by Linda Calvey
“Dad, you’ve done it again,” I squealed as the van juddered to a stop at a set of traffic lights, causing the three of us to lurch forwards and laugh at the hilarity of it.
All at once my gaze fell on a large shiny dark red car that had pulled up next to us.
“What’s that…?” I gasped, taking in the colour, the expense, the sheer class of the motor purring beside us in stark contrast to the rust bucket we were sitting in.
Dad turned to look, following my line of sight. He snorted. “That, Linda, is a Roller. There ain’t no better car on this earth.” I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I peered over Dad, almost pushing him out of the way so I could see more of this magical sight.
When I finally managed to tear my eyes away from the car itself to look inside, I saw a blonde woman, impossibly alluring, swathed in a fur coat. She was sitting next to a man, who was driving. He stared straight ahead of him, his thick neck set inside a starched white collar and a pinstripe suit. He was puffing on a fat cigar, the car filling with his smoke. I sniffed the air, imagining I could smell the dense, woody scent. Neither of them looked around. I was utterly invisible to them.
Everything I knew about my happy life, my family, school and friends, suddenly seemed drab and small, though I loved them all dearly. It was my first glimpse into another world, into the possibility of a different, bigger, life. I didn’t have a clue how to enter their world. I didn’t know anyone who drove a car like that or who looked like a Hollywood actress, but I knew that one day, I wanted to be like them, to have a life that reached far out of my tiny experience. It was the first time I realised there really was more to life, and perhaps, I really could look to the stars, as Mum kept telling us we could.
I was spellbound. The lights changed, and we moved on in the wake of that Rolls Royce. I watched it go, a sinking feeling in my tummy, which I didn’t understand. I wanted what they had, but how on earth was I going to get it?
Those people, who I was invisible to, were as far from the sights and sounds that surrounded me as it was possible to be. As we carried on driving at a snail’s pace, I barely took in the rows of council blocks, the Lyons tea truck, a man selling whelks from his stall, or the children with scuffed shoes playing with pennies in the gutter.
“One day, I’m going to have a red Rolls Royce and a fur coat…” I said, pondering on what I’d seen.
Far from being cross with me for being suddenly ungrateful for the life we had, Mum saw the stunned look on my face and laughed, “I hope you do, darlin’. You can achieve anything you set your mind to. It don’t matter where you were born, what matters is your dreams.”
I had never really understood that until that moment. Somehow everything I’d ever yearned for, ever felt was missing, ever longed for outside of my small, safe world, was encapsulated in that vehicle in that fateful moment. It wasn’t just because it was expensive or shiny, it was more the promise of a bigger world out there, something I couldn’t fathom how to find, but something that was real, a glittering example of what might be possible, though surely not for a girl from Stepney?
When we arrived back at the maisonette I had thought was a mansion, I saw it with new eyes. Gone was the vision of loveliness and security I’d cherished. Instead, the road outside looked grimier, the place looked smaller, meaner, with gaudy wallpaper in the lounge which didn’t quite meet at the skirting boards. I saw the greying net curtains at Mum’s windows, the worn blankets we’d had for as long as I could remember. The air outside smelled of next door’s stew, the sounds from the street filtered up with shouts from boys playing football on the road, while a couple were having a row a few doors down. It was as if a harsh spotlight had been put onto my life, and I didn’t like what I saw.
“Come on, Linda, help me set the table,” Mum said, sensing the change in me.
I smiled over at her, “Course, Mum,” and I walked behind her, opening the drawers and laying out the mismatched cutlery, lost in my own confusing thoughts.
That moment had crystallised something inside me. I loved my close-knit family, but over the following years I wanted more and more desperately to be destined for something greater.
After my youngest sibling Karen was born when I was 15, Mum decided to stop being a housewife and set up a stall again, like she used to run in the war. She started selling wigs at Roman Road market, Petticoat Lane and East Street, and as I was the eldest of her girls, I helped her out at the weekends. We’d get there early, around 7am, as the traders arrived, bleary-eyed from the night before, to set up.
