by Pip Granger
And so I listened, and I have wished many times since that I had not. I was too young. It was inappropriate and, ultimately, it was very destructive, because it drove a wedge between my father and me that neither of us was ever able to talk about or get rid of.
11
Goodbye, Pots
‘I’ve decided to send Pots to boarding-school,’ Father announced. ‘He failed that damned eleven-plus thing, and now, according to his reports, he’s failing in that shit-hole of a secondary school. All it’s fit for is churning out guttersnipes and factory fodder, and no son of mine is going to wind up working in a fucking factory.’
The thing about alcoholism is that it gets worse as time goes on, although the rate at which it progresses varies quite considerably from person to person. Some boozers take decades to graduate from the odd drink to dedicated old soak, while others seem to dive in head first and rarely, if ever, come up for air and a nice cup of tea again.
In Mother’s case, losing her drinking companion/ husband was a devastating blow, and the resulting depression and bitterness helped to accelerate her drinking to the point where she was becoming increasingly difficult to live with. Her temper became more and more uncertain as her benders became more frequent, lasted for longer and involved shifting even more booze from glass to gullet. What’s more, she was beginning to lose her moral judgement, and was bringing all sorts of deadbeats home from the pub to puke on our carpets, pee in our pot plants, share her bed and, on occasions, to scare Peter and me half to death during their midnight ramblings. It got so bad that we demanded – and got – bolts to put on the inside of our bedroom doors.
We developed an elaborate system of knocks on the wall to let each other know how we were doing. Two taps meant, ‘Are you OK?’ This enquiry would be answered with one for ‘no’ and three for ‘yes’. Two taps followed by a pause and then another two taps indicated that the tapper was going to attempt to reach the other for company and comfort. The ‘I’m on my way’ signal became an increasingly rare one, because it meant that the one who was moving had to leave their bedroom door unbolted, and there was no telling what we’d come back to. A stranger snoring on your bed was the least of it; we discovered the hard way that they often stole things, broke things, peed themselves when they were asleep, threw up all over the place or set fire to the blankets when a lighted fag dropped from their fingers as they fell into a sodden stupor.
So it was hardly a surprise that Peter was ecstatic to hear that he was going away to school. He had read his fair share of Billy Bunter and Molesworth books, and he thought that life at a boarding-school would be ‘whizzo’, ‘wizard’ and downright wonderful.
‘We’ll have pillow fights in the dorm,’ he told me dreamily. ‘We’ll have midnight feasts and tuck-boxes full of chocolate and biscuits and crisps and everything,’ he added, enjoying the sight of his skin and blister (sister) going green with envy.
I thought there were times when a body could positively dislike her brother, and talk of tuck-boxes was more than enough to do it.
Mother was also keen on the idea of Peter going away to school, but she did not let on immediately. ‘Do I have any say in the matter?’ she asked Father when he made his announcement. Her tone was deceptively mild, but Father was not fooled for a moment.
‘Of course, he’s your son as well. But I can’t see how you could object if you want what’s best for him. You can’t deny the boy’s failing.’
It was true, Mother could not deny it. To her huge disappointment, neither of her children was a conspicuous success in the classroom. If he was in a smaller class, Peter might have learned something. Classes in state schools were huge in those days, sometimes there were as many as forty-nine children in one form, when the maximum allowed, I believe, was fifty. Throughout my school career, I was generally in a class of forty-eight. Needless to say, only the most determined and the most disruptive pupils managed to attract their teacher’s attention in the scrum. Peter’s public school, on the other hand, would have classes of just twelve pupils. Besides, the plan would get one of her kids out of Mother’s hair.
Shortly after the announcement was made, Peter and Gaby embarked on an orgy of shopping in the West End. The list of things that he needed seemed to have no end to it. There was summer uniform, winter uniform, a trunk, a tuck-box, pens, pencils, sports equipment and sports kit, including something called a jock-strap which I did not understand until Peter patiently explained.
