Setting the record straight
I am puzzled to meet people in Oxford who know my sister, Mary Yoe, and express surprise that I, too, lived in Amsterdam before coming to Oxford. Apparently, Mary tells them that her relocation with two young children from Holland to Britain was achieved entirely through her own efforts – with no assistance from anyone. If this were a fairytale, Mary’s nose might have begun to lengthen at this juncture before growing exceedingly long as she further elaborated her story. Francis and I, according to Mary, were long-term Oxford residents when she and her children arrived from Amsterdam, and we provided accommodation for only a few days before heartlessly turning them out.
One time, a woman took the trouble to dangle a child’s frock in front of my face. “Mary made this for my daughter,” she said pointedly. “And she also made this….” Another item of clothing was paraded before me. It was bizarre. I’d never met this woman before but she obviously felt she knew me very well and could, therefore, pass judgement on me. Her body language indicated righteous indignation. ‘Oh….I get it’ I thought. I am to witness evidence of Mary’s generosity and to contrast it with my own lack of charity in my treatment of such a good sister. It was difficult not to marvel at Mary’s talent for concocting a story which evoked sympathy for herself as a seemingly hapless victim while simultaneously arousing such unjustified resentment on her behalf.
The reality was quite different. In 1979, after living in Amsterdam for about six years, Francis and I decided we should return to Britain to give our 3 year-old son an English education. We gave ourselves a year to make preparations for the relocation which would involve selling my boutique among other things. At the time Mary was working for me as a seamstress. She had gone through an acrimonious split with Tony, the father of her two children. He came home drunk one night and she flogged him with a leather belt to the point where, as she herself put it, she thought she was going to kill him. Tony wasn’t a violent type at all, so receiving a lashing while paralytic with alcohol didn’t make him feel too happy. Mary had nowhere to go with her children and gladly took up the offer of shelter from me. When things calmed down, Tony did the proper thing and moved out, allowing Mary and the children to return to their squatter apartment.
Inevitably, as the younger sister who’d taken on the role of Mary’s protector for a number of years, I felt guilty at the thought of leaving Mary behind when we left Amsterdam. When it came to informing her about our planned departure, I said she could have the shop to run as it would provide her with an adequate income, but I also gave her the option of returning to England with us. Mary’s immediate response of “I’ll go back with you” took me by surprise. I expected her to want time to think over the options and let me know her decision in due course. There was no hurry, we had a whole year ahead of us. But Mary did not hesitate. She was clearly desperate to leave Amsterdam and here was her lifeline. Staying behind could have left her vulnerable to potential problems with Tony; relations between them were still tense and unpleasant and she would not have the security we provided for her and her children.
Francis, who was not keen on taking Mary and her children with us, unfortunately, ended up doing most of the donkey work required to bring both families and possessions from Amsterdam to our rented Cotswolds house. We rented accommodation in Chipping Campden and Witney before moving into our own house in Oxford. By then, we’d been living with Mary and her children for about eight months without asking her to contribute towards the rent or expenses, but Mary grew resentful when it became apparent that – now that we were in Oxford – we were expecting her to get a job and pay her own way. When asked what her plans were, her reply was that she’d take a secretarial course and, if unsuccessful in getting a job, she’d go to Canada with her children and live with our parents. Mum and Dad were in their sixties and living in a small one-bedroom condo in Toronto.
Things came to a head when, in an argument, Mary shouted at Francis that she didn’t have thousands of pounds like we did – conveniently forgetting that she’d spent virtually all her savings on an extravagant holiday in Greece a few months before leaving Amsterdam. In another verbal assault, Mary demanded why we didn’t tell her this was the way things would turn out, because otherwise she would have remained in Amsterdam. We were at fault for saving money for our big move to England and for lacking the psychic ability to look into her future.
It was a shattering experience to realise that Mary and I were falling out yet again. In the past, I used to blame Tony’s influence on Mary for causing the many rifts between us but this time Tony wasn’t here and I had to accept that I’d been deluded all along. I loved Mary and believed absolutely that we were the closest of sisters and best of friends but it was an ideal not shared by her. When we were children, having a disagreement with Mary meant being physical and she usually won because she was good at ensuring that she delivered the last painful blow, or pinched you or tugged your hair really hard just as you were walking away in the belief that the fight was over. One time after we’d had an argument, the thought of Mary planning some form of revenge filled me with dread. I’d won some money playing bingo at the school fair and suddenly I knew that Mary was going to steal it from my locker. I raced up to the dormitory but it was too late: my purse was lying open in the drawer, all the money taken from it. Yet when Mary peed in her pants because she was too frightened to ask permission of the class monitor to go to the toilet, it was to me – and not her usual set of friends – that she turned for help in concealing her wet behind.
