by Yvonne Young
The lad in our class once more riled the teacher by saying, ‘I’m going to do a painting on Triple F*ck!’ He was the only one in the group who caused trouble and he didn’t last long after that incident.
A poster came to my attention on the hallway notice board: ‘Volunteers needed. Can you help the elderly, gardening, decorating, shopping or home visits?’ I didn’t want to do any of the first three, so I opted for visiting and chatting.
When they chose my first assignment to be in Gosforth, it meant jumping the number 1 bus into town, then the number 2 out. I knocked on the door of a ground-floor flat near Matthew Bank in Gosforth. Miss Hilda Bone answered, then shuffled back into her sitting room, leaving the door open for me to follow. She was in her eighties, with grey hair in a hairnet, and was wearing a long dress and woolly cardigan. It was a small room, with a standard lamp, lace curtains, two comfy chairs with a tiny wooden table between and a large dining table beneath the window. A budgie and cage set square in the middle of the table on a lacy tablecloth.
What did old people talk about? I wondered. None of my grandparents had survived from when I was eight years old, so I had no reference points. I had brought some commemorative Royal Family stamps – old people like the Royal Family, don’t they? After polite introductory conversation, I produced the stamps to which Miss Bone snorted, ‘I wouldn’t wipe my arse on them!’
From that point, I knew that we would get on. She told me about her niece who was ‘A right snob, telling aal and sundry our name is pronounced Bonee. I mean, where’s the apostrophe? It’s Bone, plain Bone!’
We laughed some more when I told her about a lass in my class whose surname was Tickle and who insisted on being known as Tickelle.
Every Sunday I took the newspapers, she made cheese sandwiches with Military pickle and we drank tea. The budgie, Billy Bone, was left to roam free, hanging from her hearing aid wire. She’d swat him like a fly, then you’d hear a wheeee, wheee noise coming from the aid. She didn’t half get in a strop when she had to adjust them. Billy would fly off to the net curtains, leaving little claw holes in the fabric.
I noticed her feeding him one day, pouring a tiny amount of seed into his dish.
‘There you are,’ she said, ‘your dinner.’
I mentioned that you’re just supposed to fill up the dish so they can help themselves.
‘Ah, nah, he’ll get too fat! He needs a little for his breakfast, dinner and tea, or he’ll get too fat, man.’
After visiting Miss Hilda Bone for three months, I wondered how Billy had survived, until I watched him fly behind the curtain at the front window. When I took a peek, there he was, up to his little thighs in seed, standing inside a huge Kilner jar with no lid. I didn’t mention this to Hilda. She said, pointing to his seed tray inside the cage, ‘Look, he doesn’t eat much anyway, there’s still lots of seed in his dish.’
I took her outside and blew over the top of the seed tray: all the husks flew off. She still didn’t understand, but Billy would be OK – so long as she didn’t find the lid!
‘I’ve got a lovely cream cake for you today,’ Hilda said one day as she greeted me.
As the table was so small, she set down the cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, then did a couple of revolutions with the cake as if deciding where it should go. We ate the sandwiches and drank tea, but I didn’t see any more of the cake – until she stood up to take the plates away. The cake was stuck to her arse and as she moved, it fell to the floor, squashed into a huge disc.
I was helpless with laughter, but laughing so much I couldn’t explain. She began laughing with me although she didn’t know why. She coughed her false teeth out into my bag.
‘I divn’t like goin’ into anybody’s bag, will you get them oot?’
I said, ‘I’m not touching them!’ And shoved the bag in her direction.
We used to spend a little time scanning through the newspapers. I took the Sunday Post, Mail and The Sun. As I was reading, I noticed that Hilda was reading the back page of my newspaper.
‘Oh, that must have been painful!’ she said.
‘What?’ I replied, turning to the page in question.
‘Malcolm Macdonald rips back.’
It wasn’t worth the bother to explain football speak.
