by L. T. Smith
BEGINNINGS
BY
L.T. Smith
BEGINNINGS
PART ONE
PROLOGUE
I COULD TELL you what has happened. But for you to understand, I need to take you back … right back. To 1974.
When people talk about the 70s, they will fill your head with free love, drugs and rock and roll. Actually, that sounds pretty good, especially the free love part.
But what I’m going to tell you is initially from the eyes of a six year old – me, funnily enough. I know you want to put this down, but bear with me. We all like to peek into someone else’s life – however boring it may be.
So. Let’s find our setting.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Then I’ll begin …
CHAPTER ONE
1974
SUMMER – 1974. HOT, sticky and filled with promise. Days filled with nothing but what my imagination could conjure up – and that could be pretty frightening. Streets were packed with children on school holidays, playing ‘tiggy-it’ and kerby, and avoiding cars as they raced to retrieve an errant ball. Space hoppers were the new black.
I was six years old. It was Levenshulme. Once an affluent part of Manchester, but now filled with students and ethnic minorities. Old radios blasted ‘Shang a Lang’ and ‘Puppy Love’ into the street. Mothers bawled at kids climbing the fence to the railway tracks where they would flatten pennies, completely unaware that they could be flattened too.
I loved my childhood. Loved it in a fucked up way. We were poor – dirt poor. I came from a family of five brothers and two sisters, all older than me, and all avoided me like the plague. Except Jo of course. She was sixteen months older than me, and my idol. Her role on this earth was to be my surrogate mother, and to this day she still holds that place. We were like Siamese twins, but without the shared organs. Even our farts smelt the same. Uncanny or what? But Jo still brags that hers don’t smell (they always did, but I tried to ignore it and closed my mouth sharpish). We looked completely different, but relatives still confused us, and my mother had to resort to colour coding to differentiate. Of course we mixed and matched outfits just to be little bleeders, and Jo hid her pink-rimmed National Health glasses at family gatherings as the final straw.
Kids. Gotta love ‘em.
Well … I have told you this much, I might as well introduce the other spawns in my family. Five brothers … urgh! Every girl’s nightmare, and if you met them you would understand why. Patrick, aka Sniffer (which characterises his approach to the opposite sex), is the eldest son. Simon, who is fondly known as Ebenezer (need I say more?), is the second eldest. Brian was the third, and in the words of my mum, ‘is such a bloody liar’. He was the one where the doctors after the birth, advised my mother to use birth control in the future.
No such luck. Aiden popped out, much to the disdain of my mother, who initially disowned him. Pity she didn’t stick to her guns. But then came the crowning glory. Queen Angie, Queenie, Dammer, Screamer. ‘Who is this bundle of fun?’ I hear you ask. My big sister, sometimes wonderful … sometimes a psycho – which I found out the hard way. She was a git to all of us when playing chief babysitter and tyrant, when my mum worked at the nightclub. Over the years our relationship has grown stronger though – probably because now I can protect myself.
The last brother finally came … what a prize! Alan. Our Adge. Skid mark. Yup … Skid mark, on account of the very fancy designs in his underpants. David Hockney watch out – abstract (f)art.
Then it was Jo’s turn (short for Joanne) – the last but one. She had a myriad of names … but Bulber and Mazda were the main two. Reason being – her head was uncannily shaped like a light bulb, and it looked like her body was constantly having brilliant ideas.
Now me, I had a fine selection of nicknames. So many in fact I had trouble remembering my real name, which didn’t add to my appearance of intelligence. Primarily I was known as Bergans (left outside the butchers of the same name for five hours, and not missed until tea was being dished out) and Chunky (generic name with the rest of the family). I introduced myself as Chunky. Other names sneaked in - Henry the Eighth – no – I wasn’t a fat polygamist with syphilis … or a beard. It was just the way I used to eat, you know, like it was the first morsel that had passed my lips in ages.
But wait. I think I need to go back just a little bit further – you know, complete the picture of the darling child I was. I’ll totally understand if you don’t want to read anymore, but please believe me – it does get better!
