To say that my mother brought me up according to what are ironically
known as Victorian Values is understating the case. Until the age of 10,
I did not know that sex existed. Inevitably, I picked up snippets of wildly inaccurate
information and speculation from other girls.
When I questioned my mother about sex, she initially replied that it was all lies.
She could not duck the issue indefinitely of course and after years of pestering I
was finally told the basics of reproduction. At this time she started to
campaign relentlessly on the absolute, total and complete necessity for
virginity until marriage.
I was 50 before the truth began to emerge. My mother was dying, slowly and painfully. For most of
my life mother went out of her way to keep me apart from her sister, my
aunt. Eventually aunt summoned me to her home, with a line in
a letter about 'something she had to tell me'. She bridled for a few
minutes and said 'perhaps I should wait until you mother is dead'. As
these words were said , I knew what was coming. I replied; "It's about my
parentage isn't it?"
It transpired that far from being a virginal girl
and a virtuous wife, my mother had many affairs before her first
marriage -- and several after it. I was the product of a brief fling in
the south of France and not the daughter of the man I had known as my
father, who died when I was 14. There was a huge temptation to tell my
mother that the secret was out, but she was so pathetically ill and
close to death by then, I could not bring myself to do this.
How do I feel about my mother's hypocrisy and deception? Great
bitterness and deep resentment. How do I feel about knowing my genetic
inheritance? Great relief. There was a domino effect of a whole panorama
of inconsistencies falling into place. For example my dark olive skin
that tans so easily. My ongoing dislike of gloomy British winters. My
effortless fluency in French. My passionate Mediterranean temperament.
The profound sense of alienation I felt for most of my life in Anglo
Saxon society.
