It's slightly embarrassing to admit that what frightened me most as a six-year-old was being swallowed whole by our toilet, 'The Tippler'. It lived at the bottom of our garden and was an atrocious ceramic contraption, with a wide mouth and a deeper drop designed to terrify every child in the north of England. Thankfully, ours at least had a wooden seat. In the mid-1930s, most homes made use of them. Located far behind the McNee's back garden, a visit to the toilet filled me with the kind of lasting dread that still visits me eighty-five years later.
"What if I fall in, what if I fall in, what if I fall in?" I'd repeat to myself, determined to hold on as long as possible. “What will happen to me down there?”
This usually led to some sort of begging.
"Will someone come with me to the Tippler?" I'd ask an Aunt or Uncle, not wanting to let on just how afraid I was. They were unmoved.
"You're old enough to go on your own now, Sheila," they'd reply, getting back to the cooking.
On my own it was.
The walk across the back garden might as well have been accompanied by the ominous sound of a slow-ringing church bell, such was my trepidation. Thankfully, my worst fears never came to pass. I never once fell down the toilet. I don't remember when the Tipplers finally disappeared from British life, although I'm quite certain my childhood would have been markedly improved if they had never existed at all.
Life inside the McNee's kitchen was thankfully better.
Granny McNee taught me how to cook and schooled me in the Irish philosophy of culinary arts. That is, never be shy about using butter. Her mashed potatoes required almost as much butter as potato, and the end result was always spectacular. My children, grandchildren, and friends will attest that my cooking has always leaned on this philosophy. During the war, I remember it being the one thing that I missed most of all. Rationing butter was the biggest affront to Granny McNee and her roast dinners.
If I wasn't at the McNee's, then I was having Sunday dinner with my father's side of the family, the Littlewoods. It was a different experience because I was the only child at the table, surrounded by nine adults who would spend hours locked in deep debate. In the late 1930s, they wondered if there would be war. In the 1940s, they wondered if the war would ever end.
“The war will end when our troops can maneuver into this position,” said Uncle Law, pointing at a large map of Europe on the wall, where he maintained the weekly movements of allied troops in fine detail. He seemed very sure. I wondered how he knew. Was he a spy?
I listened as intently as possible, fighting back the encroaching feeling of boredom that all children experience. On some occasions, buoyed by some inspiration, I felt ready to offer my six-year-old pennyworth, only to be given a short rebuke.
"It's really better for a young person to be seen, but not necessarily heard," an Aunt would interject.
"Just listen, Sheila."
This was said in a much kinder way than you are imagining.
After more time had passed, more boredom and restlessness would creep in. Without knowing it, I'd lean forward on my young elbows to take a short rest on the table, only for Auntie Emma to give me a quick tap on the shoulder.
"Remember Sheila," she'd whisper, "all joints on the table are to be cut." She'd make eyes at the joint of lamb in the middle of the table and then at my errant elbows. It was enough to have me snap back upright rather sharpish.
Over time, this act of waiting quietly taught me the hard art of patience. I was able to sit with my large adult family for several hours. I listened deeply, learning details about each of them that I remember to this day. It really is a wonderful skill to be able to sit still and simply listen, and this has always been one of my great strengths. It was honed around the Littlewood's dinner table, and while learning to sit and listen was exceptionally hard, today it is something that I love to do. You cannot make anyone feel any more special than by simply listening to them.
Nowadays I suppose it is easy to get on with our technology when we feel bored. There is a television. There are phones. There are no Tipplers, thankfully. We all have lots and lots to say, but who is sitting and listening to us? A story is only worth its salt if we have someone to hear it. Maybe next time you are sitting around a table for dinner, you can practice this for yourself. Sit quietly. Can you do it? Can you try?
Listen.
Listen.
See what you will learn.
Lesson 4: Nanny Greenteeth lives in the canal. Friday, March 10th
Sheila is the best listener of all and makes everyone she meets feel special and valued.
Great message. It really does make people feel important.