* * *
A neighbour from across the hall started to bring Hilda a hot dinner every Sunday: turkey, beef, lamb, always with a lovely selection of vegetables and mash with butter. She waited till the door closed behind her, then shuffled into her kitchen to plate up for two. We enjoyed this treat for some time and it was all I could do not to compliment the lady on the tasty food! The neighbour started to admire a sewing cabinet of Hilda’s, always commenting how lovely it was each time she set the food down. Hilda asked me to take it home with me and the dinners stopped soon after.
When I arrived one day, she was very distressed: Billy Bone had gone missing. She suspected he had flown out when she’d taken rubbish to the bin. She decided to place the cage on the path outside to see if he would recognise it and fly back. When he didn’t appear, she brought the cage back in and set it down on the table. Next day, she picked the cage up to try once more, and there on the table lay Billy, dead as a doornail. He was probably standing there, wondering where his house had gone, when it was planted on top of him. Hilda swore she would never keep another bird.
* * *
We enjoyed many a Sunday chatting and sharing cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and the newspapers. Hilda continued to delight an impressionable teenager with her tales of the luncheon club. ‘I don’t know how they can be bothered,’ she said of the other diners, ‘counting out how many sprouts this one has, or who’s got a thicker piece of meat than the other!’ Or the time when I called to be told that a plug on her electric fire was sparking, a neighbour had fitted a new plug for her – ‘I could have been gassed to death!’
Reminiscing to a friend a couple of years ago, I related this story and he asked, ‘What’s Military pickle?’
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ I said, ‘I just ate it at Hilda’s.’
Later, I Googled it. It was made by Haywards, since taken over by Premier Foods of Bury St Edmunds, who make mixed pickle, piccalilli, gherkins in vinegar, pickled beetroot, strong pickled onions, silverskin onions and red cabbage, but apparently, you can only get Military pickle in China. I can just hear Hilda if she’s listening, ‘Aa can only get it in China now, what’s goin’ on? You’ll be tellin’ me that they’re bringin’ coals to Newcastle next!’
I continued visiting Hilda even after I was married in 1973 as I moved to Kenton Bank Foot nearby where she lived in Red House Farm Estate. But, I feel ashamed to say that as my married and working life became busier my visits became less and less. The last time I visited her a niece of hers was already at the flat when I arrived. I was appalled that she discussed having Hilda admitted to a care home in front of her. Eventually I stopped going so I assume that the niece carried out her plan.
* * *
On my return from Hilda’s one day, I found Mam crying again.
‘What’s happened now?’ I asked.
But I had witnessed the regular arguments for a few years now and had learned enough not to take sides. Dad had got into the habit of taking her to the cinema on Fridays. Mam loved the movies, she imagined she was Gina Lollobrigida or Yvonne De Carlo. (Apparently, I was supposed to be called Michelle, but neither of them could spell it when they went to register the birth, so I got lumbered with Yvonne.) Anyway, Dad must have realised that he could save money if he went to see a film on his own. I saw him blatantly hide the newspaper under a cushion.
‘Where’s my newspaper?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen it.’
‘Yes, you must have, I put it just here [pointing to the table].’
‘I tell you I haven’t seen it OR moved it!’
‘I don’t know, I offer to take you to the pictures and this is the thanks I get!’
He would mu
tt and tutt so much that eventually she would say, ‘Well, don’t bother! I’m not going with you anyway.’
This suited him just fine. If I tried to interfere, he took my pocket money back.
Around this time, I was having treatment for a wonky tooth at the dentist’s. I thought it was odd that each time I had an appointment, Mam insisted on going with me. A couple of teeth were to be pulled and gas was used so I sat right back in the big black chair, the mask was put over my face and soon I was off to Nod. On regaining consciousness, I experienced the most awful pain and blood was streaming from my mouth. The dentist shoved some chunks of cotton wool in my mouth and all I wanted to do was get back home, but I had to wait for Mam as she chatted and flicked her hair with Mr Dentist in the waiting room. She began booking in for check-ups – getting her fillings done, no doubt. After a while Mam changed my dentist to another one further along the road, a female practitioner. I found out later that she had indeed been having an affair with him.
