by Mary Hayward
I remember thinking, what did I care? After all, he was the source of all the shouting and arguing and stuff. But then I did care, of course I cared; he was my only contact in this hellhole to share the misery. How could I find myself thinking that I didn’t care? No longer was there anyone to stand up for me, to protect me from the horror of it all.
Unwittingly I found myself expecting him to walk into the room. But he never did.
No one prepared me for it, the searching, and the daydreaming trying to remember his voice in my mind, but gradually I found myself struggling to build him into my dreams. It was as if he had died and I remember feeling strange and crying quietly to myself at night. Unconsciously I would wander into his room to talk, and realising he was no longer there I would unexpectedly wake up in the darkness, stare at the menacing shadows flickering on the wall, and bolt back to my room in terror.
Emptiness and those nighttime anxieties replaced the little irritations Les brought to my life. The impish pranks he would spring, making funny faces, farting and other noises to scare the wits out of me; ‘nankering’ I think they called it.
After slinging Les out, Dad ambled back into the living room. Mum glanced up but didn’t say anything.
Turning to pick up his newspaper and packet of fags, he slumped into his fireside chair. Mum looked down at the floor. She always did that when she was afraid to say anything and for a moment I wondered if she later regretted complaining so much. But if she did she never said anything about it after that, and I was just left to get on with my life without him.
Dad started doing his usual ‘lost child routine’. He looked at Mum and moped about. Finally, irritated, she slung him half a crown, and he sloped off down to the pub. I didn’t see him return, but I noticed another vomit-stained burn mark in the arm of his chair.
Some time later Les went to live with the Rolling Stones at 102 Edith Grove and wrote a book about the experiences of living with Keith Richards and Brian Jones, called Phelge’s Stones.[1] They called him ‘Nanker Phelge’ on their record labels because of his nankering ways. Why he called himself James Phelge I never knew. But he described his early life saying that he escaped his unhappy childhood, begging and beaten, at the age of fifteen.
After Les left it was just my Mum and Dad—apart from me, of course. I was really grateful at first and the house was strangely quiet. But I was puzzled when I began to realise there was only baby food in the house—there was nothing for me. And I worried I would be slung out next.
3
My Wooden Leg
I REALLY WANTED A LITTLE SISTER to play with, and I thought it would be great, as all young girls did. What I didn’t realise was how the family dynamics would place the burden on me.
Born in February 1957, my sister Jane tripped helplessly into my world, to share with me the pain of screaming, glue-trap-poverty. I could see no other advantage. Except, perhaps now the fighting between my parents was punctuated by the tormented hunger of a baby. The little crumbs of comfort afforded by an increase in state benefit hardly compensated for the misery that came with her.
Most days Mum would sit in her apron, puffing a fag, her slippered feet resting on the old black enamel oven door, the distinctive smell of burning town gas wafting up her open skirt.
This day was different.
As I came in from school the stench of tobacco smoke choked the air. I found her upstairs muttering to herself, staring out through the old yellow stained net curtains that clung to the back bedroom window.
“What’s for dinner, Mum?”
Silence
I thought it a little strange, although as a child, I did not take too much notice. I was more preoccupied with my hunger because I hadn’t eaten anything, apart from the free school milk at morning break. If I qualified for free school dinners (as I did from time to time), I would be called up to the desk at the front of the class and the teacher would shout out: “Those for free school dinners!” I would have to traipse out to the front, the only one, singled out, and the teacher would tick off my name in the register. Sometimes I would rather go hungry. I know I should have suffered the humiliation of it all, but I thought I would get a hot meal at home, even though it might only have been potato and cheese mash.
“Him again, all his fault—fucking sod.”
“What is, Mummy?”
Silence,
“Are you coming down to do dinner?” I tried again.
“I don’t know—there isn’t any food to eat!” she shouted back. “It’s your father’s fault—we haven’t got any fucking money—I don’t know.”
