by Jo Malone
In his mind, he was only ever one big win away from putting everything right again. I knew when he’d won at poker because his mood was upbeat and chirpy, and our house could breathe again. But when he lost, I’d hear the blazing rows as I lay in bed listening to Mum’s accusations of recklessness, barely muffled by the paper-thin walls. Some nights, I’d hear her crying into her pillow with frustration.
Two famous arguments have stuck with me: the time she discovered her precious collection of crystal decanters had been staked as collateral and lost; and the evening when Dad was given a lift home . . . because he’d gambled away the family car. The longer he was out of work, the more he seemed to speculate to accumulate, and I’m sure this unacknowledged addiction was a source of endless anxiety for Mum. She couldn’t know if he was going to come home with big winnings, or turned-out pockets and an empty wallet. As much as I adored my dad, and as much as he tried his best in so many other ways, his actions seemed wilfully blind to the consequences of losing.
If the financial pressure, together with their differing professional fortunes, revealed anything, it was how much tougher Mum had become, no longer afraid to speak her mind and upset the apple cart. She seemed to tolerate his ways less and less as she came to realise that the man she’d married would never change.
All I wanted was the harmony to be restored; for Dad to wave his magic wand and make everything okay again. Even at the age of seven, I felt the discomfort of our circumstances, no longer oblivious to the stresses and strains that clenched our home like an iron fist, refusing to let go.
In between the broad brushstrokes of Dad’s magic and gambling, he developed another lifelong pursuit: art. As a skilled draftsman, it was perhaps no surprise that he was a talented painter, creating the most stunning watercolours and oils that nearly always depicted wild seas, angry skies or serene countryside landscapes. Each painting conveyed the theme of a journey: someone walking off into a wintry distance, or down a beautiful path through a copse of trees, or a galleon cutting through the waves.
I’d watch him start with a blank canvas as he sat at his architect’s drawing board propped on the dining table, rolling one of his cigarettes, waiting for inspiration to strike. If there was one thing I learned from watching him stare into space, puffing away, it is the truth that you can’t force creativity. He could sit there for hours without picking up his brushes, but, as he explained, creativity needs to be respected. It is not a tap that can simply be turned on; it comes when ready, not when forced or unfelt. Waiting, he said, was part of the creative process. Let inspiration come to you. Don’t chase it.
As he waited and painted, the table resembled a cluttered art studio with miniature pots of paint, palette knives, jugs, and different brushes – flats and rounds – scattered around the smudged rainbow on his thumbhole palette. When you add his tricks, boxes, sawdust and piles of magazines to the scene, it’s not hard to picture the mess that was our living room and kitchen, and it wasn’t helped by the piles of laundry that kept growing into overwhelming mounds because Mum didn’t have the time and Dad didn’t bother.
His art even spilled into the bathroom. He’d fill the bath with jugs of cold tea, to a depth of about one foot, and leave his blank canvasses in there for twenty-four hours, staining them for an aged effect. And if the bath wasn’t filled with canvasses, then the living room would be, stacked against the wall to the left of the fireplace, together with long pieces of wood that he’d cut up and use for framing, leading to more sawdust. He’d cut four pieces of wood before joining them together with individual vice-like brackets, and then mounting the painting behind glass. Most of the time, I found it easier to retreat to the neat enclave of the room I shared with Tracey rather than confront that whole scene.
Lying on the top of the bunk bed we shared, I often imagined living at Aunty Maureen’s because it was everything I wanted our house to be: a) she was always there, the ever-present parent; b) a cooked meal was always on the table at 6 p.m., which meant ‘family’; and c) she kept her home meticulously clean and so it felt like a cosy, well-looked-after home, where there only seemed to be harmony. How I envied that kind of existence.
I soon became the magician’s assistant, which was a role I fell into by virtue of wanting to be around Dad all the time. If Tracey was Mum’s shadow, I was his. And so, when I started tagging along to different children’s parties, I found myself called on to arrange the props, look after the dove and rabbits, and fetch his next trick, placing it on Dad’s little table which had a curtain draped around its front.