Seeing as Mam had stopped having nights out at the cinema, she continued going to a local social club. As I said earlier, there was no chance of her bumping into Dad as he went to the Westfield, on the same stretch of road – which was just as well because I was about to leave the flat to go to a West End club one night when a man knocked on the door: silver suit and quiffed hair. A tad old-fashioned, I thought, for the sixties. I had got into the habit of asking no questions and just accepted this was how things were.
‘Is Doreen in?’
‘No, she’s up the road at the Milvain.’
‘Ah, right. Oh, I’ll see her there.’
I think she was just past caring what Dad thought. He enjoyed dancing but wasn’t too bothered about who was his partner – as long as he could dance, he didn’t have to socialise with them as well. Now and again, he also got up on stage to sing. He scribbled the words to songs on old envelopes, he never wasted paper. A neighbour told Mam that his partners changed quite often. She said she wasn’t surprised.
One night, Dad had been adjusting the mic before offering his rendition of ‘Quando Quando, Quando’, but it wasn’t responding.
‘What the f**k’s the matter with this thing?’
His partner at the time refused to dance with him again.
‘He’s not using language like that in front of me!’
* * *
Mam and Dad still went on holiday every now and again, always to ‘Butlitz’ as Mam used to call it. But now her brother – Uncle Les – went with them. When I was younger, she had saved money to make the house look nice as Dad kept most of his money to himself, but gradually, she had tired of conforming to what everyone else was doing so she pleased herself. The holiday camp was neutral ground. Dad was in his element, he didn’t mind the fact that in the early hours the tannoy in the bedroom blasted out:
Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah,
Zip-A-Dee-A
My, oh my, what a wonderful day!
It drove me nuts when I was a kid, so thankfully, I didn’t have to go along once Les was opted in. I was old enough and sensible enough to be left on my own. As soon as they were out the door, I arranged a party. The record player was set up and friends began to arrive, but some uninvited guests also turned up and rifled through the drawers and stole records. One of them sat on Mam’s new coffee table. It had thin black legs holding up a rectangular contiboard surface, which was covered with a full-sized picture of a Spanish dancer protected by glass. Of course, the whole thing collapsed and everyone was asked to leave. I made up an excuse to Mam that I had fallen onto it. Luckily, she was more concerned that I hadn’t cut myself, but I did feel guilty that she would still be paying for it for the next few months on the chucky.
All of my friends were wearing the sixties-style leather jackets and I winged on at Mam to buy me one. I had seen the ideal one in the window of Swears & Wells on the corner of Grainger Street, a specialist in leather clothing, so we went into town. I tried a gorgeous navy shortie style on and it was ideal. The assistant carefully folded and wrapped it up in tissue paper AND put into a flat box. This was the first time I had seen this done, as usually the shops we went to, the assistant chucked your stuff into a bag. When it was time to pay, Mam produced a Provident order.
‘Oh no, we don’t take those!’
‘Well, can we set up tick?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Hire purchase?’
This could have been an option until she learned of our address.
‘I’m sorry, but that area has been blacklisted by this store.’
The jacket was subsequently removed from the box and replaced on the rail. I still feel the shame of that day, Mam trying to convince her that we were good payers, she could show her proof, as we were ushered towards the exit.
Gutted, I trawled some of the shops who accepted ‘Provi’s’ as they were known. Folks paid back a few shillings a week, which usually took a few years to pay off too. The items were worn out before they were paid for. Eve Brown’s on Northumberland Street came up trumps with a lovely turquoise leather. I had to turn half the sleeves up inside as they were far too long, but hey, finally, I had the jacket of my dreams!