‘You know that boys have dangling bits that girls don’t have?’ he asked, and I nodded, having seen them many times. ‘Well, a jock-strap is meant to keep all those bits tucked out of the way, so that when you’re high-jumping or something like that, your balls don’t hit the bar and make you sick, like that time you kicked me in the goolies.’
I remembered the occasion well. ‘Come on, try to kick the ball,’ Peter had instructed for the umpteenth time. I had caught on, though, and shook my head defiantly. The problem was, he was holding the ball, and every time I tried to kick it, he moved it away at the last second, so I came a cropper and landed on my bum. I wasn’t going to fall for it again. ‘I won’t move it this time, I promise,’ he said.
‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’
‘Yep, cross my heart and hope to …’ He never got to finish the oath, because I took a hefty swing at the ball with my navy blue Clark’s sandal. Unfortunately, Peter wasn’t ready: I somehow managed to miss the big leather ball altogether, and my foot hit the far more delicate set that, being a boy, he kept about his person. The poor chap had doubled over in agony and promptly chucked his socks up all over the lawn. I, needless to say, had been mesmerized by the spectacle. It was the first time ever that I had managed to come out on top in one of our games.
Peter, being so much older, had always been able to beat me at everything. Like the time he had got me to swap my sixpence for his penny, on the grounds that his penny was so much bigger in size. He never mentioned value, the ratbag. More recently, he had put a very realistic plastic dog’s turd, bought at the Romford Joke Shop with his pocket money, right in the middle of the hallway. When Mother had discovered it and, believing it to be real, had let out a roar of fury and demanded to know which ‘dirty little bastard’ had made such a disgusting mess, Peter had solemnly pointed at me. I received such a thorough tongue-lashing that Mother didn’t pause for breath long enough for me to explain, so I bent down to pick it up, to show her that it was a fake.
‘You filthy little cow!’ she screamed. ‘Leave that shit alone. Don’t you dare touch it with your bare hands, you idiot. I’ll clear it up.’
Of course, when she tried, she realized she had been had by one of Peter’s practical jokes. That set them both off and they were so busy laughing at me that neither of them ever thought to apologize for the trouble I’d got into, or for calling me a ‘filthy little cow’ when I wasn’t.
When all Peter’s shopping was done, his trunk packed and re-packed, and the long summer holiday had come and gone, it was time to leave for his new school. All the new boys were supposed to meet at Waterloo station, with their trunks and much-envied tuck-boxes. As always, Father wanted to march to a different drummer, and had offered to fly Peter to school in a Tiger Moth. However, Mother put her foot down and declared that he would go by train, just like all the other new boys. ‘That way, we can all wave goodbye, he can get to know some of the other new boys on the journey and, what’s more, he won’t arrive covered in vomit – with any luck. You know he’s always sick in aircraft. Besides, how would you transport that bloody great trunk?’
Common sense prevailed, and when the great day came, Father arrived in the car to take us, along with Peter’s luggage, to the railway station.
When we arrived at sooty old Waterloo, pigeons were perched high in the ornamental iron girders that held the roof up, and cooed their sympathy before loosing their smelly droppings on to the heads and shoulders of the unwary. There were many boys dressed in greyish herringbone su
its milling about, along with their parents. We joined the crowd around the luggage van and added Peter’s trunk to the ones waiting to be loaded on the train. We watched in edgy silence as two porters heaved trunk after trunk effortlessly into the mouth of the van and two more porters stowed them neatly away. Once we had seen Peter’s luggage safely into the van, we all stood about, not knowing quite what to do or to say. Peter was itching to start his adventure, I was struck dumb with misery and Mother, Father and Gaby tried to make small talk that did not degenerate into a screaming row and embarrass us all. Eventually, a little man with a Hitler moustache and patent leather hair appeared and coughed loudly before asking for our attention. Boys and parents waited obediently for the little man to embark on his speech.
‘Good morning, everyone. My name is Watkins, and I am here, with my two colleagues, Mr Soames and Miss Langley, our Matron, to see the boys safely on board and to accompany them all the way to the school. Parents and relatives may, of course, stay for the formalities before our departure. I shall now read out the names of the boys who will be coming with us. Please listen carefully and indicate that you are here by raising your hand and answering “Yes sir,” when your name is called.
