

  Father sent her to bed for daring to cast a slur on a fine body of men. All the same the loss of the salmon and Hovis was a severe blow. Strict economies would have to be made, so Father and I sat up all night grinding chalk and adding it to the flour bin.

  Friday May 27th

  Got up at dawn to write an essay on magnetic particles. It was so enjoyable that I got carried away and was almost late for school.

  After school dinner (lunch, Margaret, lunch) I was summoned to the head. She astonished me by saying, ‘Margaret, I can’t fault your school work, but please do try to take life less seriously, perhaps strike up a friendship with one of the girls in your class.’ I pointed out to her that there were no girls of my class at the school, but she murmured, ‘That isn’t quite what I meant, dear,’ and dismissed me.

  After school I counted and bagged the currants and raisins for the shop, then spent two relaxing hours doing mathematical equations.

  There was a church social at the Methodist Hall so I took a pound of broken bourbons that father had donated and spent the evening chatting to a visiting Russian Orthodox priest. He was awfully handsome and intellectual and I was delighted when he offered to walk me home. We were approaching the shop chatting about samovars when he crushed me to his chest in a bear hug and whispered lewd and revolutionary suggestions of a personal nature. I screamed and ran into the shop. I didn’t tell father, but I will never trust another Russian as long as I live.

  Took a cold water bottle to bed with me to punish myself for stealing a raisin.

  Saturday May 28th

  Spent a frustrating morning poring over my school atlas doing Geography homework: locate and then draw the Falkland Islands. After searching the entire coast of Scotland and its environs I happened to glance down at the bottom left-hand corner of the map and found them off the coast of Argentina!

  Sunday May 29th

  At 7pm I broke my promise to myself and with a trembling hand I closed and locked my bedroom door, took my secret box out of my wardrobe and had a session of dressing up and posing in front of the mirror.

  The crown kept slipping down over my head and I had to stop twice and stitch the cotton wool back onto the ermine robe, but I think I have almost perfected the regal wave.

  I am now certain that I am of royal birth. I’m grateful that I have been adopted by simple, kindly grocer-folk, but the life of a commoner is not for me. I need to know my true lineage.

  Dear King,

  I will get straight to the point, did you or any of your close relations visit Grantham fifteen and a half years ago? And if so, did you or they happen to ‘bump’ into a plump, pleasant faced, rather simple woman?

  I ask, sire, because I am the offspring of that good woman. There is a certain Hanoverian cast to my features which does not correspond to any other branch of the ‘family’ physiognomy.

  To be blunt: I am convinced I am of Royal birth. At present I am living with good, decent grocer-folk but ’tis with your family I belong, sire. I know you are a busy man but I would appreciate an early reply; my future depends on it. By the way, you can count on my complete discretion. There is no danger of me blabbing our secret to friends – I have no friends.

  I sign myself,

  Margaret Hilda Roberts

  (until you inform me otherwise)

  PS. Should you need to order ceremonial robes etc., I am a size 14 with my Liberty bodice, size 12 without.

  PPS. Should I start having riding lessons? If so, should I ride side-saddle or should I straddle the horse?

  Monday May 30th

  Dearest Diary,

&nbs
p; Poor father has been inundated with complaints about his food. Mrs Arkwright came into the shop this morning and claimed that ‘Your eggs is all rotten, Roberts.’

  Her coarse working-class accent grated on my ears and she went on, ‘An’ I ain’t surprised, seeing as how youse chickens is all scabby and mangy an’ is fed on fish ’eads.’

  She was joined by Mrs Pork-Cracklin who accused father of selling diseased cheese. In more refined tones she complained, ‘My dinner guests have telephoned me this morning – from their respective lavatories – to inform me that they suspect your cheese to be the cause of their lavatorial incarceration.’

  Father got rid of Mrs Arkwright by threatening to inform the authorities that she keeps lodgers. However, he was extremely unctuous to Mrs Pork-Cracklin – he gave her a box of iced fancies and a tin of Earl Grey. Then, he dropped to his knees and begged her forgiveness. She generously gave him absolution before sweeping out of the shop and climbing into her limousine.

  Tuesday May 31st

  I received the following note from Cecil this morning:

  The Little Hut

  The Woods

  The Wilderness

  Mags old girl,

  I say, do you think you can deliver another jar of Brylcreem to me tonight? This ‘living in the open’ business is playing havoc with my hair. Also, Mags sweetie, could you put in a good word for me with the Grantham worthies – I’m most awfully fed up with living in the actual and metaphoric wilderness. Surely I have paid the price for my little slip up last year. It proves I have red blood in my veins (and lead in my pencil) doesn’t it? I steered the Methodist Youth Club to victory in our last election didn’t I? Without me you could be languishing on the sidelines – making the tea, instead of enjoying high office as Chairwoman (Youth Wing).

  Well, old girl, most stop now, I have to bathe in the stream and later rebuild my little hut which blew down in the night.

  Yours with love and devotion

  Cecil Parkhurst

  PS. Could you make it a large jar?

  Wednesday June 1st

  I saw Cecil tonight! We sat inside his crude hut illuminated only by the candle I had slipped inside my knickers. He told me the whole sordid story: how he had been cruelly seduced by a girl who, instead of doing the decent thing and going to Switzerland for nine months, had stayed in the district and paraded her shame for all to see. Cecil, poor pet, had subsequently been banished from Grantham (Father has forbidden his name to be mentioned in our shop).

  I swore to Cecil that I would not rest until he was reinstated into some high office in the Youth Club. I asked what other skills he possessed.

  He said, ‘Well, I used to be quite good at tinkering about with the electrics on my Hornby train set.’

  Thursday June 2nd

  Mother was seen hob-nobbing with Mrs Arkwright this morning; they were admiring each other’s aprons. Father warned her against getting too familiar. He said, ‘As a Christian you have a duty to avoid the ungodly.’