We didn’t have costumes – we couldn’t afford such luxuries – but Dad looked swish in a black suit, white shirt, and bow tie. He took his act seriously, so he first swore me to secrecy, emphasising that a magician never breaks the secret code. ‘If you ever reveal to anyone how any of these tricks are done, you will never come with me again. Understand?’
I never did tell a soul.
I made my debut at Northwick Park Hospital in Mum’s old stomping ground of Harrow, which was where Aunty Vera worked. The London Palladium it was not, but you wouldn’t have guessed from the energy Dad put into his act. Wherever we went, he dazzled his child audiences with a deft execution of his tricks. What’s more, he wanted to make the kids believe that they were the ones capable of magic, too.
I found him in the living room one Saturday morning before a show, messing around with a needle and thread, weaving it through an unpeeled banana. ‘You’ll see what I’m doing later,’ he said, with a wink.
At the next children’s party, the banana was his first trick and he picked out a young boy, telling him, ‘You be the magician and let your index finger be the wand, okay?’
The boy stood up and my dad told him to tap the banana with his right index finger in three different places along its length. ‘Once you do that, we’re both going to say, “Abracadabra! Alakazam!” Ready?’ The youngster tapped the banana 1-2-3, they both shouted the magic words, the boy peeled back the skin . . . and the fruit was sliced into three segments. The look on that child’s face was magic itself. I can well imagine that the dramatic gasps of children were a sound that kept Dad going back, despite the limited money he earned.
After a few weeks as his assistant, I viewed us as an unbeatable, formidable duo, and I particularly cherished our father–daughter time. In the car to and from the events, we’d chat about this and that – inconsequential talk, but talk that made me feel close to him nonetheless; light, upbeat, full of laughter.
One time, when we were mid-conversation, the person in front of us stopped suddenly, forcing Dad to slam on his brakes. With that, nine tins of John West pink salmon rolled out from under my seat, washing up around my feet. Dad looked like the kid who’d been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. I wasn’t daft. I knew he’d acquired these tins ‘off the back of a lorry’, which made me feel distinctly uncomfortable, but he wanted to serve them as a treat for when Aunty Dot came round for dinner later. I think he wanted to prove that he could still provide by whatever means possible. He kept trying to get back on his feet, which was why I didn’t only become his magician’s assistant but his right-hand woman at the market, too. Dad had decided to set up a stall, selling his art.
Before he and I walked out the door on a Saturday or Sunday, en route to the markets at Crayford, Dartford, Blackheath, or Tunbridge Wells, we often left with a message ringing in our ears. ‘Andy,’ said Mum, ‘you have got to make a sale today – there is nothing in the fridge!’
In the car, which was packed with paintings to its roof and back doors, I’d look at Dad and sense the pressure he was under to deliver. He’d catch me staring and smile back unconvincingly. ‘We’ll be all right, Jo,’ he’d say, patting my knee. ‘We’ll sell a painting or two today!’
I desperately wanted us to earn that honest money, otherwise I feared more tinned food rolling out from underneath my seat. So I felt the urgency for him to make a sale, too. I’m sure we weren’t the only traders
who were down to our last coppers, and I think that’s what made market life so nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time. Unlike the magic shows, I had no idea what was going to happen next. I had no idea whether Dad was capable of pulling a rabbit out of the hat.
I especially loved the hustle, the bustle and the energy at Crayford market, held at the greyhound track. The traders there felt like one big family of aunts and uncles because they’d see me, this young kid with Dad, and share his sense of protection. I was as safe as houses in that environment, which was why Dad allowed me to wander around the one hundred or so stalls that sold anything and everything: clothes, textiles, fruit and veg, fish, foodstuffs, art, photography, books, records, kitchen utensils. People from all over the boroughs of south-east London and north-west Kent flocked to this market, not only to grab a bargain but also to enjoy the banter and patter of traders selling their wares.
The whole place felt vibrant and alive as I breathed in the working-class air infused with the smells of hot tea, Bovril, bacon sandwiches, crispy chips in a deep-fat fryer, cinnamon, cigarette smoke, and the soot from the track. The soot got everywhere – over my shoes, hands and skirt – and I sometimes returned home looking like a chimney sweep, but it was the one time I didn’t mind getting filthy.
