No Ordinary Woman

by Valerie Byron

  Susan Williams and Jane Tours were in my class. They were very much impressed with the wild “American” girl who had joined them, and we became a threesome almost immediately. Lunch hours were spent in the local coffee bars, eating baked beans on toast for a mere nine pence, and drinking numerous cups of tea. Sue was from a poor part of town, Wigan, but had huge aspirations to better herself. In other words, she was a social climber. Jane, on the other hand, was from a very genteel, upper class family hailing from Sussex in the South of England. Despite her upper class background, and accent, she managed to remain genuine and sincere. We were an odd mix, but somehow it worked. Jane and I formed a very deep friendship from the start, and when she left college to return home, we wrote to each other constantly. Sue seemed a little jealous of the bond I had formed with Jane and tried to supplant me by becoming Jane’s “best friend,” boasting of the letters Jane had written to her.

  Sue and I became friends on a different level. She would come to my flat on the weekends and we would spend a great deal of time together. However, before I delve into the drama of Sue, several other events transpired.

  Before I had time to graduate from Business College, the head of the school contacted me. She said she had received an inquiry from a local attorney, who was looking for a secretary. She highly recommended me, even though I had not finished the course. I went for the interview, wearing a business suit, high heels and a nervous smile. I was interviewed for the very prestigious position of secretary to the senior partner of a law firm in Manchester, and got the job. Although it was goodbye to college, I was determined to keep Sue and Jane in my life.

  Working for Peter MacDonald at “Slater Heelis” was a great learning experience. I shared a small office, overlooking Princess Street in Manchester, with a lady called Mrs. White. I never did learn her first name. She was a much older woman who worked for another lawyer. We typed away on ancient typewriters, with tons of carbon paper between each sheet. During my first few days at the job, I must have thrown away most of the paper I used because of all the mistakes I kept making. We had a small gas fire, and the tea lady would arrive punctually in the late morning and early afternoon with cups of tea or coffee in thick white ceramic cups. I learned to type wills, probates and the usual legal documents.

  Mr. MacDonald would “buzz” when he wanted me to come in for dictation, and I would sit across his desk, with my very tight skirt pulled down as far as it would go, rapidly practicing my new shorthand skills, hoping he would not talk too fast. His office contained no filing cabinets. The manila folders containing client information were secured with pink ribbons and piled on the floor, covered in a layer of dust. There was no system to any of it and I often wondered how he found what he was looking for.

  Mr. MacDonald was a sombre man, who smoked a pipe. He was tall and slim, with short dark hair, parted in the middle. He had a small gap in his front teeth but I rarely saw it as he never smiled; in fact, he rarely looked at me directly.

  There was no joking, camaraderie or personal information shared between us. I didn’t even know if he was married or had children. I was just an eighteen-year-old secretary, and he was a forty-something attorney. It was an odd alliance, especially because I think he had a secret desire for me, which he hid well. One day, after taking dictation, he asked me to come to his side of the desk. I stood beside him while he spoke of something to do with work. Keeping his eyes on the papers in front of him, he ran his hands up and down the back of my nylon-clad leg. Neither of us said a word, and I just stood there, allowing him to caress me. I had the same feelings that I experienced in boarding school with Mr. Jackson, the art teacher. I felt that any physical attention was good, especially from an older man. Can you imagine this happening today? The poor man would be fired and even sent to jail, but in those days we thought nothing of physical contact, welcoming it as a positive thing.

  Eventually, I started to get the hang of things. I became friends with other staff members, and noticed a very attractive red-headed young man who turned out to be an “articled clerk” – an attorney in training. His name was David Richardson, and I immediately became very attracted to him. According to the other girls, he had dated most of the secretaries in the office, but I still was determined to have him notice me.

