Something to Cry For ......

 

It was never wise to make too much fuss about matters my mother considered trivial, certainly not a good idea to cry too readily because that might create a state of affairs where I’d find myself in danger of being given Something to Cry For.   I didn’t want that because she was not in the habit of making totally idle threats and a swift slap across the face was most unpleasant.   Other children, boys in particular, when misbehaving to the point of drawing undue attention to themselves were simply advised to Wait Til Your Father Gets Home and once again these threats were not made vainly if the yelps and roars emanating from Northfleet sculleries and backyards after five o’clock was anything to go by.   And from what I gather the same went on in Swanscombe, Greenhithe and Gravesend too.   

Back then beating your children was nothing to be ashamed of and in fact could be seen as commendable.   It was even felt that they ultimately benefitted from the effort their parents put into these punishments and perhaps they did.   Generally it was hard later on to find those who bore grudges.   Trauma associated with the child rearing norms of the time was largely unheard of and would remain so for years; it would be decades before any of us became familiar with the term Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and when we did it seemed to be something to do with World War One and Auschwitz.   That’s not to say we were impervious to anything unpleasant that went on around us as anyone who can recall the first half of the 1940s will readily verify.   In fact it would be hard to find someone who could honestly say they were totally unaffected by the menacing tones of the air raid warning and even now, eight decades later do not instantly recognise the underlying threat the sound promised.

I suppose we were fortunate to have been born on the outer borders of the modern age of human resilience.  Our parents and grandparents were more hardy generations benefitting from a greatly defined sturdiness of resolve.   Life wasn’t easy but they didn’t expect it to be.   By the time we were born some of us were destined to harbour slightly different expectations and were definitely lining up to be just a little more indulgent with our own sons and daughters.   Although the war had definitely delayed the rate of progress, the times they were a-changing!

By the middle of the 1950s some ultra-progressive families like The Blakes of Pelham Road where my mother cleaned on Tuesdays for a few months, no longer smacked their twins, who apparently were in need of the occasional wallop if ever children were, and even allowed themselves to be addressed by their first names.   Their mother, was clearly proud of the liberal views the family held and over morning Nescafe and Nice biscuits tried hard to induce her Tuesday employee to follow her lead.  There was little chance of this, though my mother, always unwilling to speak her mind, tried to look interested, privately thinking that Summerhill School where Geoffrey and Gillian had their names down for the following year, sounded far too much like a place where the Kiddies Ruled the Roost.  As for your children using your given name when they addressed you, in her opinion this was shocking to say the least and indicated a very fast route to Reform School rather than a few expensive years at Summerhill.   It was in fact one of the twins addressing her as Nellie rather than Mrs Hendy that convinced her to take the job offer as a dinner lady at Gravesend Girls’ Grammar School.   It has to be remembered that this was still a time when neighbours were known as Auntie or Uncle by we children and one of my mother’s long term friends was still addressed, even by her as Mrs Bennett after many years.  These norms meant that many of us who were children in the 1940s and 1950s have little idea still as to how strangers should be appropriately addressed and meant that last week’s bright and breezy young plumber easily called me Jean whilst I called him Mr Seymour.    

Nevertheless, overall things have changed now of course, mostly for the better. In most up to date and forward thinking countries nobody, whatever their age or station in life might be, seems to have anything other than a first name and physically taking to children by way of punishment for general misbehaviour is not simply frowned upon but illegal.   Here in New Zealand it is now quite unlikely you would ever witness public displays of even minor discipline although the occasional daring Pacific Island child might still be subject to what my mother called a Clip Around the Ear.  The last time I actually witnessed anything of a disciplinary nature concerned a three or four year old on a supermarket shopping trip who unwisely decided to crawl among the frozen food cabinets sampling Ice Block flavours.   His mother’s wrath was palpable and his ability to deftly dodge the blows had to be admired and indicated he was a boy of some physical ability and life experience.  

These days of course we worry a great deal as to how our children might view us in years to come and it’s important to us to preserve ourselves in memory as compassionate parents who did not inflict unnecessary pain and suffering.  We certainly don’t want our adult offspring emulating Prince Harry for instance and informing the world of our shortfalls.   Not that Harry has so far accused his father of Clips Around the Ear but it can never be entirely ruled out for the future.   As I have already pointed out, being given Something to Cry For was no joke and so a part of me would definitely feel the first inkling of sympathy for Harry should it ever emerge that something similar happened to him.