‘Andrews, M. Anstruther, P.’ The list went on and on. When his name came, Peter’s hand shot up and he answered ‘Yes sir’ in a loud, clear, ringing and joyful tone that seemed to bounce off the roof. There was no trace of the wobble that had afflicted the voices of some of the other, less keen, boys.
When Mr Watkins was done, he went on to instruct the boys to say their farewells to their families, then to form a crocodile, in pairs, and to proceed to board the train where they would be met by Matron and Mr Soames.
Peter wasn’t even remotely sad. He kissed Mother, shook hands with Father, told Gaby goodbye and finally turned to me. ‘Keep your powder dry, Midget, and stay out of my bedroom,’ he instructed, with a private wink of one of his large, blue-grey eyes. He leaned closer and whispered, ‘And make sure you stay well out of Uncle Will’s way. Whatever you do, don’t get left alone with him.’ Then he ruffled my hair and joined the crocodile of boys climbing on to the train.
I felt desolate as I watched my brother moving slowly towards the carriage door, ready to be swallowed up whole by the long, snake-like train. Blinking back the tears, I watched some of the other families making their farewells. I was touched by the way these mothers flicked away imaginary dust from their sons’ collars, straightened their school ties, tugged at blazer hems, in fact anything that would prolong physical contact with their boys without making their sons feel embarrassed because they were being ‘soppy’. In contrast, our mother was perfunctory: I could tell that her thoughts were already straying to the pub. I had come to recognize the faraway look that came to her face whenever the siren call of gin was sounding in her inner ear. That look always preceded a dash to the boozer, or the cupboard under the sink where she hid some of her supplies.
Gaby and Father weren’t even remotely sad, either, but then, that wasn’t too surprising. Gaby and Peter didn’t like one another, and the atmosphere between them had rubbed off on Father. He’d become much keener on nagging about Peter’s supposed failings since Gaby had taken to pointing them out to him. She had felt compelled to let her own son go in the most permanent way possible, and every time she saw Peter it must have brought the memory of her lost boy closer. I also wonder, now I’m older, if she took pleasure in seeing Mother losing Peter, if only temporarily.
I looked at my three grown-ups waiting, with varying degrees of patience, to leave, then looked again at the other families who, in contrast, appeared so reluctant to tear themselves away until the train finally chugged out of sight. Some mothers were snivelling into their hankies, while their stolid husbands patted them gently, offering what comfort they could, manfully trying not to blub themselves. More tears welled up in my own eyes. Like a fool, I had forgotten to bring my hanky, so I wiped my nose on my sleeve. ‘Don’t do that, you grubby little tyke,’ Mother snapped. ‘I’ve got to wash that. Here, take my handkerchief, I don’t need it.’
I heard the hiss of the brakes being released, saw and smelt the steam belch from the engine, and slowly, slowly the train began to inch its way out of the station. Peter’s blond, tousled head poked out of a window and he beckoned to me. I galloped along the platform until I was alongside and he said, ‘Look after yourself, little ’un, look after Mummy if you can, and look under my bed – you can have my skates.’ He smiled at my stricken face. ‘I’ll be back for the Christmas holiday before you know it.’
The train sped up, and I couldn’t keep up with it any longer. I sank to the ground and howled.
I was inconsolable. My brother had gone away. I had been left behind and I thought my heart would break. I was alone with Mother, and even before we arrived back home, I was lonely and afraid. There was no one to jolly me along. There was no one who understood without being told. I had lost my ally, my protector and my friend as well as my brother. And even though everyone told me that he would be back, I had a sneaking feeling that they were lying; that, like my father before him, he was gone for good. And in a way, he was. The person who returned to us was a posh stranger, one who was embarrassed by his humble home and his skin and blister with her cockney accent, littered with the nasal vowels and missing initial hs and final ts, that used to drive our mother mad.