Our relationship as young women was no less fraught: Mary was capable of cutting off contact as easily as if she were turning off a tap. On Mary’s twenty-seventh birthday, when I was two months pregnant with my first child, Francis and I visited her at the squatter flat Tony had found for them in Amsterdam. Eight months earlier we’d helped out at baby Sonie’s premature birth. Now we watched as Mary fed and bathed Sonie before placing him in a baby rocker and swivelling it round to face the wall. As Mary liked going to the movies and had not had a night out with Tony in a long time, we offered to pay for cinema tickets and to babysit as her birthday present. Mary appeared to like our offer and it was arranged that she would phone me when they had a day in mind. I waited expectantly for Mary’s phone call – the days turning into weeks and then months – before realising with a dull ache that she did not intend to contact me. I racked my brain but could not find a reason; we had not fallen out or even had an argument recently. Mary’s radio silence through the rest of my pregnancy and at the birth of my first child seven months later was a mystery, an exquisite form of emotional torture. Almost two years elapsed before I would see Mary again and that was when she was in dire straits once more. She’d left Tony after they’d become violent towards each other and needed a place of refuge for herself and her children. She was also desperately in need of a means of earning a living.
Now, in Oxford, Mary and I were once more going through a serious falling out despite having been close for the last three years. And it was at this time that all the previous hurt resurfaced and I felt an overwhelming need to know why she’d broken off contact with me all those years ago when I’d just become pregnant. Mary’s answer was prompt and angry in tone: it was because she’d brought an old dress to me for resale in my boutique and I’d wanted a commission from the sale. So that was the justification for the psychological torment and, presumably, Mary thought the punishment fitted the crime.
One-sided reconciliation does not work
To discover that Mary had created her own mythology about how she came to Oxford, one in which she came across as the feisty protagonist and Francis and I as heartless villains, just took my breath away. I could not help but admire the limitless scope of her talent for self-delusion and manipulation. More than twenty years were to pass before we reconciled once again. I contacted Mary in 2005 and asked if she wanted to meet. She responded positively and Francis and I met with her a number of times. Things seemed to be going well. Our children – now grown-up – have known about the existence of their Oxford aunt and cousins and our history, but we have avoided fomenting any animosity. When my youngest was visiting us and had the opportunity to meet Mary at an Oxford Botanic Garden event, I was pleased that he was happy to do so.
In 2006, Mary’s daughter, Josie, got married. Mary sent email invitations to all family members except me and my family. During this time, Francis and I were meeting with Mary regularly but she didn’t mention Josie’s impending wedding to us even though it was obvious we would hear about it from my other siblings. My sisters in Canada, who knew Mary and I were on good terms again, were very surprised that Francis and I had not been invited.
The last time that we saw Josie was as a rather discourteous seven year-old when she and Sonie, aware of the tensions, adopted a hostile attitude towards us. While I could forgive their stance – after all they were ignorant of the true circumstances of their lives – it was not pleasant to note that Mary refrained from curbing their rudeness even though they were living with us.
Now, after 25 years, it seemed that we were to be regarded as personae non grata – the wicked uncle and aunt? - by Josie. While I did not mind not receiving an invitation (can one demand to be invited to anyone’s wedding?) it seemed to me that – as we were on good terms again – Mary could be kind enough to inform us of her daughter’s wedding and provide some explanation for our not being invited. A little consideration for our feelings would not have gone amiss. But, no, Mary did not do so although we were meeting and communicating by email.
So, it was a little bit of a surprise to receive a phone call from Mary at about the time of Josie’s wedding. Derek, our brother-in-law, was coming to Oxford – could I put him up? Derek was the only family member to come all the way from Canada for Josie’s wedding but Mary was apparently unable or unwilling to accommodate him in her Oxford home. Instead she wanted me to provide board and lodging for her daughter’s wedding guest although I and my family were excluded from attending the event.
Mary always looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Mary Yoe, my ineffable older sister.