Her voice trailed off in a series of mutterings I didn’t hear. I wandered downstairs, keeping my coat on.
“Why isn’t the fire lit?”
“There’s no fucking coal.”
“Why isn’t there any coal, Mummy?”
“It’s all yer father’s fault—now stop asking fucking stupid questions.”
“Can I have something to eat?”
“There isn’t anything, all right? Now fucking shut up about it—you’ll have to wait until yer father gets home.”
I skulked off into the kitchen, opened the tall larder cupboard and peered into the musty darkness. I waited impatiently for my eyes to adjust in the vain hope there would be something.
A few currants lay scattered on the middle shelf. I dragged the nearby kitchen chair across to the cupboard, and careful not to wake the baby, I stepped up.
High up by the window, I spotted a tall round packet of Farleys Rusks, some malt, and powdered baby milk. The rusks were free from the baby clinic, but for some reason Mum still didn’t like me taking them. Perhaps that was why they were high up!
I didn’t like malt, but what else could I do? I was hungry.
My little hands struggled to open the big jar of malt, and despite several attempts, it proved a puzzle. In the end I found if I wrapped the top in a tea towel, and wedged it close against my body, one determined effort would see it open.
Listening out for Mum all the time, I sat down at the table, and scraped out a spoonful of malt, spread it thinly on the rusk, and scoffed it before mother had a chance to find out. Afterwards, I sat silently cleaning the spoon by the old butler sink, before clambering back up on the chair to return the jars.
Scampering back to my room I snuggled, cocooned on my bed, losing myself in an old copy of the Beano I had scrounged from a kid at school.
Slam!
The house rocked. Dad didn’t usually slam the door so hard. He burst in and disappeared straight into the kitchen. Mum raced down the stairs. I heard loud voices.
I rushed to the landing and, straining to listen, I wondered if it signalled the start of another row. I heard only the last part of their conversation.
“Yeah okay, all right then, I’ll go and get her.”
“Get down here now, come on, get yer bloody shoes an yer coat, we’re going out!” Mum snapped.
I wondered what was going on. I hastily clambered down the stairs, grabbing my shoes and grubby little coat on the way.
“Where we going?”
Turning away from me, she looked at the floor, said nothing, then took my shoes.
“You’ll see—now don’t ask questions, and get yer shoes on.”
“Awe,” I groaned.
“Come on, lift yer bloody feet.” She dug her nails into my flesh.
Tugging my foot roughly, she caught my toe, sending a spike of pain up my leg. I didn’t dare say anything, and for once, I just did as I was told. I lifted my foot up, shoved my other shoe on, and left her to tie the laces.
“You’ve done ’em too tight.”
“Don’t fuss—they’ll be all right once you get moving—now shut up—get on the step!”
My coat had come from a mail order catalogue and it wasn’t too warm; the sleeves were too short, leaving my hands frozen in the cold night air. As the door slammed behind me I was jostled down the short path.
Mum wore a dark woollen coat
that rendered her almost invisible, and I remember thinking how funny it looked, as if the pram was pushing itself. She grabbed my hand tightly, dragging me down Langhedge Lane, and along to the High Road.
It was cold, dark, and I could feel myself panic.
“Where we going? My feet are hurting. I don’t want to go—I don’t want to go! I want to go home.” I stamped my feet on the pavement and pulled my hand away.
“Be quiet, it’s not far now.” She dragged me back, squeezing my hands so tightly I couldn’t break free. Dad snatched the pram and left Mum to keep hold of me. Frightened and confused, I clenched my little fists in my pocket as my mind started to worry. Were they going to dump me like Les? They had got rid of Les. Were they going to get rid of me? Dump me at the hospital or something?
“Mummy, I want to go home—I’m hungry,” I wailed, kicking the pram with my shoe so hard it almost tipped over.
Whack!
I fell back, my face stinging. I suddenly realised I had been given a message.