Peter was thirteen years old and I was nine when he was sent away. From then on, I effectively became an only child, with all the aggravation associated with the job, but, sadly for me, virtually none of the perks. It was around this time that my wanderings began in earnest. Up until then, I had contented myself with holing up in one of my various camps when the going got tough at home, but after Peter left I became more adventurous. I loved to go to railway stations and the rapidly developing Heathrow airport. I was used to travelling about London, as Peter and I often got ourselves to Soho by bus, train and tube, for our visits to the Old Compton Street flat.
We also travelled to Nice by ourselves on several occasions, so I knew the route to Heathrow as well. The form was that Mother would see us off at the airport, complete with baggage tags around our necks, and Father and Gaby would meet us at Nice. In between Heathrow and Nice, the air hostesses and the pilots of the Comet aircraft we flew on spoilt us something rotten, with loads of special attention. As Comets did not have pressurized cabins, passengers were given boiled sweets, usually barley sugar, to suck to help to equalize the pressure in our ears. Peter and I always got more than our fair share of barley sugar and, if the flight was smooth, we spent quite a bit of it in the cockpit with the pilot and his co-pilot. In those days, airline pilots were always men.
The only problem we ever had on those flights was Peter being copiously sick at some point in the journey, which earned him enormous sympathy from the stewardesses, who clucked around him like so many well-groomed mother hens. The barfing into a bag took some of the gilt off the gingerbread for poor Peter, but not for me. Father used to love to tell the story of the time when we arrived in Nice and I skipped down the gangway and across the tarmac way ahead of my green-to-the-gills brother, yelling, ‘Daddy, Daddy, Peter was sick, but it’s all right, I ate his dinner.’
Once Peter was away at school, I spent more and more of my time and pocket money hanging around railway buffets and the airport. Looking back at it now, I wonder that nobody – not least my mother – seemed to worry about where I had gone. I loved to watch the people going about their lives. I noticed very quickly that people in transit are less guarded in their behaviour if they believe they are unobserved by anyone they may have to see again. What is more, I felt anonymous and safe among the crowds who were taking absolutely no notice of me. It was such a relief to be away from my mother, her drinking and her moods.
I was in my element in a railway station buffet, tucked away in my corner. There was something about the belching urn, the steamed-up windows, the clatter of thick, white cups on thick, white sauce
rs, the chatter of a dozen voices and the constant opening and closing of the door that allowed a little whoosh of cold air into the room, that I found comforting. I loved watching the people come and go, and tuning in to snatches of conversation.
‘I told her it weren’t natural. But would she listen? No she would not. She went ahead, not a care in the world, and we all know what that led to …’
I wanted to tell the plump lady in the worn, grey flannel coat and the moth-eaten, tartan headscarf that I didn’t know what it had led to, or indeed, what hadn’t been natural about it in the first place. But of course, I kept schtum. I couldn’t draw attention to myself, because that would lead to awkward questions, like Where was my mummy? and Was I all by myself? Stuff like that. The truth was, I don’t think my mother cared much where I was, as long as I wasn’t under her feet or in her way.
‘I turned around and told him, “You talk to Dick about it,” I said. “He’ll tell you what’s what and all about it. I’m a chiropodist, feet are my line,” I told him. “I don’t know anything about lead flashing or leaky roofs.”’
‘I didn’t like her right from the very start.’ The younger woman’s lips thinned, her eyes narrowed and her pretty youthful face, with yellow hair, was transformed for an instant into that of her mother, who sat across the table from her. ‘And how right I was.’
‘What do you mean?’ the older woman asked, leaning forward a little so that her chair creaked loudly in a sudden silence. We all waited. Yes, what did she mean? The girl with the yellow hair blushed at being thrust into unwelcome limelight.
‘I’ll tell you later.’ You could almost feel the gale as twenty sets of lungs let the air out. That was typical, that was: a story would start well, only to fizzle out, or be brought to an abrupt end by the arrival of a third party, an untimely attack of discretion or the announcement that the 2.39 from Southend was approaching platform three.