I was born (very David Copperfield-ish - not the magician - the sponging whining fucker Dickens wrote of), in the year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Sixty Eight. To say I was a beautiful baby … would be a lie. I was very long, very ugly, with a bald head, and eyes like a Lemur. Of course I developed into a fat toddler but still with very large eyes, which, fortunately, enabled me to see in the dark when the Electricity Company cut us off.
I was the last of the bunch. One look at me and my mother finally cried ‘No more!’ Years later, she admitted that if the umbilical cord had not been attached, she would have sworn I wasn’t hers. Angie loves to recall the day that they brought me home from the hospital. Her job was chief guard, standing at the front door like a bouncer, barring entrance to the neighbours: ‘As not to frighten the womenfolk and kids.’ This tale is told at every opportunity, usually between hysterical laughter and finger pointing (in my direction – where I would sit … glowing). She loves to retell it, like the Ancient Mariner, as she feels ‘cursed’ to regale it over and over again. She even takes on the features of the decrepit old seaman –dribbling accompanying the overexcitement and spitting.
My mother used to bounce me and Jo down the road in a dilapidated pram, (Jo, who was cuddly, beautiful and always had a ready smile), trying to avoid well-wishers in her path. Jo, of course, removed people’s attention from my owl-like eyes, but on the occasions she wasn’t present, the focus of the admiration went on the pram. I didn’t care as long as they left me alone to chew through the plastic mattress at the base. It was bliss on raw gums … cool, yet satisfying.
I wasn’t the bravest of children. I was even scared of a rabbit once. Yes. You read that right - a rabbit. You may think that rabbits can’t hurt you, but they can, as I will prove.
There was a woman who lived up the road from us. Weird bugger. Smelt of bleach and cigarettes. Well … she was a creative soul and a bit of an animal lover – and I mean ‘bit’. In her back garden she had erected a majestic centrepiece consisting of soil, broken bricks and bottles. It was beautiful … in a soily, brokeny bottle and brick kind of way – almost modern art .. and very underrated by the rest of the community
The hutch itself sat pride of place, resembling an Anderson shelter sawn in half and decorated lovingly with chicken wire. I can remember it as if it was yesterday … it was class. My sister led me up to the monument that proved women should never be given free reign with a drill. (This was the 70s and I can be Politically Incorrect – just this once). All it took was the aid of climbing gear and (in the words of a Blue Peter presenter), ‘a responsible adult’.
The ascent began.
Never in my young life had I been so scared. Thoughts flitted through my mind of what terrible monster would be imprisoned in a fortress like that. So, being an idiot, I started to back off, caught my heel in a broken Dandelion and Burdock bottle, fell backwards onto an artistically smashed house brick that was coyly peeping from the middle of the mound … and gashed my head open.
Of course , the wailing started. Many of the elderly residents thought the Germans were invading, as they had been secretly and quietly preparing for years. Have you ever noticed that children initially cry with no sound? Their mouths stretched to capac
ity, eyes dry, but not a sound to be heard. Then suddenly a low whine is discernible, culminating into the loudest, most annoying howl audible to mankind (heaven knows how dogs cope), and the waterworks go into overdrive.
I raced away, vowing silently I would never trust another Blue Peter presenter again, with my hands rising in slow motion up to the cut on my head, needing my mum like I’d never needed her before. All this amidst the initial laughter of the neighbours. Bastards. Concern came later, especially when my family came round to sort out the ‘caged monster’ and the smelly weird fucker who would allow a child to climb her monument unarmed.
As I said before, Levenshulme was very multicultural – especially of Asian descent. There was an Indian kid who lived down the road, who Jo and I were friends with. One day, his father gave us an onion bahji. We had never seen one of these strange things before. So … Jo and I played catch with it for a while and then bounced it home. How were we to know that this was a special offering from one culture to another? Just think how offended we would have been if we had given them a Holland’s Steak and Kidney pudding and they had played cricket with it. But we were kids … how were we to know?