Between streams of warm tears, I desperately tugged at her hand, but it was no use—she was too strong for me and she wrenched me back time and time again.
“I want my dinner! Mummy, I’m hungry—I wanna go home!”
Thwack!
I could no longer feel my face; instead, it was replaced by an intense, numb tingling, as the full force of her rings bit into my flesh. For the first time I felt the taste of fresh blood. It trickled down the back of my throat, leaving a bitter raw taste.
I understood the message.
My lip, torn open, was now zipped shut. I backed off. This was new. Was it my turn now Les had left? But I was only a little girl—I hadn’t expected this.
As we approached Bruce Grove, Dad stopped by a high street shop, its bright lights glowing through the plethora of advertising posters pasted to the windows. I stood there, watching at the shop door as each customer came and went, flashing, like a lighthouse beacon in the mist.
Dad grabbed both my arms and raised his hand as if to hit me. I flinched. He knelt down to me and I could smell the drink on his breath. He wiped away my tears and, lifting my chin, he used his hanky to clean the blood from my lip. For a moment I felt his gentle touch, his caring side as if he was feeling guilty, although I couldn’t be sure.
He spoke softly.
“We need you to go into the shop and give the man a note for us.” He crooked round to Mum. “Ave yer got the note?”
She left the pram and sidled up.
“Yeah.” She retrieved a crumpled note from her coat pocket and quietly shoved Dad out of the way.
Held like a prisoner before the gallows, I gazed up at them as they both plotted and schemed. It was like they were on a secret mission, planning each move like some spy spoof movie, with one exception: I was the only one who wasn’t in on it. I wanted to escape, but Mum’s steely grip dissolved any thoughts of making a run for it.
“Here,” she muttered, thrusting the paper into my hand.
“Now look here.” She bent down to my face, holding my arms tightly. “I need you to go into the shop now and hand the man this note. Now you must make sure that yer give him this note, do yer understand?” She shook me as she spoke. “Have yer got it?”
“Yes!” I glanced back at her, sniffing through my tears.
“Are yer sure you know what to do?”
“Yes,” I said, still snivelling and trying to nod at the same time.
“Now don’t forget to wait for him to read it, yeah—that’s very important, have you got that?”
“Yes”
“And then—you’ve got to say that you haven’t had anything to eat—yeah—and please can you have it on tick? Now that’s important you say that right!” She lifted my head roughly, forcing me to look at her.
“Yes.” I lowered my head in nervous silence, and then, shuffling my feet from side to side, I attempted to kick a stone across the pavement, pretending to make out I wasn’t really with them.
“Now don’t forget to say you haven’t had anything to eat.” She shook me violently and I braced myself for another smack, but it didn’t come. Perhaps they didn’t want my face marked anymore.
Shivering from cold or fear, I don’t recall which, I stood on the pavement outside the shop door. I glanced back with a mixture of outright trepidation and sheer fear.
Spinning round, I faced the door. The shopkeeper stood in his white overalls, a big man, ruddy face, and it might have been fancy, but I swear he was angry as soon as he clapped eyes on me. It was like he knew what I was about to say.
Mum came up behind me and held me by the shoulders, then pointed me at the entrance to the shop once more.
THUMP.
I felt the blow of a hammer thrust me forward, as the light from the shop exploded full in my face like a stun grenade. Blinded and confused, I found myself half in and half out, in some sort of no man’s land.
Mother recoiled like a chameleon’s tongue, shooting back like some horrible vampire, gobbled up by the night.
Frantically I glanced back, but she had abandoned me. I was alone in the bright lights.
I wiped away my tears with the back of my cuff and took a deep breath. But it was no use—I could feel the panic rising in my tummy. I refused to enter.
THUMP.
I felt another hammer blow between my shoulder blades, and suddenly I was staring into the abyss.
Spinning round, the shopkeeper spotted me clinging to the counter, a rather grubby note clutched tightly in my right hand. I sheepishly spat it across and stood back.