“Mum, should I put these out here?” I had a bag filled with blonde wigs – it seemed everyone wanted to look like a Hollywood star.
“Yes, darlin’, put those out while I brush out the brunette ones, they got a bit messed up on the way.”
I watched as Mum pulled a hairbrush and pair of scissors from her handbag to attend to the wigs. She brushed them out until the fake tresses were shiny in the early morning light, then placed them carefully on the mannequins’ heads she had lined up on the rickety wooden-framed stalls which lined the street.
“Here they come, Linda, look sharp,” Mum said, “and keep an eye out for the lifters!”
“I will, Mum,” I said, steeling myself to stop anyone trying to pull a fast one on us.
“Hello missus, can I help you?” I turned to the first customer of the day, a woman in her mid-forties who was studying the beehive style hairpieces. I almost giggled, wondering what on earth an old woman would need one of those for.
“That looks lovely, don’t it, Mum,” I said, holding the hairpiece underneath a handful of the woman’s hair. “Would you pass me the mirror so I can show this lady how nice she could look if she does her hair like this?”
Mum stood holding the mirror as I fussed around the woman.
“Yes, you see that’d look lovely if you backcombed this bit and stuck it in here…” My mother cocked her dark blonde head, giving the impression she was a top professional stylist scrutinising her client, like I’d seen in magazines.
“You’re right Linda, and it’s your lucky day,” she said to the woman, “that one’s half price. We’re havin’ a sale, but just for today, mind. It suits you, darlin’, I bet your old man will like you in that, eh?” The woman, who had fair hair pulled back off her lined face, laughed raucously at that.
“I’ll take it!” And she handed Mum some coins. The market was filling up. Soon it was almost impossible to pass through the densely packed street. I loved the noise, the hawkers plying their trades, the men standing on boxes with signs saying The End is Nigh. I’ve always loved people. It comes from having a large family where you have to get on with each other, and so the markets were heaven for me.
My family was everything to me. I now had younger sisters Shelley, the clever one, with light brown hair that she wore long, Maxine, who also had long brown hair and a sweet nature, Hazel, the quiet one with a short brown bob, and Karen, the baby of the family with large deep brown eyes and dark hair. Then there was my younger brother Ricky, who had a slim build and mid-brown hair. Somehow, I felt like I was their protector.
I’d left school at 15, when Mum told me it was high time I got a job. My first reaction was one of sadness. I wasn’t an A student, but I liked seeing my friends at school, and had been quite happy cruising through life, getting mediocre grades and spending my time gossiping and going to the flicks at the weekend. Suddenly, life became more serious.
“Hello, I’m Linda Welford, do you need anyone in your offices? I’m lookin’ for a job?” I said to the receptionist at Smithson’s factory in Whitechapel Road. The woman, who can only have been in her thirties, waved me through to the office where I knocked, feeling butterflies in my stomach.
“Hello, I’m lookin’ for a job, can you help me?” I said. This time my voice sounded a bit weedy. A young-looking man, with brown hair and a nice suit, looked me up and down.
I shifted on the spot. I was wearing one of my favourite Mary Quant dresses, a shade of coral, which was cut almost up to my knicker line.
“Yes, we do need an office girl, actually,” he said, winking at me. “Can you type?” I shook my head. “I make a good cup of tea,” I blurted out, making him laugh.
“Alright then, you can start next week.” He turned away.
“But what will I get paid?” I said, I couldn’t go home without telling Mum, she’d skin me alive.
“We’ll start you off on £20 a week and see how we go,” he smiled.
£20 a week! That seemed like a huge amount of money to me back then. My first week went well. I did what I was told, tidied the office, made the tea and answered the phones.
“Good afternoon, Smithson’s Paints, how can I help you?” I perfected my posh secretary voice, and I became part of the team. On Friday afternoon, David, the youth who worked there too, invited me for a drink in the pub across the road, The Blind Beggar. “Go on, Linda, it’s where the Krays go, we might get to meet them…” He said, leaning against the doorframe, barring my exit.
