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Nightmares were a friend, of a swirling grey vortex. Emma would stand on the back doorstep ready to run to the gate and into the hole in the hedge to neighbors and safety. It was time to run, plunging, and dodging, tripping gasping to avoid the dark snake like limbs grasping, reaching stretching like black rubber to pull her down and devour. She never made it to the gate, lying awake trembling watching the shadows of the night play on the walls of her bedroom, seeing ghosts and goblins rising, talking to her in their silent chatter, waiting on an answer. The fear of the night was/is ever present.

Fear as a child was, and is still a motivating factor. The fear of being caught or trapped translated to escapades as new locks were put in place to keep her enclosed in the large garden. From this a new career path evolved, that of escape artist, new locks equating to a puzzle to be solved, prize, freedom. Holes in fences and hedges were covered with boards nailed up limiting crawling room, easily resolved with a handy ladder or box on which to climb. Philosophy behind this journey, there is more than one way to achieve a goal, over, under or around and if that didnt work, through, sending everyone in the household spare. It is difficult to fathom how four intelligent adults hadn’t worked out the strategy of this child, lock her in and she will escape, leave her in peace and she will stay, happily. Watching two grown men, her father and Grandfather carefully block up a hole in the hedge, Emma listened carefully as they shared a private joke,

 “This should hold her, can’t see her pushing her way or climbing over rose clippings and all those thorns.”

This challenge was too much of an opportunity, as soon as their backs were turned, Emma was off. Walking about a kilometer to the bus stop, she stood with three ladies who were waiting for the bus. Seeing them climb aboard, it became a really good idea to join them. Petone was about twenty kilometers away, and it was the end of the run. A two going on three year old sat in the bus alone. The police were called.

 

"Oh my God!" Margaret was beside herself, she hadnt been aware her daughter had gone, much less sitting in the cop shop in Petone. Guilt, anger, frustration, and concern warred from within not knowing whether to laugh or cry at this child who found a way to best her at every turn.

 

The paranoia after this episode was heightened, the focus being to keep Emma caged and within view at all times. A grey harness, the only item of restrainment from which Emma had been able to undo or extricate herself. The buckle was at her back therefore unreachable. Round and around she would go, unable to sit, unable to play, left to her own devices to circle the circumference of the clothes line, anger boiling from within. 

Feeding the soul and mind, curiosity pushing the boundaries books and words held a fascination in her quiet times. Everyone read in the household, letters were written regularly and Emma would watch how the letters would be put together to form a word.

 

"A for Apple" Margaret would read from the cloth alphabet book, "C for Cat" she continued. The logic of progression floated before Emma's eyes, excitement almost too much to handle waiting for her mother to leave so she could read the book herself.

 

Flipping the cloth pages, looking at the word ‘apple’ her reasoning was, if by flipping to the letter ‘p’ for pear, ‘l’lettuce and ‘e’ egg that spells the word apple. Having mastered that logic, sitting at the breakfast table the weetbix box was there for all to see, the tiny writing on the side drawing her interest piecing together letters until they made a recognisable word. From there it was plain sailing, anything written in print was deciphered and read, bible, books, weetbix box. Margaret wrote many years later Emma was three.

 

“Her favourite bed time reading was her alphabet book, a little unusual maybe but thinking the pictures were the attraction I played along, A for apple, B for ball, etc, I’d tuck her in, kiss her goodnight and find her an hour or two later sitting at the top of the stairs studying the small illustrated Bible her Granddad had given her. Again, I thought it was the pictures that interested her. She was so slow at talking it never occurred to me that reading might be on her agenda. It was over the breakfast table that she read aloud from the Weetbix pack.”

Boredom had set in by the age of five so letters were turned upside down and inside out just for the fun of the challenge of reading backwards.

Listening to topics of conversation discussed amongst the adults, understanding every word and nuance, was a source of irritation when an adult would remember a child was in the room,

 

“Sssshhhh, Margaret. Emma is listening”

“She’s too young to understand.”

Understanding a new reality came with very little effort when her brother arrived. There was the trip to the hospital to see Margaret, excitement and anticipation of a new adventure, not fully understanding the implications of the momentous occasion.

 

"Stay over there," Margaret said, pushing the child away before she had a chance for a kiss or cuddle. Confused Emma stood back looking at the bundle beside the bed.

 

The cane bassinette was carried into the dining room placed carefully on the table to be admired. Curtains closed against the glaring sunlight, Grandparents, Aunt, and Parents gathered around the table, hands reaching into the basinette, talking to each other, making funny sounds. Feeling left out, Emma climbed up onto the chair, levering herself up onto the table to take a look. In the bassinette was a little baby who smelt funny. Reaching out to touch him to discover this new ‘thing’, hands grabbed from behind,

 

“Get away from him! Don’t you scratch him!”

