Street Kid

by Westwater, Judy

  I mumbled goodnight. My eyes were lowered to the floor as usual. I wasn’t used to having to talk, and didn’t like it one bit.

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake! Look me in the eyes and say it nicer than that. And for goodness sake, smile!’

  I had another go. This time I managed to make a better show of it.

  I came back from school on Thursday to find a flowery flannel nightdress lying on my bed. I stayed upstairs in my room and when I heard the first guest arrive, got changed into it, and brushed my hair. At seven-thirty on the dot, I heard Freda’s voice, sweet and loving, calling from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Judy darling, time for bed, my love,’ my pantomime mother trilled. ‘Come and say goodnight.’

  I walked down the stairs and entered the front room. There were four people sitting around the table on wooden chairs. My father was at the head, looking like he was acting the part of Christ at the Last Supper.

  Can’t they see this is all fake? I thought to myself as I delivered my lines.

  ‘Night-night … night-night.’

  Freda handed me a cup of warm milk and kissed me on the cheek. It was all I could do not to flinch or wipe my face where she’d touched it.

  One of the ladies sitting at the table was obviously charmed. ‘What a lovely daughter you have,’ she said to Freda. ‘What beautiful manners!’

  I’m not her daughter! I thought savagely to myself as I went back upstairs. How I hated having to pretend that I was!

  After that evening, I used to go regularly with Dad and Freda to their seances. They wanted me there to help them act the perfect close-knit family–after the Cheshire circle had kicked him out, my father was determined not to botch things up in Hulme. Freda and I were both under his tyrannical scrutiny, and if I so much as creaked my chair whilst the spirit was coming through, or if Freda got a word wrong in her opening prayer, we’d be snarled at in the bus on the way home.

  My dad had been brought up to believe he had special gifts. His mother was a staunch Spiritualist and had doted on her youngest son to such an extent that he grew up thinking he really was the Messiah. Dad’s initials were J.C.R., and he often used to swagger about it, saying it stood for Jesus Christ Reigns. Occasionally, in an argument with Freda, he’d tower over her, bellowing, ‘Do you know who you’re talking to?’ Then I’d see the spittle on his beard and realise he really was mad.

  My father was an ambitious man. He wanted to be as famous as Harry Edwards, a well-known spiritualist in the 1950s, and to retire at 35, having made loads of money opening his own sanctuaries. Dad and Freda were always hatching plans, and squirrelled away every spare penny. And they made a fair bit from the gullible ladies who hung on his every word at the seances and healings. When a session was over, my father would never ask for money directly but would winkle it out of his clients with a manipulative phrase like, ‘We all help each other. What I do for you, you’ll do for me.’ And, as the blue-rinsed ladies eagerly lifted their handbags to retrieve their purses, I’d catch Dad casting a sly glance at Freda.

  Whilst it was obvious to me that Dad’s whole act was a complete fraud, it was strange that he somehow believed his own myth, as, even more oddly, did Freda, who delighted in playing his subservient handmaiden. She loved the whole spiritualist set up and, even though she was often the brunt of my father’s mean-spiritedness and towering rages, she was still enthralled by dad’s showy charisma. I found it hard to believe Freda could still find him attractive in any way. I’d seen the monstrous bully he was at home and couldn’t swallow the sudden switch to loving preacher-man. I simply hated him for it, and cringed when I heard him turn on his fake charm and smarmy, educated voice at the prayer meetings.

  ‘I’ve got somebody here called George … anyone know someone who’s departed this world called George?’ Silence. ‘Or a Geoff? … Yes, we have!’

  His sneaky tricks. and the way he’d turn it when he could see he wasn’t connecting with his audience, seemed so obvious to me; but the audience loved it, and hung on his every word. I used to watch the lonely old ladies, their mouths hanging open slightly as he performed, and detest my father for preying on their weakness.

  The first time I went with Dad and Freda to a psychic healing, I witnessed the most extraordinary piece of theatre. This time it was a one-to-one session at the house of an old lady who was in agony with an ulcer on her leg. Barely able to leave her chair, she was lonely and in pain – the perfect prey for my father to pounce on.