“My mum will kill me if I don’t bring my wages home,” I said, primly. “Thank you, though.”
The Swinging Sixties had made London the centre of the universe, and even though I was still considered too young to be out enjoying it, I spent every wage packet making myself look the part: buying mini dresses, kitten heel shoes and the black kohl I still like to wear on my eyes all these years later.
Staring into the mirror in the room Vivienne and I shared, I saw a young woman now, and not a child. I had thick blonde hair, which I wore in the style made fashionable by Dusty Springfield, high on my head and backcombed furiously. My eyes were painted with black kohl, making them stand out. I turned my face from side to side. My skin was pale but clear. I had high cheekbones and a look that seemed to say, “What next?”
I smiled at myself, seeing a familiar twinkle in my eyes as I did so. When I wore the mini dresses I loved, I saw men’s gazes follow me as I walked, the wolf whistles accompanied me wherever I went. Something had changed. I had become visible in a way I hadn’t been before. I liked it, but didn’t really understand it. But I would, in time.
At that moment, Vivienne appeared in the mirror. She was a slim girl with long brown hair, and she looked upset. Immediately, my reverie was over.
“What’s wrong?” I said, moving away from the mirror and sitting next to my young sister. A single tear ran down Vivienne’s cheek. She sniffed and wiped it away with her sleeve. “Oh, just one of the girls who I used to go to school with…” Her voice was all choked up.
“What do you mean? What’s happened to you? What has she done?” I instinctively hugged her, wiping the fresh tears away myself.
“Ivy bullies me… She tells me I’m no good and says nasty things. She’s horrible to me…” Vivienne blurted out, then dissolved into sobs. I held her shaking body, my mind whirring. “Where does she live? D’you know where she is?”
Vivienne nodded her head, telling me her name and where her family lived. It wasn’t far from us.
“What are you goin’ to do, Linda?”
“You don’t need to worry about that, I’m goin’ to sort it, ok?”
“What d’you mean, sort it?” Vivienne swallowed hard.
“Don’t you worry. You just wait here and I’ll be back shortly.”
I marched across the road, kept walking along Stepney Way until I came to a block of flats, not dissimilar to ours. I knocked on the number Vivienne had given me. It was time to make her pay for what she’d done to my sister.
As luck would have it, Ivy opened the street door herself. She was taller than me, with a stocky build and short dark hair. I didn’t care that she was bigger. My outrage at my sister being her victim overruled that.
“That’s from Vivienne,” I said, punching her squarely in the face. I had no idea that’s what I was about to do – my arm seemed to arch over and land the blow before my brain engaged.
We both looked at each other in shock. I stepped backwards, trembling all over. “If you touch my sister again, you’ll get another bunch of fives,” I snapped menacingly.
“Muuuuuuum!” Ivy burst into tears and slammed the door in my face. I legged it back home, shock and pure adrenalin running through me as I moved.
“It’s sorted,” I said to Vivienne as I marched into our room. She was still sitting on my bed where I’d left her. Terry poked his head round the door. “What’s the wailing?” He snorted when he saw Vivienne’s tear-streaked face.
“Never you mind,” I retorted stoutly.
I got my fair share of wolf whistles as I walked to and from work, and it wasn’t long before boys crossed my radar. I was walking through Victoria Park in Hackney one sunny Saturday afternoon with my friend Pat from the office, who had short, dark hair and a tomboyish look. I nudged her.
“Look over there, he looks nice.”
A young man was leaning against his maroon and grey Ford Zephyr, looking every inch the confident, handsome charmer. He had brown hair and wore unusual clothes for the time, reminiscent of Dad’s braces and flat cap. I saw him eyeing us up, and blushed. I would never have approached him – only “fast” girls did that – but I did want to play this exciting new game a bit, so I said to Pat, “Let’s walk over there, give him a smile and see what happens.” We giggled together as we walked over, desperate not to give any indication we were interested in them.
