The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  “Ye've done a good job with this wee bairn, Norma, she's a beauty,” Harriet said to the worn-out mother. Having reassured herself that all was well, she turned to look over her shoulder at Betty who was standing a little way behind her. “You too, Betty, hen. Yet another success. “Ye'll be after my job soon if you keep this up. How many is it now ye've delivered?”

  “This 'un's me seventh,” Betty Patterson replied proudly, jutting her ample bosoms out and her shoulders back.

  The comforting aroma of Bill Robson's pipe tobacco wafted up the narrow staircase from the living room downstairs and drifted into the chilly bedroom, causing Norma to relax just a little and allow a slight smile of contentment to flitter very briefly across her tired, sweat covered face, the first sign of normality after more than twenty four hours of painful labour.

  Bill, sitting in his old, ragged armchair in front of the unlit open fireplace, heard the child's crying and slowly nodded in satisfaction as he permitted himself a smile also. He stood up in anticipation. It just had to be a boy, making that amount of noise, surely. He knew it would be. He had even given an anticipated male child a name. Walter, named after his beloved father who he had worshipped. He had been killed in an horrific mining accident the previous year.

  Bill slowly bent forward and tapped the ash from the bowl of his pipe into the fireplace, blew into the bowl and slid it, stem first into the pocket of his striped, black waistcoat. Looking at the ancient, ticking clock on the mantelpiece, he considered that with luck, he would still have time for a couple of hours sleep before setting off for work at six fifteen. Assuming that his wife would need to rest for a time following the birth, he decided to wait a while before ascending the creaking staircase to lay eyes upon what he was certain would be his new son.

  It would not be the last time that Janet would disappoint her father.

  Janet's formative years were largely uneventful like all the other kids, going to school, playing in the streets, scraping her knees, squealing and laughing with other children despite their poverty. Children had no conception of money. The sound of children's laughter often echoed back and forth between the rows of houses as they skipped and played. She was happy. That is, until her father's brother, Uncle Bertie started to visit their house on a regular basis. It started on a Friday night when he came back from the pub with her father which was their usual custom. Sometimes they would come back with a fish supper to share .

  That particular night, just before midnight, Dad had been so drunk that he had almost crawled up the stairs and staggered into his own bed alongside the sleeping Norma. Uncle Bertie, left downstairs to his own devices, swigged from a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, draining the last drop from it and slumped into the worn-out armchair in the front room. Having been woken by the noise that her father had made navigating the banisters at the top of the stairs, a curious nine year old Janet wandered in her pyjamas downstairs and into the front room to find Uncle Bertie in a fitful sleep and snoring loudly. Just as she was about to leave, he must have heard the door squeaking, woke up and called her across to him. That was when the sexual abuse started. He would get her to fondle his semi-erect penis while he put his hand down the front of her knickers until he was satisfied. Uncle Bertie always told her that if she ever informed her parents or anyone else of what had gone on, no-one would ever believe what she said and would think she was an evil, wicked little child for saying such things about her uncle. She might even be sent away to a children's home, he had told her. At such an impressionable young age, the poor girl believed his words. These assaults continued, on and off, until she was almost twelve years old. That was when they were placed into a different property.

  In the November of 1963 they were moved by the Council from the run-down old house she had been born in, to an eighth floor council flat in Pitt Street, a little closer to the centre of Newcastle. This was to make way for the demolition of a lot of the older, almost slum-like dwellings. For the Robson's, this dwelling was like a palace. For a start, they no longer had to brave the elements at night to use the outside toilet facilities like in their old house. It was a lot warmer too. It also meant that Uncle Bertie stopped coming around as it was too far from his own house in Lynwood Terrace. But Janet never forgot the loathsome man, his breath smelling of tobacco and stale beer. She vowed to herself that she would never forget.

  Janet did not take kindly to the move to Pitt Street as it meant leaving behind all of the friends she had made in her street over her eleven and a half years. Her father was even less happy as The Duke Of Portland public house which had been his local watering hole for many years, had been only on the corner of their last road, less than two hundred yards away. He would now have to stagger a much greater distance to their new place from the nearest pub. By this time, he had taken to drinking heavily and falling in through the door almost every night of the week, even though money was in short supply. His wages on the building site were not that great. On many occasions, Norma Robson had to hide her tiny, black leather purse containing what little money she had kept for food and the electric meter to prevent him stealing it to fritter away on alcohol each night. The best place of concealment, she found after a number of unsuccessful attempts, was on a shelf in the small cupboard beneath the kitchen sink, tucked well away behind the box of Daz washing powder.