  ‘Come in, come in Mr Richardson,’ Mrs Hardy said, hobbling back to her chair. I looked at her swollen purple ankle below the bandages. ‘Hello, lovey,’ she said kindly to me, and I was ashamed when I realized she’d seen me staring at her leg.

  When my father went into a trance, he shuddered a little and his eyes seemed to be looking at a far distant place. His voice changed completely as he came under the control of the ‘spirit guide’. In time, I came to recognize all of the spirits that came through my father, each one from a different realm of the spirit world. This time, Mrs Hardy got ‘Dr X’, the lowest of the spirits.

  As Dad took on the persona of Dr X, who, he explained later to Mrs Hardy, was a surgeon from Matabeleland, he started speaking in a very posh voice. Even his gestures changed. He hunkered down in his chair (Dr X being a smaller man than my father) and began to mime the act of cleansing his mouth of tobacco bits, his tongue delicately slipping between his teeth as he removed imaginary strands between thumb and forefinger. Then he got down to work in earnest.

  Mrs Hardy watched the psychic surgeon perform his miraculous operation with intense belief. And my dad did put on an amazing show. He moved his hands around her leg as if he really was working with a scalpel. Every now and then, he’d pause to take another instrument from the invisible hand of his psychic nurse.

  ‘Now, you may feel a twinge in your leg as I move my hands over it,’ my father said in his most educated voice. ‘Ah, there’s the scab now. I just need to clean the wound. Now you’ll feel my hand passing warmth through your body. This is spirit healing you.’

  At that, he took some deep breaths and started to sigh loudly, drawing the air in through his nose and out of his mouth. His hands were shaking and his eyelids fluttered.

  Mrs Hardy was tearful with gratitude at the end of the session. ‘Mr Richardson, my leg feels almost right again. You really are a miracle worker!’ And she really did look better when she got up to pay my father and show us to the door, and wasn’t limping half as badly.

  As the months went on, I became more familiar with Dr X. He was in the lowest world of the seven heavenly realms and so, being more earthly, came through most often. My father instructed me to call him Uncle Toby. The big shot from the number one realm, Chief Running Water, hardly ever came through. When he did, my father acted as though it was a supremely magical moment which we were all blessed to have witnessed. Other guides were Pedro, a Mexican bandit, who’d been shot; Imaki the Eskimo (he was very nosy); and Dr Samakasan, a highly educated Hindu man. Chief Running Water and Pedro both sounded like something out of a Western. I thought their accents were very over the top, especially when my father overdid it with his ‘Adios amigo’; but it made for a good show.

  One evening, we visited the house of the brother of Freda’s friend Madge. We were ushered into the parlour where a few guests had already gathered. This was a key moment for my dad, and I watched him ease himself around the room gleaning as much information from the guests about their loves and losses, money troubles, and future plans as he possibly could. They seemed so eager to unload their stories.

  I stood apart from the guests, feeling self-conscious in my frilled party dress, hair pulled back from my face with a Kirby grip. I found it hard to take my eyes off my father, partly through habitual fear, but also because he was the kind of man people did tend look at. Now, as I watched his elegant six-foot frame bending caringly over a dark-haired young woman, I thought he could have been Gregory Peck. He was acting the priest
ly role so well. I could tell from the woman’s haunted-looking eyes, and the quiet way she was talking to him, that she’d lost someone dear to her and was telling my dad about it. He’d scented her grief and longing a mile off, and I knew he’d move in on her later once the seance was in full swing.

  When everyone had gathered at last, we were taken by our hosts into the living room, where there was a large table, big enough to seat the twelve people present. I was told to sit on a stool at the other end of the room. I knew I couldn’t move a muscle, as the slightest creak might earn me a beating later. It was perishing at my end of the room, and my dress wasn’t at all warm, being made of sober blue cotton with a frill around the bottom and having a high-necked white bodice. All very demure and proper. Just the ticket for the daughter of a minister.