My friend stopped. “I don’t know if I like the look of the other one.” Another chap had joined the first. He had blond hair and a sneer, and I had to agree with her, but my curiosity was piqued and so I begged, “Oh come on, don’t let me down now, I won’t leave you with him, I promise.” We changed our direction to head towards them, pretending not to look at them as we went, though I caught myself stealing glances to make sure they were aware of our existence. The young men hopped into the car, and within seconds they drew up beside us.
“Goin’ anywhere nice, ladies? I’m Frank, pleased to meet ya.” The one I liked smiled, leaning with his arm out from the driving seat, looking just like a film star. He had hair styled like Elvis. I thought he looked the bee’s knees.
“Hello, I’m Linda, and this is Pat. We’re just out for a walk together, aren’t we Pat?” I replied, trying to look nonchalant.
“Fancy goin’ for a coffee with us?” My friend and I looked at each other. “Alright then,” Pat said as casually as she could, and so Frank got out of the car, opened the back door for us to scramble in. Somehow, the decision was made for Pat and “her” chap to go on the back seat and me to sit in the front next to Frank.
“Nice motor, is it yours?” Pat said.
“Thanks, yeah it is, cheeky cow.” Frank Chapman replied, winking at me. I blushed again, thinking he was the handsomest boy I’d ever spoken to. We felt very daring, especially as Frank drove for almost an hour.
“Where are you takin’ us?” I said, smiling sideways at Frank.
“There’s this lovely café we like in Epping. What’s it called, mate?” he shouted to the guy in the back. I glanced in the mirror. Pat looked less than thrilled to be cooped up with him when I was in the prime front seat.
I gave her a look of sympathy and she stuck her tongue out at me, making me laugh.
“High Beech Coffee stall,” came the answer.
“Sounds lovely, Frank,” I said, enjoying the feel of his name in my mouth.
“Four coffees, and four cheese sandwiches – no, make mine spam,” Frank said, handing over a one pound note.
I nudged Pat. “He’s flash,” I whispered. We giggled through that afternoon, the sun shining on our faces, the boys messing about and joking to make us laugh.
“So, what music d’you like?” I asked him.
“’Ave you heard of The Beatles?” he said, leaning intimately a
cross the table towards me.
“Yes, I have,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him. I really did fancy him. He had a muscly though wiry build, and his clothes created a striking and unusual effect.
“What d’you do for a livin’? I work in an office, though I can’t type yet,” I said, which made Pat giggle.
“No, she flippin’ well can’t!” And we both dissolved into laughter.
“I’m a coalman in winter, and a scrap dealer in summer. I deliver coal then take in their scrap. It’s not a bad life…” His brown eyes were boring into mine. I could’ve melted into them, but my friend nudged me, breaking the spell. I realised she wanted to go home.
“We have to get goin’, but it was lovely to meet you both,” I said.
Frank replied immediately, “Can I see you again?”
“Oh, alright then,” I said, with as much fake languor as I could muster, which wasn’t much.
“I’ll pick you up on Friday and take you for a drink.” Frank winked again. Frank and I chatted all the way back to Stepney, while Pat and his mate sat in awkward silence. I was giddy, thinking Frank Chapman was the height of attractiveness in a man.
When Friday came, I made sure I bought a new dress down Brick Lane market. It was very short, with a design of pretty flowers in reds and pinks. I loved wandering up and down the stalls fit to bursting with fruit and veg, clothing stalls, bric-a-brac and lingerie. Blokes would stand outside The Hospital Tavern nursing their pints, eyeing up the girls and whistling as they passed. It was a thrilling mix of sights and sounds, the smell of spices and unwashed traders, geese cackling from cages, women arguing over prices. I was 16 years old, and about to fall in love for the first time.
On Friday, Frank picked me up from outside work in his car. I felt like a film star stepping into his motor. He’d never take me out in Stepney or any of the nearby boroughs, always preferring to drive me up to Epping or Chigwell. At the time, I didn’t mind, thinking he wanted to impress me with the drive. Again, how wrong I was.