  To make matters worse, that September Janet had to start her senior school and she knew no-one there apart from Sandra Tullen and Gail Stebbings who she had been friends with at her junior school. All three girls were sent to the same secondary school. The education process did not suit Janet however, though and she turned from a previously keen student into a rebellious and often absent one, although she excelled in the subject of English Language, coming first in her class. It resulted in her being invited to attend advanced English courses at a college of higher education but this was not for Janet. Playing truant was the norm for her and her parents were summoned to the headmaster numerous times. As a result of these meetings she would often be on the wrong end of her father's leather belt. Sitting in the park or one of the many cafes in the district with Sandra and Gail was much more preferable to boring school lessons. Sometimes they would manage to scrape together enough money to buy a large bottle of cider between them to share in the bandstand in the park.

  Janet's demeanour was not improved by her father's increasing reliance on alcohol which had worsened since losing his job as a crane operator, having turned up for work the worse for drink just once too often. The man also became increasingly violent at home when returning inebriated from the local public house, especially when Norma berated him for his habits and the waste of money. Many were the times that Janet returned home from school to find her mother sitting on the edge of the bed crying and a large bruise beginning to show its purple colours on her cheekbone, eye or forehead. A black eye was not unusual. As Janet hit puberty and became even more independently minded, her own heated arguments with her drunken father escalated to the point where he was now hitting out at her on a regular basis as well.

  At around this time, she realised that boys were attracted to her and made good use of this attribute. She had taken to seeing two different boys at the same time, although neither of them were aware of the existence of the other. It provided her with the excitement that she craved as she searched for the love that she had never received from her father. One of the lads would always treat her at Harry's Cafe, the nearby coffee bar in Elswick or to a brandy and Babycham in The Feathers, their local pub. Even though she was under age to drink alcohol, to anyone else she appeared to be about nineteen or twenty when she dressed herself up and wore make-up. A number of the lads tried it on with her but she wasn't silly. She was wise to the yearnings of young men and knew exactly what they were after. She was also aware of how she could play them to her advantage. She never had to take any money out with her.

  Terry Abbott was one such lad. At the age of nineteen, he was always sidling up to her in the coffee b
ar, slipping his hand around her waist and trying to pull her closer to him. The worst thing was that he was well aware of her young age, his younger brother being in the same class as her at school. Terry ogled her breasts on many occasions across the tables in Harry's Cafe.

  Then one night in October as she left the coffee bar just before seven o'clock, he followed her out and along the street. Two hundred yards along the road was an alleyway that led behind the houses on the street and as she approached the entrance, he grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her roughly inside and into the darkness. What he had not reckoned on was Janet being such a fighter. Instead of screaming and cowering, she suddenly turned and violently kicked him between his legs and ran her long nails down the lad's cheek, leaving tramlines oozing blood while her other hand yanked tufts of his hair from his head. Terry screamed like a girl and shrank back, clutching his face as he fell to his knees. Word soon got round about the incident as well as Terry's injury, and Janet received a little more respect after that.

  Almost at the age of fifteen, she left school in the July with no qualifications and started to work in a ladies-wear shop in the town centre. As the majority of her wages were made from commission, her sullen countenance with the regular customers meant that her weekly earnings were quite small by comparison with the other sales assistants. Janet did not like authority and being told what to do went against everything she stood for. Being much younger than the other sales assistants, she didn't really make too many friends there and found herself alone each lunchtime while the others usually went to the local pub for their lunch of hot-pot.

  From what little cash she did come home with she hatched a plan to escape and, over a period of three years, managed to squirrel away quite a bit of money after giving half to her mother for her keep, secreting it underneath some sanitary towels in a box at the back of her wardrobe. Her bastard father would never think of looking in there. That sort of thing would cause him to turn his nose up. By the time the April of 1971 came around she had what she felt was enough and was ready to make her move, although the timing would have to be just right for her to succeed. She was still dubious though. If her father got wind of her plan, there would be hell to pay.

  It was a very cold, wet and damp Friday evening and her father had gone to the pub, as was his usual habit every evening of the week. He had slapped her fiercely across the face hard before leaving, just because she had dared to say that she would like to go out that night. Some of her other friends were going to a disco in the city centre. For her, the assault was the final straw.