* * *
There were lots of adverts in the Evening Chronicle and I noticed an agency in Whitley Bay, which catered for mother’s helps and nanny positions. Maybe this was my chance to get away from the constant fights at home. I nearly didn’t get there on time for my interview as, not being used to travelling by train, I was halfway into my journey when I realised that it was heading in the opposite direction of Sunderland. Always at anything too early, I had managed to jump another train. Anyway, it was unbelievable how this company accepted everything I wrote on the form. I had no experience whatsoever, not as much as a babysitting job, but they rang a family in Manchester while I was there and arranged for me to travel there the following week.
When I got home my mam was heartbroken that I was about to leave, but Dad didn’t turn a hair so I packed and was off. My best pal Jess went with me to the station to see me off, no parents. As the train pulled away, I was saying goodbye over the pull-down window at the door when the whistle was sounded. Jess grabbed onto the door in a panic that this was it, I was off. This really upset me and I went to my seat and cried all the way there. Not one person asked if I was OK – I had never felt so lonely than at this time.
I was met at the station by Mr Kendal, a shy man, bespectacled (we would call them ‘jam jar bottoms’ at home), with comb-over grey hair, who took me back to his large house in the suburbs. I met his wife, who was not much taller than me, with bright red dyed hair and tatted within an inch of her life, with a bright yellow leather coat and orange dress. She was very flamboyant and flourished upstairs, bade me follow and showed me my room. Just then, a little girl of about three years of age slinked in around the door.
‘I’ll just leave you two to get to know each other, this is Lydia. You’ll meet the baby, Joseph, when he wakes – he’s having a nap in his pram.’
I looked around the room. There was a single bed and a cot, so I was guessing that Joseph was sharing with me. Large plastic Disney figures were on each wall.
‘What’s in there?’ Lydia asked, pointing to my case.
‘My clothes, do you want to see them? I’m going to hang them up.’
But she didn’t answer, just climbed up on the bed, pulled a cartoon character from the wall and snapped the hook off. She did this to the others, but I didn’t want to check her in case she started to scream and what would they think of me, having just arrived? We went downstairs and she asked if she could brush my hair. I agreed and she began very gently, but then started thumping the brush off my head. A hornet was batting up against the window, trying to get out, and I knew how it felt.
After Joseph woke and we had a snack, Mr and Mrs Kendal announced that they were taking me to the market and supermarket, where I would be doing the weekly shop. I would hail a taxi to return back and put all of the items away. Mrs Ke
ndal explained that I would take the children with me on occasion and her husband would drop and pick us up. The children would sit in the trolley while I shopped. I was to get the children up in the mornings, make the breakfast and take on light housework, maybe with a little cooking now and again.
The next morning, I woke, dressed and took the children downstairs.
‘What do you want for your breakfast, Lydia?’
‘Cornflakes with milk on, please.’
I made this up and put it on the table in front of her and she tipped the bowl, sending the contents all over the place.
‘I said cornflakes without milk!’ she growled.
I decided that I had made a huge mistake coming here. I was going to be the maid of all work and didn’t want to wait around to iron out any problems, so I told the parents and packed immediately. I knew that the last mother’s help hadn’t lasted long, but I don’t know if this happened to the family often. Mr Kendal took me to the station and I was never glad enough to be returning home. The first thing Dad said was, ‘Why are you back here? There’s been no trouble since you were gone, I wish you’d never been born!’
Thanks, Dad! In fact, the only reason why there had been no fights was that Mam was depressed at my departure and didn’t argue back. How could he say that? I had never got involved in the squabbles. Mam was over the moon that I was back, she must have been very down at the prospect of being alone with Dad in that house, but my desire to be out of there wasn’t long in resurfacing. One of the lads, Brian from my local youth club, the West End Boys Club, had signed up for the army and waxed lyrical about longing to get out of Newcastle. Yes, that’s an idea, this could be a way out, I thought. That weekend, I was off to the army recruitment shop in town, where I filled in the application form and was lined up with an interview and a series of medical examinations.