  After weeks of coy looks and flirtatious stares, David started talking to me. We arranged to go out for tea, and from then on we dated occasionally. David was in the process of taking his final exams and passed them with flying colours. I introduced him to my mother and met his family, who were quite upper class, but the most down-to-earth people in the world. But just dating David was not enough for me. I always felt there might be someone better around the corner and consequently continued to attend nightclubs and dances with my friends, Pauline, Zelda and Wendy. The four of us were out almost every night, and there was a constant stream of men phoning me for dates. We did not have a telephone at home, so I had to rely on receiving calls at work.

  I often met my dates after work to be taken out for a drink or a meal. I recall Sid Brownstein, a ferret-faced older man taking me to his flat after work in his convertible. I felt very sophisticated, driving through the streets of Manchester with the top down. He stretched his arm out to the back seat, and then handed me a carton of cigarettes, which I accepted very happily. I did not realise that this was probably his payment for expected sex. I found him most unattractive and only saw him a couple of times before declining further dates.

  Then there was a very nerdy young man named Nigel de Ferranti who had an upper class accent and wore strange clothes. I had met him at a Tuesday night dance club called “The Three Coins.” Although I felt no attraction to him, he was persistent and asked me for my phone number. I gave it to him, hoping he wouldn’t contact me, but he inundated me with letters and phone calls at work, which I tried to ignore.

  One day while I was sitting at my desk at work, a junior secretary ran into my office exclaiming, “Valerie, there is a boy outside in a Rolls Royce. He is asking for you!”

  I stumbled down two flights of stairs, wondering who it could possibly be, only to discover Nigel waiting in the foyer. And yes, indeed, he was driving a Rolls Royce. This put an entirely different complexion on the matter. Turned out he was the scion of a huge aircraft manufacturing company, Ferranti Aircraft, and was loaded. All of a sudden, Nigel became quite attractive to me. I had never dated anyone who was very rich, and figured I could definitely get used to the life he was offering. You could say that “shallow” was my middle name at eighteen years of age but I am happy to report that Nigel was the last man I dated based on promises of wealth.

  Nigel was attentive and flattering and after several weeks he invited me to visit his family’s vacation home. On a Friday night, following his instructions, I took a train to North Wales, a few hours away and he met me at the station. I had no clue what to expect, or even if his family would be waiting to meet me.

  To my surprise, we drove by car to the edge of a river, where we took a boat to a tiny island, surrounded by water. All that was on the island was Nigel’s parents’ house, and no-one was home. I was flabbergasted and impressed, as I had never known anyone who owned their own island.

  We spent the weekend cooking together, talking and walking around the island, admiring the foliage. Nigel wanted to colour my eyelids with various eye shadows, which seemed to be the extent of our intimacy. It was a strange weekend, but I quite enjoyed being with him and hoped that it would progress further.

  For whatever reason, our relationship only lasted for a few more months, soon petering out because I could not sustain being with one man for long. Nigel became jealous of my other men and continued to pester me for a while, sending imploring letters. I knew in my heart he was not the one for me, and so I moved on.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My social calendar was filled with all kinds of interesting men, and there seemed not enough days in the week to accommodate them all. I had a reputation among my girlfri
ends of being a wild and crazy American – and of course my accent was more pronounced in those days. Because I had known Pauline from babyhood, she and I had formed a very close bond. She confided, to my surprise and secret disgust, that she had been having an affair with a man she had met on vacation. He was a black Jamaican with the ridiculous name of “Popsy”. Her parents would have died on the spot if they had known, but she kept him a secret from her very Catholic mother, and protective Jewish father.

  It turned out that Pauline had a penchant for black men and made no bones about it. Our friends, Zelda and Wendy, were quite nonchalant about the matter, and were content to follow Pauline’s lead. I had never had any leanings that way, and was not interested in finding out more. However, I loved going out on the town with the girls, and Pauline having a car made it easier for me to have a social life.