Anyway. Jo’s best friend, Tina Brace, lived in the road opposite ours. Tina’s nickname was the ‘Rooter’, as most of her playing time was spent rooting through my mum’s drawers and the kitchen cupboards. We used to slag her off, but she did come in handy. If we couldn’t find anything, Tina always knew where it was and would direct us to it. ‘Oh, I noticed that when I was going to the toilet. It’s in the Lads’ bedroom … in the cupboard in the far left corner … second drawer down, right up the back’. She was to be one of many strange friends who would come and go over the years.
I was unfortunate in that I had to share a bedroom with Angie, Jo and the whole Osmond family (especially Donny). This should have mentally scarred me, but it just made me stronger … and thankfully, when Jo’s Cliff Richard obsession kicked in … I was prepared.
Donny Osmond was Angie’s idol. Whatever pop tune rattled forth from between that enormous set of teeth, was like the National anthem for my sister. The whole family had to stand to attention (in absolute silence) for the King of the teenybopper world. When I woke up frightened in the night and couldn’t sleep (being a ‘whinging little get’ as Angie called me), she would try to calm me down with the words ‘Donny’s laughing at you.’
Right enough he was. Wherever I looked … he grinned back. Even when I opened the drawers he was flirting with me through the mound of my underwear. God, I hated him … smarmy bugger - and the rest of his family! I hated Puppy Love and bloody Paper Roses. I hoped he would get distemper, and someone would pour petrol over Marie’s roses … ending with a delicate kiss with a lighted match.
Before I go on to tell you what happened to me when I was six, I need to tell you how I became the distrustful person I am today. Nothing spectacular – but let’s just say a lesson learned, okay? You can be the judge.
Would you be tempted with a free glass of lemonade? Especially if all you usually got was Corporation pop (water), or when your mum was flush … Vimto? I was. Very.
It was an ordinary evening. Quiet … for some unexplainable reason. And it all boiled down to my sister … Jo. She asked me if I would like a drink of the aforementioned lemonade. Of course I did! What sugar-craving child wouldn’t? The lemonade, as free gifts usually do, came with a catch. I had to carry her on my back, on all fours like a donkey, for half an hour. I should have guessed that Jo did not have any lemonade … she did not have any money to buy lemonade … but I trusted her. She was my surrogate mum after all.
On the floor I went, not even four years old and scrabbling around on all fours building up my thirst. I asked intermittently when I was going to receive my well-earned refreshment, only to be told ‘Soon. Soon.’ Now, looking back, the crooning tone of her voice should have told me something was not right. The innocence of youth, eh?
Eventually, through sheer exhaustion, I rebelled and demanded that I should be paid in full for my services. Jo paid in full … by the God, she paid in full. The payment of lemonade came in the shape of pee – donated by her – over my back. I can still hear the laughter in her voice as she shrilled ‘Enjoy your lemonade, you deserve it!’ All I can say is it’s a good job that she never promised me chocolate. To this day, she still can’t tell me why she did it, just mumbles something about being possessed.
The story doesn’t end there I’m afraid. My brother Patrick’s latest victim, sorry girlfriend, was staying with us at the time, and every time a police car went past she wanted to play ‘Let’s Hide Under the Bed’. Once again – children are so gullible. Nowadays I would be at the bedroom window screaming ‘She’s here … in here … under the bed!’ Unfortunately, she had to share the room with me, Jo, Angie, and the Osmonds (all of us in a dilapidated double bed), but when she walked into a puddle of pee, I thought the shit was going to hit the fan. Obviously it was my fault … and she classed me as a disgusting degenerate (my face said ‘uh?’), and promptly stormed off to sleep with my brother. Many years later I realised this was her golden opportunity to get between the sheets with Sniffer, and I wasn’t really a freak of nature – still not sure about Jo though.
I know … I’m going off the point.
Oh … all right then …
Summer – 1974. Hot, sticky and filled with promise. Days filled with nothing but what my imagination could conjure up – and that could be pretty frightening. Streets were packed with children on school holidays, playing tiggy-it and kerby, and avoiding cars as they raced to retrieve an errant ball. Space hoppers were the new black.