 

Pushed outside into the cold hallway with the door slammed shut, from feelings of alienation, resentment and hurt grew an understanding this brother was more important than her, the closed door with its handle up high on the polished oak door, making the statement she was not included.

 

Fortunately for Jack for that was his name since well before he was a twinkle in his parents eye, conformed to every one of Margarets expectations. He was cute, he cuddled, he smiled, and he did everything a baby should do. Margaret knew then her instincts had been correct, there was something wrong with Emma, it had nothing to do with lack of mothering skills. Jack was perfect, Emma was difficult. Emma had become her nemeses.

Resentment of this little brother who smelt like urine grew as Emma felt she was being pushed further away.

 

Slim and pretty in her new party dress, Margaret was rushing with last minute details for the garden party.

 

"Mummy, I dont feel well," cried Emma clutching at the pretty dress with its petticoats fluffing it out like a cushion.

 

Brushing the pesky child aside, "Stop it, you are fine, you're just looking for attention."

 

Cultivation was the essence of social climbing, a lawn full of upper echelon executives and their wives, Ed's colleagues milling around the back lawn, talking, eating and drinking, wine glasses in hand, admiring the roses, a general hum of geniality in the heady floral scent permeating the magical scene of the dance of social niceties.

 

"Grandma, I dont feel well, I want to go and see Mummy."

 

"No, Ducky, she is busy."

 

"Grandad, I dont feel well, I want to go and see Mummy."

 

Emma passed out.

 

Memories of that time re emerged under hypnosis thirty odd years later, a memory terrifying in its repeated experience. Bright lights, White strangers, Blind terror, seeing Margaret, Pat and Sam in the doorway, the story of which was relayed to her mother many years later and remembered with horror and regret.

 

During those early years the almost intuitive understanding of the growing anger was balanced by the steadying presence of Grandparents.

 

"Mr Barton, congratulations you have a son."

 

The call from the hospital initiated the male ritual of handing out the cigars to the male occupants of the male dominated office. A lot of back slapping ensued as though it was Ed who had done all the hard work when the phone rang again,

 

"Aahhh Mr Barton, sorry, but we have made a mistake, you have a daughter."

 

"God damn it!," said the deflated Ed, "Don't you know the difference between a girl and boy?'

 

Breast feeding was something the young mother had wanted to do, but wasnt to be because whatever milk had been there must have dried up in the intervening 7 days.  Pay off for persistence was sore nipples and a hungry baby, so it was agreed bottle feeding would be easier on mother and staff. Finally Margaret had enough space to lose herself to the wonder of mother hood delighted in the sounds and smells of a new baby.

 

Despite her fascination with the tiny, tiny nails as her baby slowly stretched her fingers inside their crinkled tissue skin somewhere within, there was a nagging discomfort, almost an inner knowledge something was wrong. She couldn’t understand why her new baby was so stiff when cuddled, why this little stranger wouldn’t drop her head into the curve of her arm the way she had seen other babies do, and why there was a push away when gathered close into the body. What really bothered her the most was how the baby wouldn’t look her in the eye.

 

Margaret watched her baby focus on hand movements, unable to reconcile her baby's silence, the only sound emitted appearing to be more from recreation than from distress.  As far as Margaret was concerned babies voiced complaint whether it be pain, spots, rashes, too hot, too cold, her baby did none of this.

 

Four weeks of hospital, the prospect of being a mother, the responsibility of this small person almost overwhelming, the baby was home and all settled into a routine. Still not convinced of her mothering skills, Margaret turned to her mother Pat for enlightenment.

 

"Dont be silly, it's all part of having a new baby." she was told but for the life of her she was unable to accept this piece of advice.

 

Weeks it seemed went by before the proud parents could agree on a name. Pat was walking to work one day, possibly it was the acrid smell of the meat works, who knows, but a name suiting all appeared from the ether, Emma Marie.

 

Aged nine months Emma became a toddler, Ed looking particularly dapper in his cut away shirt looking macho as only a bald man can, hunkered down opposite Sam, Margaret's father, encouraging the baby now toddler to walk between them.  

 

Two and a half years on and Margaret was pregnant again, this time with the long awaited son and heir to the family fortune of nothing. Swollen with Toxemia, a potentially dangerous condition for pregnant women the new baby's imminent arrival obviously created an issue. He certainly created an issue for Emma after he was born.