‘Hello, Jo, luv!’ one of the Cockney regulars would shout as I walked around. And someone else would yell, ‘Wanna giz an ’and today, Jo?!’ Other traders brought their sons but I can’t remember any other young girls being around, so I think I was a bit of a novelty. Everyone knew me. Everyone waved. Everyone was on their toes, looking to make a sale.
We would arrive about 7–7.30 a.m., come rain or shine. The market was located on the oval-shaped dirt field in the centre of the track and, before the crowds arrived, Dad had to claim his 10 x 10-foot, metal-framed stall and find his pitch. Together, we would then set up shop, using sheets of hardboard to line the stall’s back and sides, which was where we hung and stacked the paintings, creating our own mini-gallery beneath a tarpaulin roof.
Once the paintings were on display – there were about twenty-five at any one time, from foot to eye level – he would stand there, brush off his hands and say: ‘All right, Jo, I’ll mind the stall, you go get our bacon sandwiches and cups of tea.’
There was always a big queue at the canteen and I’d stand there, a blonde-haired dwarf among giants. The countertop was about two feet higher than me, so the man with the big smile had to lean out and reach down to hand me a small cardboard box containing our bacon butties and two polystyrene cups of steaming hot tea. In the twenty or so minutes that I’d been away from the stall, all I could think about was how Dad was getting on, so my first question to him was always, ‘We sold anything yet?’
He laughed. ‘Not yet, Jo. Not yet. I nearly had one, though!’
‘We’ve got to sell something soon, Dad!’
‘I know, love,’ he’d say, ‘and we will. They promised me they were coming back.’
I loved being with Dad on the stall because he constantly encouraged me to get involved with a sale or the banter with other traders and customers. Through him, I almost certainly learned the art of the sale, to the extent that, in my own mind, I felt I could do it better. Yes, even at the age of eight.
Within a few weeks, and when I felt confident enough, I started to emerge from his shadow more and more, telling curious customers about the story behind each painting. For example, take the clipper painting: I’d describe its history and the voyage it was embarking on, transporting them from the market and into the painting in the same way Dad had done with me. The hook of a good story often led to a sale – a mental note to be registered for later life. I’d urge Dad to share the stories he’d told me but he could rarely be bothered and my heart would sink when a customer walked away and we lost a sale. The more I grew into the merchant’s role, the more seriously I approached it, and I learned to know Dad’s rhythms. If he hadn’t sold a painting by the end of the day, he’d be attacking the final two hours with gusto and more likely to sell one. But if he’d sold a painting in the morning, he tended to rest on his laurels. With £25 in his pocket, he’d start haggling and be more obstinate, not willing to barter. Dad was more ‘£25 – that’ll do’. I was more ‘£25 – let’s turn it into £100’.
I’d know when he was negotiating and when he had a customer on the hook. In my head, I’d be thinking, ‘Now, Dad. Close the sale!’ I also sensed when a deal was slipping away. ‘They’ll give you £30 not £40 – take £30!’ But, being the gambler he was, he’d hang out for the extra tenner and invariably lose out. He loathed dropping his price after putting his heart and soul into each painting.
At one point, he completely deviated from his usual genre and started creating these ugly-looking, abstract paintings that weren’t his style and, more to the point, never sold. They really were hideous creations – one was blue, one pink, and the other green – and I couldn’t believe it when he priced them at £15 each. It didn’t surprise me one jot that we were lugging them around for weeks.
I grew so sick of them that when he asked me to mind the stall one day, I decided to do a deal. When he returned from fetching tea, he noticed they had gone. ‘You sold them?!’
‘I did,’ I said proudly. ‘I did a deal – twenty pounds for the lot.’
He hit the roof, which was embarrassing because I felt everyone was looking at us. ‘Hell’s bells, Jo! That could have been a week’s money and you sold them for twenty pounds!’