I was six years old. It was Levenshulme. And that’s where I first spotted Ashley Richards … or Ash, as she liked to be called …
CHAPTER TWO
ASHLEY RICHARDS. EVEN today, when I say her name my whole body smiles.
I can still remember it vividly … the day she fell into my arms … fell into my life.
Yes.
Fell.
In our front garden we had a huge tree in the corner … huge. I used to love climbing up as high as I could to get away from the brood, and even at six years old I could get pretty high. My mum, to this day, doesn’t know I used to climb it. I used to sit above her when she would be bellowing out into the streets the litany of names of my siblings, all in rank order, announcing that ‘Your bloody tea’s on the table!’
Amazing what power you can possess by being just a little higher than everyone else. I felt on top of the world.
Every teatime it was the same. Until one Sunday that is …
I had climbed one branch higher than usual and was perched there, gloating. Mum had been and gone and I had watched my brothers and sisters trundle in the front door one by one, ready for tea. I had just climbed down when I heard a distinct rustling of leaves coming from overhead.
It was, or so it seemed, a split second later when something landed on me. It was big. It was heavy. It was wriggling like crazy on top of my battered and bruised body.
It was Ash (as I later found out).
Blue eyes wide with shock and panic – and pain …. if my aching backside and stomach was any gauge. Instinctively, my arms wrapped around her, and both our squirming bodies meshed into each other. Black hair tumbled forward and part of it went inside my mouth, an obvious distraction when I was trying to scream.
The more we tried to separate, the more entangled we became. A voice from above me hollered ‘Stop!’ and like the good girl I was – I did. I lay there completely rigid as the blue-eyed girl systematically pulled herself free, allowing my scrawny arms to flop lifelessly to my sides.
‘Are you okay?’ Concern was evident. The tears I had felt welling up in my throat – you know the ones we try to swallow but become like footballs - miraculously disappeared. Silently I nodded my head, looking at the now towering girl looming above me. I wasn’t okay, but damned if I was going to admit it to her.
She held her h
and down towards me to help me up, and for a split second I considered the idea of refusing, but the pains shooting up the cheeks of my arse told me to stop being a martyr and accept.
So I did.
Her hands were cool in comparison to my clammy, dirty ones, and with one deft movement I was on my feet … I don’t think I even had the chance of bending my legs. I staggered forward only to be captured by her once again, my head hitting her in the chest. Jesus … she was so tall. The feeling I had whilst lying on the ground came back – she still towered above me!
‘Sorry about that …’ her eyes flicked to the tree, ‘I kind of lost my footing somewhere along the line.’ I just stared at her, gobsmacked. I wanted to demand why she had been there in the first place, but nothing would come out. I must have appeared simple … and I think for those few minutes I was. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ A quick nod was all I could muster. Her face took on a concerned look … and my arse was still throbbing to the tune of the birds singing.
After about a minute of staring at me, she stuck her hand in my direction. ‘Ashley Richards. Erm … or Ash. I just moved down the Avenue about two weeks ago.’
I was just about to answer - my mouth had formed around a word and was ready to let it slip through my gormless lips when ‘Bloody hell, Lou. Your tea’s on the table. In!’ Mum. And she was pissed off. Big style.
I turned back to Ashley and flashed her a smile, ‘Got to go. See ya around, yeah?’ Her face broke out into an enormous grin and she nodded, her hand still outstretched. Impulsively, I grabbed her hand and pumped up and down like I had seen my mum doing to people she had just met. Those cool fingers clutched at mine for a brief moment before my mum’s increasing ire got in the way.
‘Inside now, lady. You can speak to your friend tomorrow.’
Another smile lit up my face. A friend. Yup. I liked the sound of that.
Before I had a chance to say anything else, she was gone. And I turned back and wobbled indoors, the cheeks of my arse screaming, but the smile on my face said ‘Stuff it. I have a new friend.’