by Yvonne Young
We were puzzled by the sight of a bidet in the room: why would they want two toilets? One of my roommates suggested that it was to wash our feet in, so this we did until we spoke to one of the more enlightened girls, who soon put us right:
‘It’s to wash your bum in.’
‘Arrgh, no, it’s never!’
We didn’t admit our feet had been in there and that our plates of meat were thoroughly scrubbed that night – ugh!
The most terrifying experience of the whole holiday was when we visited a gift shop. Once more, the prices were sky-high and one of the girls nicked a massive ornament shaped like the Atomium structure in Brussels (built to celebrate the World Fair, a landmark structure from the 1958 exhibition) – the silver balls were substituted with porcelain golf balls and the stand was the clubs. It didn’t fit properly into her bag so she asked a pal to keep it for her. That wouldn’t have been a problem but we hit a road block with armed police (there must have been an incident totally unrelated to this theft). We were all green as grass and imagined the gift shop had spotted the missing monster ornament, which they would, of course, and had alerted the police. An almighty panic ensued and the ornament was passed from one person to another in sheer panic. Muggins ended up with it and the thief snapped the golf sticks off to force it into my bag. Everyone held their breath but all that happened was the officer boarded the bus, spoke in French to the driver and hopped back off again. The offending item was dumped at the first opportunity.
The return ferry crossing was a nightmare as the ship crashed around on a violent sea. Our party was ‘deck only’, the seating was those white plastic seats that you see in ice-cream parlours, and as the ship rocked from side to side those of us who tried to sit found that we slid from port to starboard across the wooden surface, trying to avoid the projectile vomit carried further on the sea spray. One lass had bought a baguette for her parents as these were not familiar in Newcastle, only to see the bloody thing snapped into as many pieces as she careered back and forth across the deck. It was a miserable time, we were all freezing cold. Paris in the spring… Bloody hell, if I’d known this, I doubt that I would have ventured forth!
Back at school, I continued to take French lessons but it wouldn’t serve me in any capacity other than to say ‘Close the door’, ‘Pass the pen’ or ‘There it is’, ‘Here it is’. It annoyed me that there were feminine and masculine words, but of course, the pupils who had passed their Eleven Plus had already been studying this for two years so I was never going to catch up anyway. Studying at home was out of the question as I was out every night with my pals and argued that I probably wouldn’t go back to France ever, so why bother?
The atmosphere at school was so different. There were prep hours where pupils took it as their own responsibility to seek a quiet place in the library to revise. Their parents were most likely university-educated and encouraged their children to study, whereas mine couldn’t have cared less. These girls played tennis and wore the white outfits, they lived in the posh houses in Fenham and Moorside. I will never forget when I was getting changed for PE one day. Mam had written my name on the tag of my blouse in Biro. I noticed a girl had a specially embroidered name label in her white shirt and immediately covered mine up.
My pals were working and for all I was enjoying the lessons, the thought of staying on at school for another two years seemed like an eternity. They were working in town and earning money so they went to the Majestic dance hall for the lunchtime sessions. As my school was only a few stops from town, I began skipping lunch and jumping the bus to town for half an hour’s dancing. I took a dress with me to change into. Lord knows how I was never late back, but I was always hungry: finances being what they were, I was using my dinner money for the entrance fee.
The mock GCE exams were taken and the results surprised me as I was second top for Language and Literature in the whole year, including the original pupils. My results were excellent in all but, you’ve guessed it, Maths. But I made a decision I would always regret: I decided to look for a job and give up my studies. In later years, I almost blamed my parents for not stopping me, but it was my choice and they just accepted it. They were probably only too pleased that I would be earning money, and aspiring to better yourself wasn’t heard of. Instead, you accepted your lot and didn’t step out of the class you’d been born into. It’s crazy to think that if I had stayed on, in only a couple of years my chances of a good job would have been greater. The school careers advisory team began to pay visits and I was called in for a chat. She offered me an interview for a butcher’s shop assistant or serving at Woolworths and was aghast when I said, ‘I don’t want to go to either of those places.’