  Mother replied, ‘Oh go and stick your head in the pickle barrel you stuck up prat!’

  And this in front of Mrs Arkwright! Father sent Mother upstairs immediately. After she had slammed the bedroom door he turned to me and said, ‘Let this be a lesson to you Margaret, steer well clear of the working classes. Not only do they pollute the air, they also have a deleterious effect on the vocabulary.’

  This evening in my role as Chairwoman of the Methodist Youth Club I proposed that Cecil be given the job of rewiring the premises – he would be Head of Electricity. There were a few grumbles but the motion was carried and a runner (Wriggley Ridley) was sent to inform Cecil that his period in the wilderness was over.

  Friday June 3rd

  Mother has gone on strike. She stayed in bed all day reading Madame Bovary and eating violet creams. Nothing father said or did would shift her. She is demanding a wage for her work in the shop! I fear this is a sign of madness. She will surely end up in the Grantham Insane Asylum. This is tragic for us all. Father may have to employ somebody to help in the shop and keep the house. And how will we afford the bus fare to the lunatic asylum once a week?

  Saturday June 4th

  Mother has come to her senses. She was downstairs as usual this morning. Her day of insurrection has not been mentioned.

  Sunday June 5th

  Glancing through the accounts I noticed a new entry: ‘Mrs Roberts, wages: sixpence a week.’

  So, Father has capitulated to industrial action has he? How despicable! That is something I would never ever do.

  We have not yet had a reply from the King. We are most displeased. When we are Queen we will remember this insult. We will take our revenge on our royal relations. The Throne! The Throne! The Throne!

  Correspondence of a Queen in Waiting

  Dear Claire,

  We are a woman of sixty plus years old, married to a man much older than myself. Our children have long fled from the nest. I have a demanding and fulfilling full-time job. I live in several comfortable homes. My social life is rich and varied and I travel the world and meet interesting, powerful people. I have a very posh accent and am terribly good at things.

  My problem is this. Nobody likes me. I know this for a fact. Wherever I go people grovel and fawn and smile to my face, but they do this out of fear; their eyes show their terror.

  I am so unhappy, Claire; what do you advise?

  Size Fourteen of Westminster.

  Dear Size Fourteen,

  Well, well, well. You are in a dither aren’t you? Is there a possibility that you have halitosis, or an offensive body odour? Or perhaps you are too good at things. How about a public failure? Have you considered coarsening your accent? You say your husband is much older than yourself. Does this mean that you have ceased to have a warm, loving relationship? If so why not try awakening his desires? There are some wonderful multi-coloured condoms on the market now, any of which would add pep to your marriage bed.

  Claire.

  Dear Claire,

  Four Metropolitan Police sniffer dogs have examined me for halitosis and body odour. All four pronounced me odour free.

  I have already tried public failure: four million people are unemployed in this country.

  I occasionally forget myself and coarsen my posh accent in the heat of debate.

  I sent for the condoms and gave them to my husband; saying, ‘For the bedroom dear.’ He blew them up and hung them over the bed.

  What am I to do?

  Size Fourteen of Westminster.

  Dear Size Fourteen,

  I now know who you are. If you want friends you must resign. There is no alternative.

  Claire.

  Dear Earnest Eggnogge,

  How dare you waste my time; don’t you know I am a de facto royal personage? I’ve received some whining, snivelling, wipe my eyes, pass the Kleenex letters in my time, but yours truly takes the Huntley and Palmers. Quite frankly, I don’t give a toss that your old mother died of hypothermia last winter or that your zit-faced, moronic teenaged lout of a son has not worked since leaving school. And the news that your wife has been waiting for six years to have her nasty, infected womb removed left me cold. Haven’t you got a sharp knife, for God’s sake? Show some initiative, man, borrow a surgical handbook from the library (be quick, I’m thinking of privatizing them), scrub the kitchen table, put your wife on her back and delve in there. (Wash your hands first.)

  In your horrible working-class handwriting you inform me that your stinking lavatory pan has been leaking for over a year and that rats regularly cavort in your living room. Can’t you see the obvious solution, you contemptible prole? Train the rats to do simple tricks – jumping over cans of baked beans, etc., charge the public an entrance fee to goggle at the spectacle and with the proceeds you can stroll around a bathroom supplies centre and nonchalantly order yourself a whole bathroom suite, should you so wish.

  You dare to say that I am out of touch with ‘real people’ and suggest that I �
��jump on a train and come up North’.

  Firstly, Mr Eggnogge, I am married to a ‘real person’. Denis is, contrary to appearances, neither a robot, nor an extraterrestrial being, nor an aqueous creature who crawled out of a deep lake.

  Secondly, I would rather spend the night with Guy the Gorilla (yes, I know he’s dead) than climb aboard one of those vile, rattling contraptions and visit you all up there in slag heap land. We have nothing in common. I hate ferrets, dripping, pigeons, corner shops and fat, ugly pale people who are unable to speak in complete sentences and who don’t understand how the International Monetary Fund works.

  Finally, at the end of your letter you bleat on about your dole payment, calling it a ‘pittance’ and an ‘affront to your dignity’. This last bit made me laugh quite a lot. What did you get for Christmas? A subscription to Marxism Today?

  Listen, parasite, that’s the point, don’t you see? We don’t need you and your sort any more. Get the message now? Take my advice, shovel the coal out of the bath, then fill it up and jump in and drown yourself.

  H. M. Thatcher.

  NB. Note to Private Secretary

  Tidy this up a bit will you, Rupert?

  Dear Mr Eggnogge,

  The Prime Minister was most concerned to hear of your difficulties. She is looking into the various matters you raised in your letter.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rupert Brown Bear.

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