Rough kids aside, it’s a peculiar thing about school life that you rise to the top of one system then get moved back down to the bottom of the next, like a game of snakes and ladders, but with more at stake. I’d gone from teacher’s pet at primary to the bottom of the pile at secondary. And when I say ‘bottom’ I mean the very bowels.
Kids have an instinct to attack anyone who stands out. The gang mentality takes them all over at some point. Sound different, look different, act different and you can expect grief from the masses.
And I looked different. A couple of years earlier I’d been so proud of the beautiful dresses Granny had run up for me on her sewing machine. Even when she said she’d knit my school jumper and crochet a skirt, I was touched. And then all the other kids saw my uniform was different to theirs and that was it. I was a marked girl – especially with Granny’s latest old-fashioned hairstyle for me. But at least I didn’t have to wear that stupid top-knot anymore!
The only saving grace was that there were two girls who were considered weirder than me. They were twins to start with, which would normally have been enough on its own, but they also had a surname that was just asking for trouble: Pratt. It was horrible really, but at least while they were being picked on, the older girls ignored me. It couldn’t last, of course. ‘Nice jumper’ would be one of the least harmful insults to come my way, however sarcastically it was said. It was horrid, a really unhappy time. A lot of kids never recover from bullying at school. It affects their whole lives. As bad as it seemed at the time, however, I knew I’d be all right. When you’ve felt the cold steel of a knife blade pressed against your cheek, a few names and a bit of bullying isn’t a problem at all.
Maybe, though, I would have been better off being scarred by the bullying. The threats and abuse I’d already suffered had, I think, dulled my attitude to violence. It had been such a large part of my life already that I didn’t notice my reactions to it weren’t as extreme as other kids’. I wasn’t as scared, I wasn’t as prepared to change my behaviour to please the bullies. At the time that worldliness protected me.
But that was also why I couldn’t spot the signs when the greatest threat of all was staring me in the face.
My grandparents weren’t too much help when it came to getting through my new school ordeal. ‘Just concentrate on your work and the bullies will go away.’ Nice in theory . . .
But that’s what I did. Head down, I really applied myself to lessons and was soon in the top class for every subject. I won lead roles in school plays and decided to take my guitar-playing more seriously. I’d always enjoyed evenings spent noodling with Mum’s old six-string. Soon, once I’d put my mind to it, I was in the school band on acoustic guitar. Our teacher was a great inspiration: his band, the Piranhas, had a hit record in 1982 with ‘Zambesi’.
Being a swot didn’t make me any less likely to be bullied, of course, and in fact I got dog’s abuse. But as I grew older, I persuaded Granny to stop making me dress like a doll and confidence soon followed. With self-belief came a rekindling of my desire for independence. I enjoyed being at Granny and Grandpa’s, but I really wanted my own space. And, to be honest, they couldn’t wait to have their retirement back for themselves.
In those days young people would collect bits and bobs for their ‘bottom drawer’ – things you would need for your first home – so that’s what I decided to do. In order to do that, however, I needed money. At fourteen years old, it was time to get a job.
Typical me, though, I thought, Why get one job when you can have three?
The local fish shop took me on for two evenings a week, which was nice, although it made my clothes and hair smell like a chip pan. Then, on Thursdays and Fridays, I would go straight from school to help out at Saltdean’s florist shop. But best of all was getting a Saturday job at Robert Dyas. You had to be sixteen to work there, which I told them I was, and I loved it because I could get staff discounts on their stock. Week after week, I’d spend my pay packet on things like cutlery sets, crockery, glasses, an electric blanket, a duvet, duvet covers – you name it and I had it stored under my bed or in my wardrobe, ready for the day I could leave. I had my Duran Duran posters on the walls and my ‘bottom drawer’ all ready to go. How many kids are thinking that far ahead?
So, there I was, juggling homework, three jobs and half a dozen hobbies, and I was flying. I was going great guns. I bought myself a brand new Claude Butler racing bike for £500 and took part in the London to Brighton race. I was healthy, I was wholesome, I was happy. Everything was rosy. Granny and Grandpa must have been so grateful that I wasn’t displaying any of the tendencies that their daughter had shown. And then I came off the rails.
It all seemed to happen at once. Boys, alcohol, cigarettes – they all came a-calling and I gave each my fullest attention.
Boys came first and, initially at least, nothing much changed. My first boyfriend worked at Robert Dyas with me. He was eighteen years old and another bike fan, so we used to cycle everywhere, especially at weekends, when we both went out with the Brighton Cycling Group for thirty-mile rides. I loved the whole routine of packing sandwiches and a bottle of Coke into my panniers and setting off with a bunch of other healthy people.
We went out for quite a while and eventually nature took its course. Because I had told Robert Dyas I was sixteen, that’s naturally how old my boyfriend thought I was. He would have been horrified to learn he’d slept with a fourteen-year-old – just as my father had a decade and a half earlier. In my case, however, I was already on the Pill, having been prescribed it to combat awful period pains.
It was another boy who set me on the path to alcohol. A really great friend of mine when I was young was a chap called Peter – one of my playmates from the woods. We were inseparable as mates for years and his parents were convinced we’d end up married. That never happened, but we did a lot of things together – including getting drunk for the first time.
Other kids had started talking about drinking and somehow we’d got hold of a bottle of vodka. Units and percentages meant nothing to us, so we just sat on a wall near his house and swigged it like it was Tizer.
I remember swinging my feet and trying to concentrate on them. The next thing I knew, I’d fallen off the wall and landed in someone’s garden. In a rose bush. Thanks to the vodka, I didn’t feel a thing, but to this day I still have a thorn embedded in my back.
When the bottle was empty we decided to go back to Peter’s house. En route was a greengrocer’s and, sitting out the front, pride of the display, were lovely-looking gala melons.
‘I’d love one of those,’ I said.
‘Me too.’
So Peter grabbed this melon and off we fled. We thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world, but honestly, what a pair of chumps! Peter’s house was only a hundred yards away and the greengrocer had known him all his life. There was no way we weren’t going to get caught.
Convinced we’d outwitted the greengrocer, we ran into the house and tiptoed up the stairs so as not to attract any adult attention. But obviously we were both wrecked, so it must have sounded like a herd of elephants passing through. Giggling elephants at that.
The hilarity continued. Peter’s room had a basin in it, which was just as well because shortly after I sat down to eat the melon – like an apple, skin and everything – I threw up. We both stared at the melony mess in the sink and Peter declared, ‘Coffee! We need coffee.’
So back downstairs we crept, but there was his mum cooking dinner. I hid in the doorway while he tried to have a sensible conversation, waiting for the kettle to boil. In the end, he panicked and filled the cups with lukewarm water.
After that, I would go to the woods with my friends and drink there. Whereas a few years earlier we’d been searching for pits of abandoned pottery and convincing ourselves we’d discovered Roman artefacts, now we were content to drink cider or sherry in secret – and smoke.
A lot of kids were saying they smoked, but I don’t think ma
ny did. It was like boasting you’d had sex – it was the cool thing to say, whether you had or not. But a few people did and I decided to give it a go. I remember, it was a John Player Black and it was absolutely disgusting, but I forced myself to persevere. I really wish I hadn’t. Until recently, I smoked forty a day.
I was helped in those days by the fact that it wasn’t just Robert Dyas – and my boyfriend – who thought I was sixteen. I could buy cigarettes and booze from anywhere, as long as I wasn’t wearing my school uniform. When I realized how unusual this was, I saw an opportunity. I bought a packet of twenty, a box of Swan Vesta and went back to school and sold a cigarette and a match for ten pence. Before long, I was making enough to give up one of my evening jobs. Most importantly, it reminded me of those Sunday mornings spent looking for pound notes with Mum and the time we sold melon at the Bay City Rollers concert.
I’ve inherited her eye for an opportunity. It was a proud moment.
Speaking of Mum, while all the other kids were fabricating their sexual- or nicotine- or alcohol-based experiences, I never once joined in. If I’d revealed my skill at rolling joints and setting up bongs, I’d have been a legend. But I kept quiet. That was in the past. I’d done my best to forget it had ever happened.
I told even close friends that my mother had died of pneumonia, which is technically true. It’s only been in the last few years that I’ve been comfortable enough to tell anyone the truth. Obviously I was more scarred by the experience than I was prepared to admit.
It’s funny, looking back, how I managed to spin even something like illicit drinking and smoking so I came out of it looking more successful than anyone else. Okay, I thought, you can’t be a winner doing this – but you can do it better.
So instead of buying the usual cheap brands like Rothmans or B&H, I always bought Dunhill. They were more expensive and, I reasoned, therefore classier. They were certainly more distinctive. And as for alcohol, I began keeping a bottle of red, a bottle of rosé and a bottle of white under my bed for when visitors called. I thought it was the height of sophistication to be able to offer a glass to girlfriends after school. None of us knew that these bottles, opened weeks earlier, were well past their sell-by dates, so would obviously taste rank. We thought we were so grown up.
While all this was going on, my body was changing too. I noticed people had stopped taking the mickey out of my looks and, actually, boys were queuing up for my attention. Girls, too, wanted to be my friend. I was Miss Popular and I loved it.
The more attention I got, the more I wanted. I started wearing make-up, agonizing over every little detail for hours before I went out. Best of all, I bought my first pair of shoes with my own money. The cool girls at school – probably the ones from Woodingdean – all wore high heels. I thought, I’m going to get a pair of those.
My experience of shopping was close to zero. Granny had made most my clothes and the rest we’d picked up at secondhand fairs in the community centre. As a result, I was often four or five seasons out of date. So wandering around Brighton looking for the perfect pair of heels with cash burning a hole in my pocket was never going to end with the bargain of the century.
But my naivety was exposed when it came to size. I didn’t realize that stilettos started at three inches. I saw an amazing pair of six-inch heels and I thought that’s what they all looked like, so I bought them. Who knows where I got them – it was probably a sex shop. All I do know is that, for the next two years, I would not be seen dead in anything lower. To this day, I won’t leave the house in anything less than four inches.
Shoes accounted for, make-up applied, that just left my hair. The craze then was for highlights, which I got and would spend hours teasing until it looked just so. I loved it. For the first time in my life, I cared about the way I looked and I loved the results. Other people did too.
Something had to give though. There wasn’t enough time in the day to cram everything in, so decisions had to be made. I couldn’t quit work because I needed the money to escape. I couldn’t stop my new fun socializing because I’d never been happier. Which only left school.
Almost overnight, I just switched off. School held no interest for me anymore. That part of my life was over. I was fourteen years old. Exactly the same age my mother had been when her life of troubles had begun.
Of course, I only discovered that later. Back then, in 1984, the only thing on my mind was escaping. I informed Grandpa that I would be leaving his home the day I turned sixteen.
‘You will not,’ he insisted. ‘You have to at least sit your O levels.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do.’
‘While I am your legal guardian, Wilson, I can.’
He always called me ‘Wilson’ when he was angry with me. Partly it was a return to his days commanding the troops. It was also a reminder to us both that I shouldn’t have even been there. I wasn’t a Beavis.
We argued for hours, but in the end I relented, even though his legal responsibilities would end on the day I turned sixteen.
In Grandpa’s defence, he’d already seen Mum married on her sixteenth birthday, having thrown her life away – as he saw it – when she was the age I was then. I didn’t know this. They kept it from me. But it was another parallel with the life of the woman I’d barely known.
Longhill let me take a few exams a year early, which I passed easily. What I really should have done, though, is sit them all then, while I still had some interest. By the time my proper exams came round, I had been doing very little schoolwork for a year. It was no surprise when the straight-A girl came home with Bs and Cs.
It’s only looking back that I realize how upsetting this must all have been for my grandparents. They’d seen their daughter unable to avoid the slippery slope. Now history was repeating itself. I was making a lot of the same mistakes.
It was with history in mind that I approached Granny one morning and said, ‘I’d like to contact my dad.’
I knew her feelings about him, so it was to her credit that she only put up a token fight.
‘Are you sure, dear? Are you really ready? You know what he did to you and your mother?’
I’d heard it all before, but that didn’t change the fact that I wanted to see him. In my mind, I needed to give my dad the opportunity to explain to my face why he’d abandoned me, as I saw it. I needed to hear him say it was all a big mistake and that he’d been searching tirelessly for me for thirteen years. That’s not how it worked out.
I should have guessed that my father would not live up to my dreams when he suggested our meeting place. He knew a pub in Rottingdean, the White Lion, and thought we should meet there.
He was already seated when I arrived. I think we shook hands, possibly there was a hug. No kisses though. Not yet. I can’t remember a single topic we spoke about for the simple reason that we didn’t discuss anything important. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t exactly rush to explain why he’d left Mum all those years ago or why he’d stayed out of my life for so long. And I had no desire whatsoever to ask him if he really had planned to put me into care.
There’s plenty of time for that one . . .
In the meantime, we broke the ice with the standard uninteresting probes.
‘How’s school?’
‘Fine.’
‘How’s your grandmother?’
‘Fine.’
‘And your grandfather?’
‘Scary. What’s your job?’
‘I run a holiday resort in France. Have you got a boyfriend?’
And so on and so on.
One awkward hour later, we parted with the vague promise to see each other again soon. I was in no hurry to do it again and from what I could tell, neither was he. Only years later did I question why Dad thought it would be appropriate to meet a fourteen-year-old girl in a pub!
Granny wasn’t happy when I reported how my meeting with my father had gone. As much as she’d expected him to disappoint me, she still didn’t like to see me get hurt. Not aga
in.
At least our joint low opinion of Dad gave us common ground. On so many other topics we were at loggerheads. In fact, the atmosphere at home deteriorated quite rapidly. It was just a clash of wills, really. I wanted to leave and, despite my grandparents secretly craving their own freedom as much as I longed for mine, they didn’t think I should, at least not until I’d finished my education. Then, they reasoned, they could, in all conscience, say they’d done what they’d sworn to do on my mother’s death. But until then we were forced into an occasionally uneasy truce.
I wasn’t really drinking heavily, so they never saw me drunk, and because Grandpa was a heavy smoker, they never detected smoke on my clothes. Arguments tended to be over stupid things – like the time I was helping with the Sunday roast.
It had all been going so well. Granny was carving the meat and I was next to her, trying to tease the hot baking tray of vegetables from its shelf. It was my fifth attempt and yet again the tray was refusing to budge. The heat was pouring out and I was getting flustered. I gave it another go and – same result.
‘Bugger this stupid thing!’ I said and slammed the oven door shut.
‘What did you say?’ Granny’s voice screamed into my ear.
I was so angry at the oven I couldn’t even remember what I’d said.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
There must have been something else bothering her because Granny overreacted. She shouted, ‘Liar!’ then spun me round. The next thing I knew, the tip of her great big carving knife was an inch from my face and she was shaking uncontrollably.
Escape From Evil Page 14