  One exciting evening was spent in a club owned by an up-and-coming Trinidadian singer, nicknamed Lord Kitchener. His given name was Aldwyn Roberts, but we didn’t know that then. We girls crowded into the nightclub to hear “Kitch” sing, and sat at a table with our drinks, feeling very sophisticated and worldly-wise. I remember watching this very tall, thirty-eight year old black man perform, making up calypso songs as the audience tossed out suggestions to him. He was quite plain, with a huge gap in his front teeth, but he had an amazing gift for lyrics. I wasn’t to know then, but Kitch was to become one of the most famous calypso singers and composers in history.

  He spotted me at the table and asked my name. I responded “Valerie,” and without missing a beat, he started singing a song that he called “Valerie Darling”. We all laughed and applauded like mad and I was very impressed. Kitch asked for my number, which I reluctantly gave him. I was taken with his talent, but not with him. I certainly was not looking for a relationship with an unattractive, older black man, no matter how talented he might be. Why, I wonder, couldn’t I have just said “no”? I never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings and that is probably why I dated so many men I was not attracted to. My soft side always prevailed and in hindsight it did me no good.

  Fortunately, the few times Kitch drove out to see me, he was the perfect gentleman. I don’t know what it was about me that interested him, but he never made a pass. He bought me drinks at the local pub, and took me out for a meal on several occasions, but obviously had the sensitivity to see that I was not interested in anything more than friendship.

  One night Pauline took us all to the very worst part of town, Moss Side, a slum area. It was akin to Watts in California, and was purely a black neighbourhood. The three of us entered a club, which was dark and smoky. It was populated by black men and we were the only white girls there. The music was a calypso style with lots of steel band influences. The men looked at us with interest, as Pauline led us into the crowd. I felt a rush of something sweep over me, but was not certain what it was. Fear? Excitement? Dread? I could not tell you, but it was a little intoxicating. To my surprise, Pauline was very familiar with the place, and knew quite a few of the men there. I wondered how on earth a girl from such a strict Catholic background could have found a dive like this.

  We were to return to the club several times over the next few weeks. Meanwhile, I was writing in my diary every night, describing everyone I had met and the experiences I was having. One night Pauline and I went back to the club alone, and I was introduced to a very interesting looking man who was mixed-race. His name was Louis Culpepper. He was quiet and attractive and seemed very interested in me, although he didn’t say much. We drank and danced, and although I still felt uncomfortable in this alien atmosphere, it was quite exhilarating to be a white woman among black men. Everyone looked at us; we felt incredibly desirable and unattainable, which was enough to make us laugh and flirt outrageously.

  I was not a big drinker, but had thrown back a few cherry cordials in the local pub on our way over. It was to give me Dutch courage, because I was always a little nervous when I travelled with Pauline. One never knew what would happen next. This particular night, Pauline disappeared with her new “boyfriend” Roland, a chubby, happy black man, and I was left standing alone. Louis appeared out of nowhere, and pulled me into a room attached to the club. It was small and dark, furnished only with a bed. I started to panic, and pulled away. He was strong and held my arms in a vice-like grip, pushing me toward the bed. I was dizzy and drunk, and fell backward on the bed. Before I knew what had happened, my skirt was pulled up and he was on top of me. The music outside the room was loud, so no-one could hear me. I tried to push him off, but had no strength in my arms. I panicked and tried to scream, twisting and turning. He held his hand over my mouth, quickly penetrated me, and then rolled off. In tears and shame, I pulled my clothes together and rushed back into the club, looking for Pauline.

  She took me home and nothing was said about the incident on the drive back. I don’t think she even noticed that I was withdrawn and shaking, as she was so busy telling me about her relationship with Roland. I was totally mortified, and too embarrassed to talk about it, although she could tell from my demeanour that I was very upset. When she dropped me off at my flat, I went into my room and wrote all the details of the evening in my diary. I decided that I would never, ever go with Pauline to these clubs again. They were dirty and nasty, and I felt soiled and used.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The days passed by, and I had become used to working for Peter McDonald. I still met Jane and Susan for coffee in the evenings, and had decided to introduce Susan to my brother, Alan. One weekend he came to visit, and I invited Susan to come and meet him. I was not certain if they would be a match – he was hardly a sophisticated, handsome young man – but he had charm galore, was tall and incredibly bright. To my amazement, they hit it off immediately and spent hours head-to-head talking. I was very pleased and felt that I had done a good turn for both of them.