 

Late stages of pregnancy and there was a turning point in the relationship between mother and daughter. Emma fixed her mother with a puzzled stare after being slapped for the first time causing the hairs on the back of Margaret's neck to leap to attention. No amount of searching the childs face for a response gave Margaret any clues as to her thoughts, the wide eyed stare giving nothing away. Without a word, Emma turned and stomped outside.

 

Here was a child happy to exist in her own world, a total enigma to her mother, suddenly becoming by definition a monster, implementing a well considered plan of action. The way Margaret remembers this occasion years later, it was as though a two and half year old Emma took her daily planner outside with the intention of logically scheduling a daily ritual of harassment for two years hence, only to return indoors with the intent to implement that plan effective immediately.

 

Question, how does a child effectively persecute an adult? Easy, just stand there and yell, claw at her skirts, legs, anything within grasp, scaring her enough to worry about toppling over. What parent hasn’t experienced the stress levels created by a two year old, an age when they become very aware of their power and use it with alacrity? As a small person, it was Emma's privilege to respond to Margaret's sudden ability to notice her existence by making a general nuisance of herself, doing anything to encourage her to take note, pay attention, focus on her even if was to hit and scream.  In frustration Margaret would lock Emma in her room for respite, listening to the banging and crashing reverberate around the quiet house the noise increasing incremental to the rise in temper. Imagination running wild visualizing each and every item as it was heaved across the room, with the resulting thud or crash, the possibility of breaking glass ever present, the young mum would sigh a sound of soulful resignation levering her swollen body up the stairs to release the little thug from her cell. 

 

Having been locked in there for what seemed to Emma at that age an eternity, the broiling anger within her tiny frame would almost explode as a piece of furniture was levered up, moved from one wall to another, picking up toys and throwing regardless of what they hit. With the ever increasing boredom came frustration, the four grey walls closing in as in any  torture chamber, escaping when the door finally opened heralding the beginnings of a new start, stomping a warning as they thundered downstairs and into the next foray of altercation.

 

When not persecuting her mother, a game played was ‘hide’ where by finding a corner behind furniture and hunkering down there would be a silence in which her soul could rest. Margaret would quietly move about doing her thing sometimes singing to herself in a self absorbed fashion, oblivious to the child and her whereabouts. The quietness and solitude of being on her own would linger, waiting, hoping, wondering if or when her mother would notice her absence. Imagination ever present, peace was accompanied by imaginery ‘friends’ at the time very real, one of whom was named Jennifer, playing and talking sharing their secrets with one another, never to be told to the world outside. How long Emma stayed hidden we dont know, it wasn’t until hunger, thirst or boredom would take her away from the quiet world of fantasy, forcing a readiness to start again, the world of Margaret.

 

Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella were fairy stories of epic proportions in the child's imagination, playing the roles, recreating their worlds of beauty, happiness and love. The large white house became a palace in which her role was the princess, the balcony where in her imagination a slight movement of the hand would wave gracefully to the thronging multitude below. Roses, a grand entrance of Oak walls, the comforting smells and sounds of her Grandmother humming to herself while cooking, walking with her to work, holding her hand skipping over the cracks in the pavement, her Grandfather, Sam singing Waltzing Matilda while tending to his roses, these were the warm memories of early childhood.

'Cutting of the Cake' followed by the inevitable kiss, was the first clue of the disdain held by the Bride for her Groom. A quick glance away, a look of disgust quickly covered by an obligatory false smile feeling rather like a performer, the show must go on however unpalatable.

The day had begun blowing with a chill factor of zero, moving into the plus register towards the later half of the afternoon with the appearance of the sun. Wedding Dress discarded forever symbolic of a travesty of falsehoods and misconceptions, the bride faced her future. Outside waited the peacock strutting  his stuff pacing as a stud ready for his mate, no doubt looking forward to the night ahead. Dressed in her "Going Away' outfit the young bride moved with a bravado not felt joining him with a jaunty trot across the grass finishing the pas de deux with the final flourish of a quick turn to face the camera, and a click of the heels with a perky salute. The look of dread was unmistakeable, quickly hidden by a false smile,  there was no physical contact, no eye contact, in fact Bride and Groom looked more like casual strangers than a newly married couple.

The honeymoon could only be described as a 'Slam against the Hard Wall of Reality'. From her sponge bag to her Vagina everything formerly private had become available for use. Privacy had become a matter for negotiation, at worst a dutiful obligation. The act of sex itself was performed in absentia having learnt the art of escaping elsewhere during the proceedings.

Negotiation, yep, that is what it was all about, they bought a section, and the man of the house decided it was time to start a family. In retaliation the lady of the house negotiated with her parents to jointly buy a large white stacco house in one of the better suburbs of Wellington.