‘Well, I’m offering you an interview set up for you, what’s wrong with those positions?’
‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘I’m going to find my own work.’
I wasn’t the only one leaving school, most of the lasses from the secondary moderns were too. We were each given a massive Bible with our names on fancy labels in the front. Someone started a craze for having it signed on the inside cover and everyone began signing at a gallop, running into classrooms to obtain signatures.
My pal Jess was at Rutherford High School, having passed her Eleven Plus; and she was staying on to study for A levels. She was meeting new pals and also, new lads. A lass from her class went to Mark Toney’s café on Grainger Street in town. I went along and was impressed when she ordered a cream cheese and pineapple roll. This seemed very posh to me, cream cheese. I had never heard of it and with pineapple too – all we ever ate in our house was Cheddar or Cheshire. At the time all the stonework of the cafés, shops and buildings in Grainger Town was black until an undertaking to clean up the city took place. These stones were actually beige in colour, and the smoke and grime from industry had blackened them. Well, I never – it looked like a new city!
City it may be, but football supporters call it ‘The Toon’. The club’s nickname is ‘The Magpies’ because the team wear black-and-white strips. Supporters and their girlfriends are renowned for going without coats in the middle of winter to show their dedication to the team and how hard they are. Other hardy creatures gracing the ‘Toon’ were hordes of starlings; they nested and perched wing-to-wing on every available ledge, but this was soon to stop with the newly cleaned up facades. Wires and spikes were fixed to deter them, but even now I think of that throng of chattering birds and the sight at a certain time of the evening when they circled and dropped into position all at once for the night.
I went to a couple of matches with pals. At the first one I attended at St James’s Park, I got into a panic as there were far too many people in the stands and everyone surged forwards. Me and a friend were given free tickets to a football match between the two teams at Sunderland’s ground, Roker Park, as well, which was quite eventful!
Day trips down to Whitley Bay were popular on Sundays and we hung around the bottom of the ramp across the road from the Spanish City fairground. There were hot dogs, toffee apples and winkles in shells (‘Willicks’), sold in white paper bags with a pin in the corner to pick the eye off with, and of course, ‘The Laughing Policeman’ in a glass box or we could play the latest song on a mini jukebox. Lulu belted out ‘Shout’, and holidaymakers for ‘Scottish fortnight’ (this was the last week of July and first week of August, known as such because Scottish holidaymakers would descend on Whitley Bay while the factories were closed for two weeks) were parading around in fashionable gear and I was beginning to notice that my duffle coat and jeans were rather scruffy-looking. So many girls there were wearing slacks in powder colours, flowered tops and sandals. On my return journey with Jean, we stood at the station, looking at all the beautifully painted holiday posters with gulls flying, blue seas and flowers. The ladies were smart on those too – it was time for a change of style.
Back at Jean’s house we dug out her mam’s catalogue to order some pale blue brushed cotton trews and white tops. We bought blue sandals with
Cuban heels and thought we were top-notch. We even tried begging to use her mam’s Green Shield stamps to buy something else to wear, but you needed about forty books for a teapot so that was out.
* * *
My Beat friends who were all older than me were moving towards long-term relationships and becoming engaged, so I was seeing Jess more. One lad, who Jess had fancied for ages, asked her out. His father was the owner of a local milk delivery firm. She was so excited to be meeting up with him for the first time. The plan was to meet outside a shop on the West Road at around seven, then to walk to the West End Boys Club from there. Jess, being an expert at dressmaking, was wearing her latest creation and she had purchased a pair of the new hold-up stockings. As she walked along the road, she saw him standing in front of the shop. He was there early, impressive, but as she approached, one of the stockings fell to her ankle. Being the gentleman, he stood with his back turned in front of the doorway to the closed shop while she pulled it up.
After a couple of weeks of dating, he asked her to his home to meet the parents. Jess always had very strong views – and still does – on politics. She was her father’s daughter as he was a strong union man, who was well aware of injustices in the workplace. But she blotted her copybook, as when politics came up for discussion, she gave her thoughts freely and strongly, much to the annoyance of her boyfriend’s father. The relationship didn’t last long after that.
Another lad called Matt, who she met at the club, was very popular with the lasses and Jess went on a couple of dates with him. We were out shopping in town for clothes and she bought a bright orange skirt and a pair of bright green shoes. She showed them to Matt and he said, ‘If you wear those tonight, I will pack you in!’
Not being one to bow down to threats, she did just that and he ignored her.
We went to the Oxford a couple of times a week to dance to the popular songs and the occasional band, always wearing our newly-made clothes. Jess’s were tacked, pressed, lined up and perfectly stitched. Mine were done quickly to wear that night, usually puckered, zips on show and one puffed sleeve and one flat, but hey! She knew all about Biba and their designs and would add embellishments to enhance her style. We bought paper patterns such as McCalls, Style and Butterick and the occasional Vogue if we had the cash. Culottes were fashionable and we called into Farnons (its catchphrase was ‘Try Farnons First’). We bought a yard-and-a-half of fabric at the department store on Nun Street (so-called as the land was once the site of a nunnery and monastery called St Bartholomews, and an original alley called Nun’s Lane is still there).
We didn’t need that much fabric as our mini-skirts just about covered the cheeks of our arses. Jess bought orange flowered and I chose yellow. We couldn’t wait to get back to my house to cut out the pattern. After half a day’s sewing, we tried on the body of the garment only to discover they were cutting us in two! Jess thought of a solution to cut the crotch part out and make them into dresses, but I had another idea: pull the stitches out and cut the crotch further down. It worked, we had our culottes after all. I was totally surprised that I had thought of this – it was the only time in dressmaking that I had saved the day.
Tights were becoming popular, which was just as well as the length of the skirts ensured stocking tops were on show. Marks & Spencer had the best colours, American Tan, Ecru and Sandalwood, but they cost an arm and a leg to buy. We didn’t have much money, so we saved up to buy a pair and when the toes gave in, we sewed them up and used nail varnish to stop runs. When we were short of cash, we bought the odd cheap pair from a Quayside Market stall. You had to take your chance as on occasion when you opened a packet there would be three legs or a big hole where the crotch was supposed to be.
After being in town all day window shopping and listening to records in Windows, Jess and I came home briefly to get changed. She washed her tights and hung them near the electric fire to dry quickly. Her sister Diane opened the back door and a gust of wind sent the precious legwear clinging to the bars of the fire. They immediately melted and were clagged all over the front like cinder toffee. Diane thought this a huge joke, so we retired to the back bedroom, where Jess had some clothes laid out on the bed which she was hoping to exchange for some of my cast-offs. Diane popped her head around the door:
‘Swapping again are we, girls? I wouldn’t care, but it’s all shite!’
She was laughing and I thought this was funny, but Jess was furious.
‘Go next door,’ she said, ‘and ask her to play “My Baby Wears Knee Socks”.’
‘Why?’
‘Just ask, it’s her favourite song – and that really is shite!’
Diane was only too happy to set up the record player, a Dansette which played multiple discs by dropping one at a time onto the turntable. When the music started up, it was the silliest song I had ever heard, but she loved it and flung herself all around the room. Diane loved the movies and emulated any female star – when she saw Sophia Loren on the big screen, she dyed her hair the same colour. Jess caught her in front of the mirror, twisting hair from her temples; she was pulling it behind her ears.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’m going to have almond shaped eyes like Sophia.’
‘You could sit there until doomsday and your eyes won’t change shape!’
We did buy the occasional new fashion item but we were keen to try unusual stuff too. We bought white straw effect lace-up granny shoes but unfortunately wore them for the first time to the Hoppings. People were gathered around the Helter Skelter and I fancied a try, paid my money and came belting round the chute. As I hadn’t been able to afford a pair of tights that week, I wore my mam’s stockings and suspender belt. The belt snapped and everything went south as I hit the cork mat with dozens of people laughing. Rain began falling and soon became torrential, our pure white footwear was mired in the mud and so we tramped home, me with my stockings in my pocket.
Our fashion Bible was the Petticoat magazine. Jess bought the first issue, which came with a free pair of false eyelashes, but there wasn’t enough glue so she had to postpone her first flutter. We sent off for patterns, which were far cheaper – fur hats, tabards and anything that set us apart – always adding tape or some other feature and wore them to show off at the club. The West End had begun as Dockray House, a club for lads. Mr David Dockray started the venture for his son and pals who had nowhere to meet, so he set up activities in the family home garage in the 1940s. As it became more popular, he opened at Sutherland Avenue in wooden buildings built over an old mineshaft. At first, it catered for footballers, boxers and other interests, such as ciné clubs. Eventually lasses were allowed in and sewing and art groups took over some of the space, but the top interest became the dances. We couldn’t wait to get in from school to get changed and off out.
One afternoon I hooked up with Marie, a lass who had been in my class. Her cousin Micky tagged along and was a pain in the arse as he kept asking her for a shag:
‘Ah, go on, man, I need to practise on somebody who won’t laugh at me!’
‘Go and fumble around on someone else!’ she argued. ‘Anyway, it’s not right, doing that with a relative.’
‘You won’t get pregnant, I will be careful. It’s only a problem if you get pregnant. Ah, go on, man!’
She ignored him for the rest of the day, being more interested in fashion, but he still persisted.
* * *
Some years after I left school and it too was closed and demolished, it was reported in the local newspaper that a bomb disposal team were called in as there were dangerous chemicals in the biology lab. On reading this, I suddenly remembered one Monday morning during a lesson when the teacher asked me to accompany her to the cupboard where these huge glass bottles with big stoppers were lined up on shelves. I had forgotten to remove my nail varnish from the weekend and she explained that she was going to take it off with acetone. She removed one of the bottles and held it under her armpit to pour some of the liquid onto a clo
th.
‘This is what is used in nail varnish remover, so it’s quite safe.’
Famous last words if any of that lot had gone up!
CHAPTER SIX
Art, Affairs and Budgerigars
After leaving school I called in to the employment exchange, went for a couple of interviews and was surprised to be asked by male interviewers if I was likely to get married in the foreseeable future. This was done to eliminate anyone who was likely to get pregnant, but what a cheek! On realising my mistake at ducking out of further education, I began studying at Bath Lane College of Art. The room was packed full of students, but after a couple of months and into winter some of them left so we had more space to spread out. Topics were given for homework, we could paint or draw. Miss announced:
‘The subject for your homework will be “Summer is a Coming In”!’
One of the lads in the class used to slouch in late, wearing long black jumpers in which he had cut holes in the sleeves so that his thumbs protruded through, thus enabling him to hold his brush with the sleeve still covering his fingers. When he turned around, there was a large appliqué cat sewn on the back, but the head wasn’t attached so it lolled over the body. It was a freezing-cold, old building, there was only cold tap water to mix our paints and to wash our hands and palettes. He piped up,
‘I’m not doing that, I’m doing “Winter is a Coming in”!’
‘You will follow my title or I won’t mark your work.’
He threw his chair over and marched out of the room. As the ground-floor window was right near the door, he glared at the teacher through the glass, then spat on the window.
I remember one subject was called ‘Triple Fugue’. I had no idea what this meant, but didn’t wish to show my ignorance, so I looked it up in the dictionary when I got home. It’s a musical term and I interpreted it in a painting inspired by the myth of Andromeda and her mother Cassiopeia, who had boasted of her daughter’s beauty, bringing a curse from the nymphs. My painting showed the heroine asleep on a bed, the room decorated with murals and ornate pillars standing in front of three arches. Inside the first arch I painted a baby in the foetal position, the second arch showed Andromeda wearing the same clothes as her sleeping self, which was meant to be the second stage of her life, while the third arch showed the Grim Reaper. There was a fourth arch hidden by a lace curtain – it was meant to be the part of her life yet unknown to her. I showed it to a cousin and he said, ‘Divn’t make me laugh!’
