26 Top of the heap

At about ten years of age, I’m having my first real taste of being a celebrity. Uncle Arthur is now mayor of our town and Aunt Jane is the mayoress. As they have no daughter, I am to accompany them to some of the functions, sit in the front row, shake hands, award prizes, and generally do the done thing.

Mama is not enthusiastic. She can’t understand why my uncle is mayor. His interest in politics comes as a complete surprise to her. She went to school with him, and in those days he was always a step or two behind everyone else, which, on reflection, might be the very reason he was chosen. You need money to be mayor, Mama says as often as anyone will allow her to. "And you can’t be a mayoress unless you have a fur coat," she insists.

No one has consulted Mama, of course. She would have warned them against taking on such an onerous and expensive honour. And, what is more, Mama is not in favour of members of our family parading themselves. She’s already getting uneasy about my musical prowess and fearful that I will pursue my interest in singing and the stage. Being sister-in-law and cousin to the mayor is adding insult to injury in her eyes.

But she puts a brave face on it, for Dada’s sake. After all, Aunt Jane is his sister and I spend nearly all the school holidays there. Mama needs this break from us. During school we are out all day. During the holidays we hang around and get under her feet.

Then I am collected in a municipal limousine and transported on its leather upholstery to the mayor’s inaugural reception. Mama has explained to me that Uncle Arthur is paying for everything and will probably be in debt for the rest of his life, but that doesn’t stop me enjoying myself.

Since we haven’t yet found a replacement for the untimely departed sewing lady, Nora Cross, I am fitted out in a new skirt and blouse from the best shop in Chester, where only things with good labels are on sale. I am going to have my picture in the paper and Mama would not like anyone to think I had picked up my outfit at the market. I am wearing highly polished buckled shoes and brand new white stockings. My hair is groomed prettily. I am proud to be able to walk hand in hand with Aunt Jane across the municipal carpet in the main hall of a building that, to my inexperienced eye, seems to have dimensions and installations worthy of Windsor Castle. The whole gathering, comprising the upper crust of our town plus local celebrities, is smartly turned out and obviously out for a good time on the house. Dada is not here. He is once again in the sanatorium, being treated for his lungs. Mama is not here on principle.

The only fly in the ointment is the unexpected appearance of Beryl, with whom I even have to have my photo taken, as it turns out. Uncle Frank has provided the beef for this auspicious occasion and Beryl’s horrible thieving mother has come along to carve and serve. She never misses a trick, that woman.

Beryl is dressed in almost the identical clothes to mine. I am disgusted. After the photo, taken with us sitting side by side on two velvet municipal chairs, her scowling and me smiling, I hide in the ladies’ room for a bit until I think the coast is clear, not wanting people to think I have anything to do with her, or that she could even be assumed to be related to us. Fortunately for me, Beryl Glotzky soon sits down in a corner to devour corners of the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding her mother has provided her with.

Forgive my show of snobbery, but there are limits to one’s tolerance, says Mama.

In the coming weeks I attend many such functions. My aunt likes to have me with her. I think she is giving me the social education I would never otherwise have come across. I am trying not to have delusions of grandeur, but it’s hard under the circumstances.

I don’t know what mayors do, but mayoresses work extremely hard judging baby competitions, opening craft fairs, tasting jam, and attending garden parties. And I am part of it all. I get to meet local worthies and un-worthies and enjoy the attention awarded to me by dint of my being related to the mayoress. I am so grateful to be able to sit next to her. She knows everyone, and very soon everyone knows me.

I learn airs and graces and realise - and this must be the most important but arguably the saddest part of my development - that Mama’s world is not my world, and that I will have to find a way of trouncing her authority if I am to get anywhere in life. I am not yet aware of the fact that she has already programmed me for a life of inner struggle with my conscience and my self-confidence. That realisation will not come until much later.