  By now the group were all seated at the table, my father at the head, and Freda the dutiful at his right hand. The session began with my father’s introduction, delivered in the rich tones he saved for these occasions. He could have been a bishop.

  ‘We are gathered here this evening …’ he intoned, and the faces of his little flock were instantly glued to his. Let the show begin.

  After my Dad’s address, the group recited the seven principles of Spiritualism. ‘The fatherhood of God; the brotherhood of man; communion of spirits and the ministry of angels; the continuous existence of the human soul; personal responsibility; compensation and retribution hereafter for all good and evil deeds done on earth; eternal progress open to every soul.’ They had the fingers of both hands linked in a special grip, not in the way you’d usually pray.

  After the recitation of the seven principles came Freda’s opening prayer. While she spoke, my father slowly began to change as the spirit entered his body. As he pretended to go into a trance, he squashed himself down in his chair and started snorting through his nose. His hands were on his thighs, palms up, eyes half closed. Then his head lolled backwards.

  ‘Good evening everyone, I’m Imaki. Thank you all for coming.’ I could sense a shiver of pleasure run through the circle of people as they heard the eskimo’s squeaky little voice. They were usually given Dr X, and I knew that Imaki was a rare treat for them. My dad must have judged that they were due for a change, or perhaps he thought that someone in the group that evening might give him a bigger donation than usual. The only time we ever got Chief Running Water was at the Rippons, a rich couple who lived in a large Victorian villa at the posh end of town. They were the most prized members of my dad’s circle, and he always made sure they were kept happy.

  Now it was time for Imaki’s message for the day. At this point, my father started talking in riddles and parables.

  ‘The end of the world is coming, my friends, and the sound will be like rain falling on a hot tin roof.’ I thought this sounded pretty ridiculous, particularly as it was delivered in Imaki’s high-pitched voice; but the assembled company wagged their heads and whispered, ‘Thank you, Imaki.’

  There was a pause, and everyone sat still, waiting. Then my father started speaking again.

  ‘I can see somebody … a man … an old man. He has a message for you.’ He was staring now at a plump woman sitting opposite. ‘He had a problem, here.’ My father cupped his hands over his chest, a favourite ruse for it could mean heart, lungs, or quite a lot of other things.

  ‘That’s my dad, George,’ the woman said. ‘Died last year. It was his second heart attack.’

  ‘George has a message for you,’ my father said. ‘What’s that? What’s that?’ He cupped his hand to his ear, acting as if George wasn’t delivering it clearly enough. Then a pause. ‘You are going to move to a new place and that’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘Amazing. That’s right!’ the woman announced, eyes sparkling. ‘We’re thinking of moving house.’

  ‘I can see the sea, and smell salt in the air,’ said my father, elaborating on his theme. (He’d already heard that she was thinking of moving house to Southport.)

  ‘Oh, that’s right; we’re planning to retire to the seaside,’ she said, ‘I’m glad that George approves.’

  My father moved on from one person to the next, making sure that each had a little something to go home with: messages from aunties, grannies, sons lost in the war, dogs and cats. At times, he interrupted the proceedings with a little piece of extra theatre, allowing the nosy character of his Eskimo spirit guide full rein.

  ‘What have you got over there? What’s that? What’s behind there?’ His darting eyes looked around the room impishly. It occurred to me that if Imaki really was an all-knowing spirit, then he wouldn’t have to ask.

  Dad’s eyes were now fixed on the settee and he acted as if he could see something there. Then they moved to the dark-haired young woman I’d seen him talking to earlier.

  ‘I can see two little children. They’re playing behind the settee and keep peeping out.’

  At my father’s words the woman broke down. ‘My babies! My little ones!’ she whispered in a sob. ‘I lost them at five months.’

  ‘Well, they’ve come to tell you they’re happy now. They’re in Summerland,’ said my father. (Summerland was where children’s spirits went to when they died.) ‘They want you to know they’re safe and that their nurses are looking after them very well.’

  ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! My babies …’ At this, the woman’s voice faded to nothing and she put her hand over her eyes for a few moments.

  I sat there on my stool, disgusted. I felt almost dirty listening to my dad, knowing what a con it all was.

  After the readings were finished, the group were handed tea in china cups and corned-beef sandwiches. There was a happy glow in the room, and the chatter was now very relaxed. Behind the kitchen door our host was quietly collecting envelopes of money from the guests; as my father and Freda said their goodbyes, the collection was pressed into Dad’s hand with a murmured, ‘For your sanctuary.’

  Chapter Eight

  My father didn’t allow me to make any friends in our neighbourhood, and I was desperately lonely. I’d spend hours whispering into my teddy bear’s ear, pretending she was my best friend. Dad didn’t want Mum knowing where we were and he’d had enough of people poking their nose in his business, so I was told to keep my trap shut at all times. He didn’t want it getting out that Freda and he weren’t married, or that she wasn’t my mother.

  The other reason he didn’t want me mixing with anyone was pure snobbery. Dad lorded it over the others in Wood Street and, as we had the end of terrace house, bigger than the rest and with a yard of its own, he could look down on everybody else.

  Dad didn’t let me go to the same school as the other kids in our street. Instead I had to walk quite a way, across three main roads, to Duke Street Primary, where the other children all knew each other. They’d played together after school since they were little and already had their gangs. I was just an outsider.

  Sometimes, after I’d finished my chores in the evening, I’d stand on the dustbin in our yard and look over the wall at the kids playing in the alley. I’d watch them playing Jerries and Tommies, brandishing pieces of wood, and making the sound of rattling bullets – ‘ta-ta-ta-ta’ – their voices ringing out in the alley. I longed with all my heart to join in.

  The Wood Street kids thought I was odd for not playing out in the street. They thought I didn’t go to Lloyd Street School with them because I was a snob, and it only made things worse that I wasn’t allowed to talk to them. When they taunted me on the way to school, I just gritted my teeth and walked on. I really wanted to go over and ask if I could play with them later, but was too scared my dad might find out.

  I used to stand against the railings of the enormous playground of Duke Street School every breaktime, watching the other kids. The girls would be playing skipping or clapping games or sitting hunched over their marbles, cross-legged in a circle. Many of the boys would be playing a game with their cigarette cards, a bit like bowls except they flicked the cards. Others would be playing
tiddlywinks with bottle tops. After weeks of standing and watching, longing with all my heart to join in, I thought of a plan.

  The next morning, after doing my chores, I carefully opened the sock drawer in the living room and took out Freda’s purse, which she kept hidden there. I took sixpence from it. I didn’t stop to reflect that what I’d done was wrong, my desire to find a friend was so great. I had a grand plan which was driving me forward and nothing would get in my way.

  On the way to school, I stopped at Allens, the corner shop, and bought a large bag of sweets – mint imperials, toffees, bullseyes, and gobstoppers – and put them in my pocket. At breaktime, I went into the playground as usual but, instead of standing by the railings on my own, I walked over to a group of girls who were playing marbles.

  ‘Hey, anyone want a sweet?’ I tried hard to look as though it didn’t matter much to me either way. Inside, though, I felt as if all my future happiness depended on how these girls reacted. At first it seemed as if my plan to find some friends had worked as they all gathered around me. But the attention didn’t last long, and when the bag was empty the girls returned to their game and I was left standing outside their enchanted circle, unsure of what to do. Then I felt even lonelier than ever.

  In my mind there was only one thing to do, and that was to buy more sweets. I wanted to feel that warm glow again, to have the girls huddle around me again and say nice things.

  The next morning I stole another sixpence from Freda’s purse. She hadn’t noticed the missing money the day before, or perhaps she’d thought my dad had taken it. In the playground that day, I approached a different group of girls, who were playing a ball game. Two girls each had a ball and the others were watching intently while they threw it one to the other. I knew the song off by heart:

  Solomon Grundy,

  Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday,