by Patsy Whyte
"Not much I can do about it anyway."
As she shrugged and hunched her shoulders, I knew something inside her was changed. Her eyes were empty and distant, as if focused on something far away. This was not the Sadie I knew, who always laughed and joked whenever things were bad. It was plain she wasn't in the mood for talking much. She made an excuse about being tired and walked off to her room only a few doors along from mine, shutting me and the rest of the world out.
I was overcome by a deep sense of sadness and despair. Back in my room, I just lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling for hours on end. There was nothing else to do. I had nothing to read and no radio and there was no television room I could go to either, nothing to occupy my mind. When I got up early next morning, Sadie was gone. We never had the chance to say goodbye. I never saw her again. Many years later, I heard she married a soldier. But I don't know if that was true or not.
At the end of another long and dreary day, I was summoned to appear before the lady who ran the place. Not knowing quite what to expect, I was a little surprised when the member of staff who came for me then led me through to her living room.
The lady was sitting near a roaring fire reading a report surrounded by paperwork. She was in her middle 40s and her black shiny hair was shaped neatly into a Swiss roll at the back. Her eyes lifted from the report and looked directly at me as I stood nervously waiting for her to say something.
"I'm puzzled", she finally said. "Why are you here?"
I shrugged my shoulders because I didn't know myself.
"As far as I can see, all you've done is run away. You've got no criminal record. You've done nothing wrong to bring you here."
She paused for a moment, thinking, before shaking her head.
"No no no! This is wrong. You shouldn't have been brought here. I'm getting this sorted out immediately."
She looked very cross and concerned, as if realising I'd been dumped by a system that only wanted to wash their hands of me. She was having none of it and promised to contact Mrs Strachan first thing in the morning to find somewhere else more suitable for me to go.
"Don't worry. We'll have this all cleared up tomorrow."
With that, I was dismissed. As I walked back to my room, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. With a bit of luck, I'd soon be out of here, away from this miserable place. True to her word, Mrs Strachan arrived to collect me the next day to take me to another hostel.
In the car on the way there, she asked me when was the last time I visited a hairdresser. My hair looked such a mess. I said, when I was 10, and she looked rather surprised. My dishevelled appearance also caused my new house mother some concern, too, judging by the expression of horror on her face.
The house mother was small and plump with rosy cheeks and silvery hair and turned out to be a much kinder lady. She welcomed me and hoped I would be happy in my new home. More for reassurance than anything else, Mrs Strachan made a point of telling her she was going to arrange a hairdresser's appointment for me. And she would be using social work funds to buy me some new clothes, too. She explained how at the last hostel I was given no money out of my wages to buy clothes or anything else.
My new room looked much the same as the last one, with the same familiar layout, three beds taking up most of the space. Instead of small, individual chests of drawers, there was one large sliding wardrobe, which was shared. But, of course, the few possessions I owned were still at the last hostel and hadn't yet been sent on. All I had was the clothes I stood up in, and they were now badly in need of a wash.
My room mates came from Edinburgh and Fraserburgh. They never told me the circumstances which brought them to the hostel, so far away from their homes. I had the feeling the hostel was for girls who had been in some kind of trouble. Later, my initial suspicions were proved to be correct. My room mates warned me two or three of the girls were real trouble makers and not to cross them.
"Watch your back", said Margaret, the girl from Edinburgh. "Be careful what you say. Some of them don't need any excuse to pick a fight."
The contrast between me and Mrs Strachan, who was always immaculately turned out, was plainly obvious as I stepped out her car and headed towards a rather posh department store in the middle of town. I was eagerly looking forward to some new clothes, even although I had no real idea what I wanted to wear.
Mrs Strachan saw I was struggling to make my mind up. I didn't have much of a clue about fashion. So she gently made a few suggestions as to what would look nice. She picked up a purple woollen maxi coat for me to try on. But I felt it was much too elegant for someone like me. But I didn't want to hurt her feelings either.
"That's lovely and warm", I said.
"Right, we'll take it", she told the shop assistant standing next to her.
For the next couple of hours, I tried on all kinds of clothes, from dresses and shoes to jumpers and underwear. Every time I liked something, Mrs Strachan bought it. I don't know how much money she actually spent on me. It was a lot. We were both weighed down with bags filled to the brim when we finally left the department store. After locking the clothes away in the boot of her car, she took me to the hairdresser for my appointment.
When I eventually arrived back at the hostel, I lovingly slipped each new item of clothing onto a wooden coat hanger, enjoying the look and feel and texture of each for a moment before hanging it up in the wardrobe. I was particularly proud of the long silk maxi dress with matching hot pants. This was one of the best days of my life.
For the first time, in a very long time, I felt really good about myself. I quickly settled into the routine of the hostel and got myself a job in a fish factory. It wasn't the greatest of jobs. I stood for hours in front of a steel table packing prawns into white plastic containers after first cracking and pulling off their hard shells. It was cold and wet but at least the wages were reasonable. The women either side of me were friendly and chatty which helped to break the monotony of each long day.
I caught a teenage boy looking at me all the time and at the end of the first week, he asked me out on a date. We arranged to go dancing in the Douglas Hotel. But he turned up high as a kite, hardly able to string a sentence together. So I left in disgust. I was not going to go out with anyone who took drugs. He never asked me out again.
When I returned to the hostel after a hard day in the fish factory, my room mate Margaret warned me someone was going into the wardrobe and helping themselves to my clothes. I was furious.
"What a bloody cheek! Who's doing it?", I demanded angrily.
"Martha Stewart. Look, watch it, though. She's got a reputation for fighting."
"I don't bloody care. She's not helping herself to my stuff!"
By now I was boiling mad, itching to confront her. She was not getting away with it, no matter what sort of reputation she had. I tracked her down to the dinning room and let fly.
"I hear you've been helping yourself to my clothes when I'm at work!"
"So what!", she fired back.
She was skinny looking, with mousy brown collar length hair. Although at least a year or more older than me, she didn't look that tough.
"You'd better not be wearing my clothes again", I roared out, barely six inches from her face.
"Or you'll do what?", she snarled back.
Suddenly, she pulled away and grabbed a chair from the dining table. With a look of menace on her face, she waved it slowly in front of me, moving it from side to side, trying to intimidate me.
"You don't frighten me!", I said, holding my ground.
"Oh, don't I?", she spat out, moving a little closer.
Without warning, Martha threw the chair down and launched herself at me. There was no option but to defend myself. I punched and kicked her and grabbed her hair which came out in handfuls. We fell to the floor, rolling and twisting, scratching and biting and lashing out at every opportunity. But neither of us was able to gain the upper hand.
Somehow, Martha managed to wriggle free, grabbing h
old of the upturned chair as she did so. She struggled to her feet and raised it above her head ready to slam down on me. But I was already one step ahead of her with a chair of my own. I swung it from behind me and then launched it full force towards her body. It caught her smack in the middle of the hip. She let out a cry of pain.
Alerted by the noise, the house mother and two members of staff came charging through and immediately jumped to all the wrong conclusions. Martha turned on the tears and played the victim for all she was worth. I was hauled through to the house mother's sitting room where I found myself having to defend my actions.
"We've never had girls behaving like this before", the house mother fumed.
"But it wasn't my fault. She was going into my wardrobe and taking my clothes out", I tried to explain.
The house mother was having none of it.
"Silence! Martha's never been in any trouble since she's lived here", she said. "You've only been here a short time and there's all this trouble."
I knew it was hopeless. Anything I said would only fall on deaf ears.
"No. We'll have to get you removed from here. We don't tolerate this kind of disruptive behaviour. It's not fair on the rest of the girls. I'll be talking to your social worker. I want you out of here."
With that, I was told to go. Later on, lying on my bed, I realised why there had never been any trouble here before. The rest of the girls were too frightened to stand up to Martha. So they let her away with all her bullying. Mrs Strachan turned up the next day and she was anything but pleased to see me.
"What am I meant to do with you?", she said.
I had no answer, so I said nothing. I could see she now thought me a hopeless case.
"What do you want me to do to help you?"
Mrs Strachan was at her wits end, her patience all but run out.
"Get me out of hostels", I said. "I just want to be on my own. Why can't I get another live in job?".
Mrs Strachan thought hard for a moment, surprised by my answer. But it was worth considering, judging by her expression. She told me to pack my belongings and then we were off again, on the way to her office. We drove through the city streets in silence. I knew Mrs Strachan must have been mulling over the options. When we arrived, I was invited to sit down. Then she excused herself, saying she had a few telephone calls to make. When she returned, there was a look of satisfaction on her face.
"I've managed to get you a live in job at the university, waitressing", she announced.
I discovered later I only got the job because the manageress at Aberdeen University was a personal friend. She was doing Mrs Strachan a favour. I moved into a small single room next to the halls of residence and started work the following day. The job wasn't hard. All I had to do was serve the students breakfast, lunch and evening meal, clear away the tables and sweep the floor.
For the first time, I was allowed to keep all my wages to myself, which meant I could buy new clothes and tops and other bits and pieces. I had my own key to come and go as I liked and was free to make my own decisions. This was all I ever wanted. I started going dancing at the Palais de Danse. You had to be 18 to get in. But when I put my make-up on, I looked much older. So I never had a problem getting through the doors.
I loved the atmosphere and the people I met, the noise and the hustle and bustle of a packed Friday and Saturday night. I wore hot pants and high platform shoes which were all the fashion. A huge revolving mirror globe hung from the ceiling, sending patterns of light streaming across the dance floor. Freda Payne's "Band Of Gold" or "Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep" by Middle of the Road or Lynn Anderson's "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden" were at the top of the charts.
The boys came over and chatted me up and danced with me, but at that time, I wasn't interested in having a boyfriend. I was more into drinking Blue Lagoons and getting drunk and staggering back to the halls of residence in the small hours of the morning. As a result, I often slept in for work, rushing down to find breakfast already over and the other waitresses clearing away the plates. I didn't blame them for throwing me dirty looks.
The halls of residence were usually packed with students from all over the country. They chose to study in Aberdeen because of the university's excellent reputation. I became particularly friendly with two student girls from Glasgow, both in their late teens. They were struggling to make ends meet on a meagre budget. Although they never stayed in the halls, they came to the dining room for meals.
They invited me back to their flat which was in a rough part of Aberdeen. I felt sorry for them having to live in such a run down area. But they couldn't afford anywhere else. They were such nice girls, too. We climbed the dingy stairs of the tenement block to the top landing. Just as were were about to enter the flat, they popped next door to their neighbour's flat, to see if they could borrow some money and milk. They entered without knocking, so I figured they must know their neighbour well and be on really friendly terms.
I followed them through to a small sparsely furnished living room which hadn't seen a paint brush in many years. The paper on the walls was faded and torn in places and the dirty red carpet had seen better days. The room felt cold and smelled of damp.
I sat down on an old battered settee in front of an empty hearth choked by cinders and ash. Standing with his back to me was a young man. He was staring at himself in the large mirror hanging above the fireplace. I let out a quiet gasp as I recognised the reflection.
It was Jack, the councillor's son, the young kid who'd gone crazy one school dinnertime causing a riot. I never trusted him then and I didn't trust him now. But I said nothing. He turned around with no sign of acknowledgement and announced he was going to get changed in the bedroom.
The students whispered amongst themselves, trying to decide who would ask for the money and milk when he returned. I didn't mention I knew him from long ago as we listened to him pacing up and down in the bedroom, muttering to himself. The tension grew. We sat silently looking at each other, waiting for the bedroom door to open again.
But it wasn't Jack who appeared, finally, but someone else, an alter ego complete with blonde wig, heavy make-up, flowery figure hugging dress, high heels and stockings. I was totally freaked out and wanted to run as far away as I could but managed with the greatest of effort not to say anything or show any reaction.
Jack walked past me and over to the mirror again, puffing and pouting his bright ruby red lips to make sure the lipstick hadn't stained his pearly white front teeth. Next he checked his large false eyelashes and separated and straightened out one or two lashes clogged up by the black mascara surrounding his heavily made up eyes.
Looking rather satisfied with himself after giving his body profile the once over, Jack turned to look at us. The students sat open mouthed, dumbfounded, in a state of shock, with thoughts of money and milk the last thing on their minds. He went over to the side of the settee and picked up a black shiny patent leather handbag.
Then he paused for a moment, staring at the students, enjoying their obvious discomfort, and said in a lady-like voice, "Don't call me Jack any more. My name is Rosie. See yourselves out darlings. I'm off."
We listened in silence as the sound of Rosie's high heels clicked and echoed in the tenement stairway. She made her way down to the bottom floor and then out into the street. I dashed over to the window not really believing she would have the nerve to walk out dressed like that. But she did.
She moved along the street in a rather unsteady manner, gripping the handbag tightly to her body, managing somehow not to stumble or fall flat on her face, until she disappeared out of view. The students spent the night sitting in their flat in the dark with neither milk for tea or money to feed the electric meter. I made my way back to the university determined never to set foot in Jack's flat again.
* * *
It was years since I last saw my sister Lottie and now I had the chance to track her down and build up the relationship we should have had all along but for the interference
of the authorities. She was family and I needed her to be part of my life. From kids at school, I knew the name of the housing estate my mother and father lived in. I didn't want to talk to them, because my emotions were still too raw, but the area was a good starting point in the quest for my sister. So I started knocking on doors and eventually someone told me they knew her and where she lived.