I tried explaining that twenty quid was a fair price but he didn’t listen because all he saw was a near-fifty per cent discount. I apologised all the way home, and he eventually forgave me – Dad couldn’t stay angry with me for long, although I did receive the lecture about never cutting deals without his permission again. Mum wasn’t upset when we handed over that twenty. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
I preferred it when we returned home with something to contribute. I loved it even more when we’d had a good day, when we’d sold four or five paintings priced £25–30. Dad felt flush with that kind of money in his pocket and our reward was a Chinese takeaway collected on the way home. As he and I waited in the restaurant, he’d order a beer and buy me a pineapple juice, and we’d clink our glasses together – a toast to a father and daughter putting in another productive day’s shift.
FOUR
Over the space of a year or so, Mum had thrived as a manicurist, growing a loyal customer base and developing an overall passion for skincare. A job taken out of necessity had blossomed into a career, and she was booked solid from morning until evening. It felt as though I only saw her on Saturday evenings and Sundays, but this was our new ‘normal’; this, as she continually reminded me, was how we survived.
She would be out of the door to catch the early train before we left for school, and not home until eight o’clock, sometimes ten. She was so preoccupied with keeping us afloat that she didn’t even step off the treadmill to celebrate her birthdays. From the age of eight onwards, it became my annual tradition to ensure we marked the occasion. Armed with a recipe, and because her birthday always fell at half term at the end of October, I’d bake a cake, smear on the icing with a knife, buy the candles, and wait at the dining table until she walked in. Sometimes, I’d have to go to bed because she wouldn’t be home until late but, whether it was on the actual day or the following day, I made sure that we sang Happy Birthday and shared cake. It was never much of a celebration but it was my small way of expressing gratitude for everything she did for us.
In early 1971, there was cause for more celebration when she was offered an opportunity she couldn’t refuse, facilitated by a client who also happened to see London’s grande dame of skincare, a beauty therapist called Madame Lubatti. A rare opening had arisen to be the receptionist at her Marylebone clinic. The only slight difficulty was that Mum suffered from a form of rosacea-acne – not the greatest advertisement when you are the first impression for arriving clients. Madame Lubatti gave he
r the job but insisted on treating her skin and, soon enough, the condition cleared up. I think that was the moment Mum truly understood the wonders of skincare.
I would later get to know the warm-hearted, eccentric character that was Madame Lubatti. Aged in her eighties, she was a countess who had once been married to an Italian count. She had lived in Hong Kong, where she mastered homeopathy, before moving to London and starting her own business in the 1930s, creating face creams and doing facials that attracted clients from the middle classes to the aristocracy. Hollywood stars Ava Gardner and Vivien Leigh supposedly swore by her treatments. No wonder Mum jumped at the chance, keen to develop her knowledge in all matters skincare.
It didn’t take her new employer long to realise that Mum was a willing, trustworthy, eager-to-learn employee. Within weeks, Mum was not only receiving on-the-job training but coming home from work to revise for beautician exams and diplomas, studied at the Arnould-Taylor Therapy College. On many Sundays, she would sit out on the sun lounger in the back garden, wearing her green cotton summer dress and straw wedge sandals, sipping a Dubonnet and lemonade, and study for hours on end. We weren’t allowed to interrupt her concentration but I’d watch her through the kitchen window and observe her intense focus. I could see how much this new job meant to her by the way she threw herself into these studies. Within no time, she had qualified with distinction as an aestheticienne (a beauty therapist) in the subjects of anatomy, physiology, and massage. I felt so proud of her – she had found that one thing in life that made her happy.
From what I would later gather, Madame Lubatti saw a lot of herself in Mum: a woman who wanted to make something of herself, who dreamed of going up in the world, and was unafraid of hard work. I dare say she also recognised a fellow keeping-up-appearances type, because Mum’s glamour belied our council estate existence. A polished veneer mattered in the beauty industry and if anyone understood the importance of projecting the correct image, it was Madame Lubatti. Following her divorce, she had retained her title of countess, which she felt gave her an edge in a class-obsessed city like London. She knew the importance of conveying prestige; indeed, for a lady with a clientele comprising aristocratic ladies and movie stars, it was the hallmark of her brand. She had also adopted ‘Madame’ because it conveniently cloaked her first and middle names. She kept them to herself, preferring simply to use her initials, and so she became known as ‘Madame D.H. Lubatti’. ‘Doris Hilda Lubatti’ didn’t quite have the same ring to it.