Falling pregnant was as easy as 1,2,3, wham bam thank you mam and there it was the wee embryo. Even pregnancy was easy, from there on in, it was downhill.

'Bloody awful woman!' were the mutterings in the household. Ed's parents had come for the 'launch' of their new grandchild. A sign of things to come, the baby wouldnt or couldnt conform to the regimented scheduling laid down by the paternal grandparents. Tickets stating their ETA on board a ship bound for Australia within the week was putting pressure on the 'Bloody Awful Woman' to utilise some of her more imaginative motivational speeches to hurry proceedings along.

Listening to the sounds of the morning winding down, singing out farewells to husband and father as they left for work, waving a casual hurrah to her mother when she popped her head around the door before leaving the house silent, Margaret alone in the big bed of her marriage, wallowed in the discomfort of late pregnancy snuggling deeper into her blankets. Nothingness became a world of frenzied activity when the door slammed open giving entry to the black mirriah that was her mother in law. 

 

“Selfish little bitch…” she snarled, “you stole my son… You’re a liar and a cheat and whatever he saw in you I’ll never know.”

The harridan at the foot of the bed with green stilleto stare had a white knuckled grip on the iron railings hurling a vindictive maelstrom of abuse at her daughter in law for everything from the day the earth first began its orbit to daring fall pregant. 

 

Hating the woman with withering contempt, Margaret felt helpless under the onslaught, sobbing hysterically, unable to control the convulsions which had set in. Fear such as she had never felt before etched its way into her consciousness, the old witch seeing it too yelling, 

 

“Stop it!” the harriden screamed, then dropping her voice to a more menacing tone,  “…..as if you haven’t done enough! Now you’re trying to kill my grandchild. Stop It!  Do you hear?”

That altercation had a huge impact. In no position to fight back, Margaret came away feeling devoured. Her self -esteem badly beaten. There was to be no return match.

The next day under doctors instructions, the in laws were gone. Three days later after thirty six hours of difficult labour, forceps, and tangled umbilical cord finally the person that was to be Margaret's nemesis was born.   Weak from the struggle for life, the baby girl was taken away for specialist care, concern voiced she may not live. For seven days their only interaction was through glass, where the new mother would watch strangers bath and feed her baby,  leaving feelings of inadequacy to replace those of maternal pride.

"Mrs Barton if your daughter had been a son, she wouldn’t have survived."  Margaret was told.

Years later the daughter often wondered if that should have been the case.

 

 

He turned, looked at her in complete surprise with a secretive smile hovering over a face set with certain smugness, ego fed with the liquid cream of self gratification.  

Margaret's patience waiting for the moment when he would ask her had run thin, impulsive at best, unwise at worst her conscience sat deep when letters arrived from home advising to act correctly towards her hosts in the aftermath of Val's abrupt departure. 

Those letters didn't tell her to 'marry' the man as repayment.  How Margaret came to that conclusion, was, quite frankly, beyond everyone's ken. 

It was just before Christmas and her father rang to say her Grandmother was unwell. Quite apart from a genuine concern, Margaret grabbed at the news. It was the excuse she was looking for. Unofficially engaged for two months, she was finding the pressures of living with future in laws and a too protective fiance suffocating. 

The relief when boarding the 'Monowai' was almost unbelievable, her feet hardly touching the deck. The sun seemed brighter, the air fresher and people kept a comfortable distance. She was her own person again and had almost forgotten how good that felt. 

Meeting new people without being introduced as 'my' cousin, my 'fiance' and making new friends without being herded back into line was so liberating. Seeing her parents again was good too. Time, distance and changed circumstances had opened what seemed to be a whole new space between them that was mutually comfortable. 

"Grandma is a little better, looking forward to seeing you." her mother announced from the front seat of the car, before continuing, "Oh, yes a huge bunch of flowers arrived for you this morning."

"Shit." Margaret's heart sank, the walls were closing in again. Pink peonies they were, not half as nice as the bowl of blue delphiniums her Mum had standing in the front room windows complimenting the new delphinium blue drapes.

"Lounge looks good Mum." Margaret commented taking a long view from the kitchen and on through the French Doors.

"Think so?" her Mum muttered reaching for the kettle.

"Yeah the flowers are amazing. Had visitors?"

"Mm, I suppose you could say that."

Years after her Mums death Margaret was crossing the road in the local village, head down, thoughts drifting here and there as old people's thoughts tend to do, when she glanced up looking for the curb and saw blue delphiniums in the florist window. She realised for the first time, She was the visitor her Mothers flowers were for. 

A week at home and the letters began to arrive. The cramped heavily indented writing, the protestations of a love that dumped the total responsibility for his happiness squarely on her shoulders and when Margaret wrote back, it was from a sense of obligation, nothing more. After all Ed and his parents had been there for her. 

A new job, new male friends who were put off by her unofficial engagement status trotted her around town like a favourite cousin, Margaret missed Ed not at all. She would write and tell him what she was doing and where she had been and who with, before long an engagement ring arrived care of Her Majestys post, complete with a letter detailing the imminent arrival of its sender. 

On the day, the wind was blowing razor blades. One of the first ashore, Margaret was in his arms before she knew it and didnt mind a bit. She had forgotten his size, the smell of him, his confidence, his dominance, his wonderful smile and twinkling eyes. In the car on the way home though, Margaret noticed her parents weren't so easily charmed. 

"Why don't they like me?" he asked.

"Don't know. They're like that with all my friends." Which she silently had to admit wasn't quite true, or for the most part it wasn't, with the exception of Val. 

From Master Mariner to pay clerk on a construction gang, this was to be Ed's future. By the time the wedding day rolled in, Margaret knew whatever vague mixture of feelings she had for Ed they didn't add up to love. Feeling the need to rationalise her reasoning for going through with marriage to a man she did not love aside from feeling obliged to uphold a commitment made, she looked about at marriages of her acquaintances. However auspicious the beginnings, most marriages at that time tended to end up with two people making the best of a barely tolerable situation.  

Two very subtle but important differences making the best of anything almost impossible were missed in Margaret's analysis. He hated her penchant for the truth,

"Stop building federal cases out of nothing." He would say. Ed's interpretation of nothing were her often confused and admittedly confusing concerns about matters of personal integrity, while his preoccupations were with image and bare boned matters of fact which nearly drove her crazy. 

They walked down the aisle, made promises they had no intention of keeping, until when signing the register, in hopes of giving a modicum of meaning to the day, Margaret made a silent vow.

"Whatever the cost, whatever the obstacles, I would remain Ed's partner till death indeed did us part."

"Hannah" whispered Val

Snatching Margaret's suitcase, Val rushed forward dumping the receptacle at the feet of the grotesque man pushing past to head up the stairs curving away to the left. 

Left to her own devises revulsion gnawed from her insides,  instincts telling Margaret man and place was not to be taken lightly. From his skin, to his singlet, to his bristled bald head and and slit lidded slow blinking frog like eyes, he was grey, the only totally grey man she had ever seen. 

"Ah, Miss Russell's friend," he lisped in his broken English while peering closely into her face, "she didn't tell me you were beautiful." 

He moved a little closer, Margaret's stomach was about to expel its contents, watching with macabre fascination his thick grey lips stretch thick strings of stale saliva. "If you need a man," he continued, jerking his head in the direction of an open bedroom door further down the hall, "You have only to knock."

Grabbing her bag, Margaret took off up the stairs as if the fires of Hades were after her, her fathers words screaming in her ears. 

"If anyone tells you you're beautiful Ducky, don't you believe it, they're after something, I'm telling you." 

Seemed he was right. 

The girls were to share a room and a bed, the bathroom it seemed was also to be shared with the other inhabitants of the household. 

"Well, what do you think?" Val asked.

"I think I need some air. You coming?" Margaret was heading for the door. 

"Don't complain for God's sake, not at the rent we're paying" said Val in answer to Margaret's uneasiness about the preferred living arrangements, "the breakfasts are marvelous."

The next morning proved her right. A great tray of steaming mince, toast, breakfast cereal and stewed fruit was carried to the downstairs dining room by a somewhat brassy and voluptuous blond. A couple of overt questions and Margaret soon learnt this peculiar woman was Hannah's housekeeper, sleeping partner, cook, floor scrubber and mother to a four year boy, father unknown. 

With the morning paper spread out in front of them options were discussed of live - in child care, live - in house maiding, live - in hospital aiding, but for whatever reason nothing seemed to be suitable. Frustration was mounting when Margaret remembered Mrs Simpson, who had told her to look her up if she was ever in Sydney. 

"We can fit you both in on a trial basis." Mrs Simpson told them the following day. Need being a good motivator, first day out Margaret did well. Not Val though, she hated selling and it showed. 

The house on the next street nearer the city that backed on to 'theirs' was also owned by Hannah which, unlike the one where the girls were staying, had been gutted, rebuilt and turned into tiny self contained flats. As the rebuilding progressed, the girls from across the way were invited to share their communal kitchen. Sophisticated, expensive clothes, elegant, refined, attractive and from the way they spoke, well educated Margaret and Val enjoyed their company. Of some peculiarity however, were the odd hours these girls kept, a question left unanswered for some time until some of the workmen 'moon-lighted' in their front hall after work hours. 

A letter arrived, an announcement of some magnitude changed Margarets life in a way she could never have imagined. Val's mother was arriving, Val went into immediate decline. One look at Old Hannah and Les Girls in the kitchen, Val's mother had them out of there bags and all into a taxi before the girls had a chance to blink. 

"What were you thinking of letting Val stay in a place like that!" said Mrs Russell the first chance she got. 

Margaret couldn't understand how it was her fault, she was just following Val's lead. Finding herself in situation which was fast getting out of control, Margaret now had to make some quick decisions of her own. Val's mood swings were becoming more random, frighteningly so, added to which they now found themselves at an expensive new address on the other side of town the affordability of which was well outside Margaret's income. 

Her mother's cousin and his wife lived in Melbourne, 

"Could we come to stay, just until we find our feet?"

"Yes." the cousins wife said, "You'll be company for Ed," (their only child and adult son) then in answer to Margarets next question she added, "Oh, you didnt know?...Yes he is. His divorce went through some months ago, so he's living with us for the moment..No, the wee girl is still with her mother in Scotland...Yes, something to do with Scottish law I believe, I dont really understand it..."

And this is where the real story starts.. and ends.....

Margaret in this time had completed one year's night school at the Wellington School of Art, had started the second and was seriously considering doing the Third full time the following year. Some where in there she met Val Russell, influential, charismatic, insane, instrumental in creating the roller coaster that was to become Margaret's life.

" Studio Assistant required for making shop mannequins. No experience necessary." the ad read. Eighteen, her eighth job in five years. Life to Margaret wasn't about 'work' painting was her passion, her love, work was a means to an end. Her circle of friends, her family and acquaintances looked on painting as a hobby not to be taken seriously, Val on the other hand took art and its world very seriously. 

Coming from an influential family in Wellington Val had the luxury of living her dream, of appreciating and being involved in the art world, Margaret however was a working girl, having to support herself. Besotted with the charm of high society, the freedom of this new world to not conform to expectations of others Margaret played the game of the rich girl's sycophant, enjoying the reflected glory of being accepted into a world of society because of her art. This was a trend which was to escalate for the rest of her life culminating in disaster. 

Well into her ninth job with one of largest soap and toothpaste manufacturers in the world, Margaret had been there two years loving every minute of it which was a good thing because Val had gone to Australia to further her career. Ilam, a prestigious Art School in Christchurch was on offer after one year of full time tuition at the Wellington Art School. As luck would have it, Margaret's employers were very accommodating enabling her take up the opportunity by giving her the key to building and telling her to work her own hours. 

All that year Val's parents stayed in touch with Margaret, inviting her to visit not that she took them up on their offer very often, being too busy with work and school. All that changed very quickly. It was time to decide on Ilam, knowing she didnt have the means to support herself and study at the same time, there was very real reluctance to burden her parents with the added expense when they were still struggling to get on their feet. 

1 July, booked on a flying boat to Australia to meet Val in Sydney. It had all happened so quickly, Pat and Sam were less than happy with this latest impulsive move by their mercurial daughter, but even less happy about this latest decision was Margaret herself who was asking,

"What the hell am I doing?"

This was the question she would ask of her self for the rest of her life, 

"Why?"

"Convoy Disperse" came the signal from the dark, sealed orders were opened and routeing instructions were read. 

Carrying Sherman tanks equipped with .3" machine guns stowed in tool boxes as cargo meant every time gunnery crews needed a piece of equipment the machine gun had to be removed, later dumped. After every unloading of troops and cargo the ship's crew would find guns tucked away under winches, down ventilators, in lifeboats or any crevice big enough to hold a gun. Thoughts of returning their collection to the base in Tilbury were quickly forgotten, instead throwing the weapons over the side in order to avoid bringing retribution on the heads of the hapless tank crews. 

Loading and unloading of heavy machinery was a treacherous business, derrick guys would come loose dropping Sherman tanks smashing them to oblivion, jeeps were driven off the edge of pontoons, vehicles were hoisted out of the hold in a shower of mirror glass, canopies, mud-guards and fenders from neighboring vehicles. A performance worthy of Slapstick comedy if it had been anytime other than war. In Peace time Insurance company's and Unions would have had a field day. But this was war, and with war came its waste, it's almost predisposed comedy of errors, a lifetime of experience never forgotten. 

The TABER PARK the story of which has already been told, historically one of the last ships to be torpedoed off the coast of East Anglia March 12 1945. 