His sharp tongue cut the silence, bellowing so loudly the windows rattled.
“Can’t yer read?”
The customers turned to see his fat fingers pointing at the sign on the wall.
I swallowed hard. I shrivelled down. I hadn’t noticed the sign, and I didn’t think Mum had either, but it said, “No credit.”
“I don’t want the likes of you here, so get out of my shop and don’t come back. Do yer see that, there on the wall?” His fat finger wagged at the notice once more. “Now what does it say?”
“Ner…n…no credit,” I stuttered.
“So bloody get out and stay out!” He grabbed the nearby broom as if to chase me out of the shop, although I thought it was more for effect than anything else.
I bolted out of the shop like a wounded whippet, anywhere, nowhere, blindly into the darkness of the High Street; fighting my way through the gathered crowd until I felt the cover of the darkness envelop me like a huge sheet of smog.
Finally I came to rest in a crumpled heap, surrounded by the familiar smell of beer, wafting like smoke signals, out onto the steps of the Red Lion pub. If beer were as volatile as petrol I wouldn’t have lit a match.
I looked back through my tears searching for Mum, but she wasn’t there, or the pram for that matter. I so wanted to run away and be like Les—to disappear silently into the night; yet I was too hungry. Instead, I sat there watching people come and go. I just didn’t know what to do.
A bunch of lads stumbled out through the pub door. I noticed that the tall skinny one, with his greasy hair and long sideburns, carried a packet of Smiths Crisps. I could taste them in the air from where I stood, just a few feet away. At first, the lads didn’t seem to take much notice of me as they wandered over and lounged by the corner of the road. They were all laughing and joking with each other, and I could see they were in a boisterous mood. Then, without warning, the tall one turned round and clocked me as I sat, on the step of the pub, all alone.
My scruffy hair prickled as I shrunk back into the shadows, sliding slowly over against the side wall, its rough surface, like the night, cold and damp. I ruffled the collar of my coat, straightened my dress and tried to make myself invisible, although it didn’t seem to be working.
The tall one walked over to me, his knuckles clustered with rings, a chunky gold bracelet dangling from his wrist. Looking directly into his face was like staring into the dark eyes
of a Panther. The friendly banter was now choked into silence, as I felt a pervading sense of menace. Were they going to play some trick on me?
For the first time I wished Mum and Dad were close.
“Oh, no,” I muttered under my breath.
I got up and backed off, now terrified they were going to do something nasty. I half shuffled, half clawed myself away awkwardly, keeping my back against the wall, and trying to stay close to the pub door in case I needed to get help. Luck didn’t appear to be on my side and I was praying he would go away.
He didn’t. He crept towards me, holding out a bag of crisps, as if trying to entice me closer.
I wasn’t convinced. After losing Les I didn’t trust anyone, not even my own Mum and Dad, let alone him.
I jumped back, my heart bursting in my chest, trapped up against the wall of the alley!
They all herded round like towering cattle ready to trample me, fencing me in with their intimidating wisecracks. I didn’t understand exactly what they were saying to me, but I began to realise from the tone of their voices, it didn’t sound good.
One of them suggested taking me back to their place and ‘giving me one’. I didn’t know what that was. I thought they were talking about a packet of crisps, until another said he wanted his turn, and apparently he was going to give me one as well. Either they were very kind, or I was about to be in grave danger. I couldn’t work out which way it was going to go.
“Here love, want a crisp?” the tall one lunged at me with an open packet.
I flinched and shot backwards, cracking my elbow against the wall. But despite the searing pain, I was determined not to let it distract me from my gaze. I started to shake uncontrollably. I tried to stop it. I couldn’t. I looked up at his face, now scared, alone, cold, and hungry.
“Please mister, leave me alone.”
The fat one reached over to claw at me.
“Don’t yer want it?” the others all jeered, egging him on.
I closed my eyes and then, collapsing to the floor like a rag doll, I put my hands over my face to make it all go away. It didn’t!