  They were not able to spend a lot of time together because Alan was still at school in Sheffield, so their relationship was fairly casual at this point. Meanwhile, David Richardson was still pursuing me at work, and I was having fun dating him and becoming closer to his family. However, my life was too exciting to settle down with one man, so I accepted each and every invitation I received, not worrying about staying faithful to David.

  Susan and I decided to take a holiday in Rimini, Italy. I had never been away on my own before, and the prospect of having fun in the sun was very appealing. The fact that my period was late was pushed to the back of my mind. I ignored the implications and concentrated on having a good time with Susan.

  We flew to the Italian Riviera, where we stayed in a lovely little pension, prepared to have a good time. The first day we were there, Susan met a charming Italian man named Beppe. She was very taken with him, and asked if he had a friend for me. He said “but of course,” and it was arranged that we should all meet in the marketplace later that evening.

  We found the narrow street that Beppe had told us about, lined with shops and restaurants, and outdoor tables and chairs. There were people thronging the alley-way, and there was an air of excitement and promise. Susan, Beppe and I sat at our table, drinking coffee and smoking. I was very nervous, not knowing how this “blind date” was to turn out. After a while of searching every face that walked by our table, I looked up, and standing before me was the spitting image of Rossano Brazzi, the Italian film star. I almost fainted. He was absolutely gorgeous.

  Carlo Vezzani was an Italian airline pilot and definitely looked the part. We hit it off immediately and before the week was out we were spending every moment together. I hardly saw Susan the entire time, as she was busy with Beppe, but I certainly didn’t miss her at all. Carlo took me out for luncheons on the beach, in glamorous glass-sided restaurants, and dancing under the stars in open-air night clubs. We made love in his apartment, and I thought I was falling in love. He was a very special, caring man and although it was impossible for us to make a lifelong commitment, the week we spent together was magical. I certainly didn�
��t tell him of my suspicion that I might be pregnant, and he ignored the telltale swelling of my stomach. Carlo wrote to me for months afterwards, but I never saw him again.

  Carlo Vezzani – Rimini, Italy 1961

  By the time we arrived home from Italy, I still had not got my period. I frantically checked the dates on my calendar, and realised I must be about six weeks pregnant. I was in a deep state of denial, even though I continued to write in my diary, expressing concern over my condition. I took baths at night, trying to abort the baby with douches filled with disinfectant, but nothing happened. I decided not to think about it and get on with my life.

  One morning, as I boarded the bus to work, I noticed a very beautiful, dark-haired girl sitting on the upper level of the double-decker. I had seen her before, but this morning decided to say hello. We started to chat and I discovered that she lived a few blocks away. She was a year older than me, had formerly been a model, and now worked in an office in Manchester. Her name was Moira Hill and from the moment we met, we became best friends. There was something about the dynamics between us that spelled great friendship, and it continued for the next fifty years. But back then, we were two silly girls who met on the bus for work, smoked our heads off, and giggled non-stop. I learned that Moira had two sisters and a brother, and they all lived with their Irish Catholic parents in a small, semi-detached house just minutes from my flat. I was invited to meet the family, and they welcomed me as if I were another daughter.

  Shortly after meeting Moira, my mother and Alan Aitchison decided to go away for the weekend to his cottage in the Lake District. They were barely out of the house, before I was gathering people together for a party. I asked Moira if she and her sisters would come, as I needed more girls. She agreed, and a nice bunch of people showed up at my flat on the Saturday night. We ate, drank and generally had a fabulous time, until the police showed up at 3 am, after being called by a nosy neighbour. Being British “Bobbies,” they delivered their stern warning to keep it down, accepted a beer, and left. I was finally able to get rid of everyone by 5 am and all agreed it was the best party ever.