Ed was now father to a baby girl, and with increased responsibilities came the appointment as Chief Officer on the new ship EMPIRE WAPPING.  Unfortunately the old Captain was the same one who had saved Ed's life off the coast of East Anglia, he was also an old soak, drowning his sorrows in the bottle, leaving Ed as acting Master of the Vessel. Ed discovered the art of lying, lying like a flatfish to ships agents, pilots, ships chandlers, bunkering agents, covering for the dear old Captain which came to an abrupt end when they had their final confrontation,

"I have had enough of covering for you, if you want to lose your Masters ticket that is your affair, but you are not losing mine with it!"

EMPIRE CANYON aged 27 one more trip and Ed would have his Masters Ticket, one of the youngest qualified in the UK at the time. It had taken him just eleven years and 2 months since he stepped foot on his first ship ST MARGARET as Junior Apprentice two months shy of his sixteenth birthday having sailed 50,000 miles the equivalent of twice around the world. Childhood dreams formulated on the sands dunes of Mablethorpe realised, finally, he was Master of his Destiny. 

Homeward bound off the Brazilian coast, as Second in Command the Ships Captain passed away. Radioing the owners with the news and informing them of his decision to change course for Rio de Janiero for autopsy and interment and to await for the arrival of another Captain, Ed was surprised by the reply,

"DO NOT ENTER RIO STOP WE CONFIRM YOU IN COMMAND STOP LOG MASTER'S DEATH AS NATURAL CAUSES AND BURY AT SEA STOP WE AWARE OF TERMINAL ILLNESS STOP BRING SHIP HOME."

After that voyage Ed made two of the biggest decisions of his life costing him dearly. Called into the offices of the shipping line for whom he was working, he was given an offer he couldn't refuse. 

Emotionally destroyed his world had fallen apart having found his wife in bed with another man. Holding a gun to his wife's head the drama watched by their five year old daughter, he turned and walked out of the house and his daughter's life forever before his temper got the better of him. 

Now faced with the prospect of demotion, this was the final humiliation, unable to see beyond the dark tunnel ahead he walked out of that office never to return to sea. 

Bitterness tasting sour never left him, following him for the rest of his life. Separated and alienated from his daughter for thirty or more years, the heart ache, the guilt, lies and distrust formed over those years promised to  hurt souls not yet born, damage the souls of women not yet known. Worst of all was the pain felt by his daughter when her father walked out on her, a daughter Ed wanted to love but knew not how. 

Armed with a Smith and Wesson 0.38 revolver he never learnt to use, a hard hat and a head set, Ed was in control of 24 men and a large amount of artillery. 

ACK-ACK  ACK-ACK- ACK-ACK. 

"ALL ACK AND BOFORS LOAD AND STAND BY. FOUR INCH SECURE AN STAND DOWN" he barked out as the planes came over with their deadly cargoes. Then he saw a tracer going up from the AA forts down river, looking for all the world like a plane on fire coming straight at them. 

"TARGET STARBOARD BOW TRACKING RIGHT. BOFORS SHOOT. ALL OTHER GUNS HOLD YOUR FIRE" Ed yelled down the mouthpiece. 

They had no idea they were seeing one of the first 'Doodlebugs'. Despite the Bofor's tracer indicating that it was spot on, the plane continued flying straight and level, the tracer actually bouncing off its nose. 

Normandy Beach landings, the anchorage area was enormous. Six months prior to the invasion a man would be asked if he would volunteer for the invasion fleet. If he said yes, he Seaman's Identity Card was stamped with a large 'V'. Not so a month before the invasion, the question became a formality,  with the sound of a loud 'THUMP!' the 'V' stamp would come down on the hapless mans ID card regardless of the answer.

The men were told to expect shot and shell, blood and guts. They wrote their Wills, handing their documents over for safe keeping. With his good clothes sorted and sent ashore, Ed had time to think of his new wife back in Scotland. What went through Ed's mind, how he felt on that long wait can only be imagined. How many thousands of men were there at the landing, Merchant Seamen, Volunteers, and enlisted men all aware this could be their last day. 

In London, there were a pool of 2,000 seamen of all ranks and description to replace the killed and wounded; there were replacement guns and ammunition to replace those damaged and expended, and for all the preparations, it was a piece of cake. 

The only action the MT 120 crew saw were the German guns on Cape Gris-Nez, the French side of the narrowest part of the Straits of Dover. The first occasion was the flicker of light on the French Coast reminiscent of summer lightening followed by a rumbling roar like an express train passing overhead ending with massive water columns growing out of the sea as the shells landed between the ships and shore. They never hit anything. 

The Isle of Wight and the 'Z Buoy' was important because it was the meeting point where most convoys converged in the middle of the night either departing or returning marking the conjunction of the mine swept channels from the western half of the south coast of England to the East before turning south to the two American beachheads UTAH and OMAHA and the three British beachheads SWORD, JUNO AND GOLD. 

It was silent, pitch black and the Captain had gone to bed, leaving his Second Officer on the bridge as Officer of the Watch. His job was to keep an eye on the blue stern light of the ship ahead when suddenly, as though someone had thrown a massive switch the whole area lit up like Piccadily Circus in peacetime with dozens of ships lit up like Xmas trees weaving in and out. Then just as suddenly someone would throw the massive switch again plunging the entire area into total darkness, leaving no night vision at all in the inky darkness. All the man could do was to totally focus on the blue light ahead hoping to God it was the right one. 

This night Ed got it wrong, he was following a Big Tank Landing craft straight into a mine field! 

AR-AR. AR-AR. Flashed the blue signalling lamp. It took what seemed to be forever for a reply to come back as a long flash.

"WHAT IS YOUR NUMBER?"

"LST 146" Came the response confirming Ed 's worst fears. 

He had to think fast looking to the Port side for the Portsmouth Light house known as the Nab Tower. Reasonably confident there were no mines closer into shore, a quick glance at the tide tables confirmed a flood tide with High Water was due with in the half hour. As a bonus they were light in cargo, making the decision easy to make. Ed bought the ship around to port nice and easy. 

"MT120. WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO MY PRETTY MAID?" Came the signal from the Nab

"I AM LOOKING FOR A BOY NAMED Z, SIR, SHE SAID. HAVE YOU NABBED HIM?' Ed replied

"NAUGHTY GIRL. Z IS NOT IN MY BACK YARD. GOOD HUNTING."

'Z' was found, the Chief Officer when he later discovered the convoy was someway ahead and the reason was not a happy chappy, but the Captain thought it a huge joke. 

A Fog Buoy was a scoop towed by each ship on a line about hundred fathoms long (600 feet) which threw up a plume of water for the ship astern to keep station on. Two days into the fog the ships Master (Captain) hit the bottle and took no further interest in proceedings quickly followed by the Chief Officer who took to his bunk with recurrence of Malaria leaving Ed virtually in command. 

On the bridge was first trip Second Mate  Ed and first trip Third Mate Charlie each doing watch six hours on six hours off. Ed would go up to the bridge at the beginning of his watch only to find Charlie had lost the fog buoy and had little idea where he was in relation to the rest of the convoy. It was time to go hunting, looking through fog for the blue stern light of the ship ahead.

"YOU ARE TOO CLOSE!" the blue night signalling lamp would start flickering 

"I KNOW. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR FOG BUOY?" Ed replied

"WAIT" Ed would listen for their standby man to run aft to check, and their lamp would start again, "MY BUOY IS OK. YOU ARE STILL TOO CLOSE".

"I KNOW STOP I AM LOOKING FOR YOUR FOG BUOY STOP WHAT IS YOUR NUMBER?"

Ed by this time had calculated he was the third ship in  the fourth column, his number 34, the bloke ahead should be 24. 

"22 REPEAT 22 STOP WHAT IS YOUR NUMBER?"

"THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT." Ed replied.

It appeared Charlie had managed to pass through Column Three without seeing or hitting anything and Ed spends the rest of his shift trying to be just as clever. Having found and followed the fog buoy of ship No. 24 Ed leaves Charlie to it with the admonishment to not lose it again. 

Six hours later, "Where's the fog buoy?"

"I'm terribly sorry but I seemed to have lost sight of it about an hour ago."

Seven long days and nights of the same, never forgotten, seven days in which Ed learnt the meaning of responsibility. 

They had known for a long time there was to be an invasion of Europe but nobody knew when. The first sign of its imminence was the anchorage at Methil Roads crowded with a bewildering assortment or craft. Two days later the Fort Lajoie was sent back north for 'structural alterations'. Ed was sent on a gunnery course learning the operation and handling of modern guns, 20mm Oerlikon, 0.5" Browning, 40mm Bofors, Mk.XV Semi - automatic Dual Purpose 4".

FORT LAJOIE  had been renamed as the MT 120. Ed's role had changed to Gun Control in charge a large range of artillery as well as 12 members of the Royal Artillery Maritime Regiment and 12 members of the Royal Navy Defensively Equipped Merchant Ships. 

Fully laden with half a regiment, tanks and trucks, the MT 120 left Tilbury and moved out to anchorage at Southend and waited. June 6 1944 the first landings were announced on the Normandy Beaches and still the MT 120 waited. A week later they moved back up river and anchored off Tilbury to go alongside at daylight. 

That night the air raid sirens went and for the first time the crew went to Action Stations in earnest.