  Some time after he had gone, Janet came out of her bedroom with the old, battered suitcase she had taken from on top of the wardrobe in her mother's bedroom, now filled to bursting point with as many of her clothes, cosmetics, toiletries and personal bits and pieces that she could cram into it. So full was it, that she had to secure it closed with the aid of one of her elasticated belts with the S-shaped metal clasp. She gently placed the suitcase on the floor in the hallway, took her warm winter coat from the hook in the hall, put it on and turned to go into the kitchen. She wasn't going to leave without telling her mother. She deserved better than that. At that moment, the kitchen door opened and her mother came out into the hall, having heard some movement. She looked down at the suitcase and immediately understood the situation, letting out a heavy sigh and folding her arms as she slowly shook her head.

  “I was wondering when it would come to this, hen,” Norma said with a weak smile, her eyes starting to well up with tears. The woman had been seeing the signs for some time now. It was no surprise to her that her daughter wanted to get away. There was only so much that she could bear.

  “I can't stand him any more, Mam,” Janet told her by way of an explanation. “I'm not going to let him ruin my life like he has yours.” Her mother stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her daughter.

  “I know, pet,” she sobbed. “What will ye do for money? Where will ye go?”

  “I'm not really sure exactly just yet, but it's got to be now,” Janet replied, hugging her mother tight. “I've got enough money for a wee while until I can find a job well away from here, maybe in London.” Standing back and holding her mother's hands, she forced a smile as she squeezed them.

  “Well, it's a cold night, ye'd best come and have a hot cup of tea before ye go,” her mother said. “It'll set ye up, pet.”

  Janet thought about the suggestion for mere seconds before deciding to decline her mother's offer.

  “No, Mam,” she replied. “He'll be home soon and I want be be long gone before that. You know what he's like.”

  Just then the front door flew open, slamming loudly against the wall so hard that a dent showed in the plaster, the sound echoing around the empty landing outside. Her father stumbled inside sideways, dropping his house keys on the interior coconut doormat. He sniffed loudly, his nose wrinkling with the gesture, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and supporting himself against the opposite wall with the other hand as the door fell noisily closed behind him. His eyes narrowed like slits, and as he gingerly bent down to retrieve the fallen bunch of keys from the floor, he saw the solitary old, bulging suitcase standing before him on the threadbare carpet. He looked up at the pair standing in front of him.

  “An' wos all this, then?” he demanded, waving an unsteady, accusing finger in the direction of the case. “Where d'ye think ye are goin', lady?”

  “I'm leaving home, going away, Da. I can't stand it here any longer. You've become a bully and a drunken one at that.” Her father's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. His daughter had never spoken like that to him before. How dare she? His face became red with rage as he responded.

  “Leavin'?” he slurred. “That's what ye think.” He made a staggering lunge for the case but Janet was too quick and grabbed it, pulling it out of his reach. The drunken man roared with rage and hit her across the face again with the back of his hand. She knew from the raw, stinging sensation that the silver ring on his finger had drawn blood from her right cheek. As he unsteadily moved towards her once again, Janet grabbed the large, wooden crucifix from the wall to her right and swung it in a wide arc to connect with the side of her father's head. The brute fell back against the wall and slumped to the floor like a bag of wet sand. Norma Robson ignored him, quickly took her purse from her apron pocket and hurriedly pulled some pound notes from inside. She thrust them into Janet's hands and nodded fiercely.

  “There ye are, hinnie. That'll help keep ye goin' for a wee while I expect.” She looked down at her drunken husband who was groaning and beginning to show signs of stirring. “Now, get y'self goin' before this one knows what's goin' on and sort ye'self oot.”

  With that, she manhandled her daughter by the shoulders towards the front door, stepping over the semi-conscious man on the floor. Janet kissed her mother's cheek, hugged her tight for a moment, picked up her case and almost ran down the sixteen flights of stone steps, emerging onto Pitt Street in the drizzling rain. She stood there for several minutes, her case on the pavement, trying to decide on the best course of action to take. A fine, yellowing mist was descending slowly, covering the tops of the two street lights in that section of the road. She shivered involuntarily as she noticed it and turned her collar up against the drizzle of rain. After a short time, she nodded to herself, having come to a decision and picked up the case.

  She walked quickly along to the crossroads and turned left on to Wellington Street, hurrying along with her head bowed against the inclement weather until she came to an alleyway on her right. She was getting wetter with each step. Following this alley, she eventually came to the main road and went straight across into Westgate Hill Terrace. Finding the house she was seeking, Janet knocked tentatively on the blue painted door and stood back expectantly at the bottom step. After a short delay, padded footsteps could be heard approaching and the door was opened by a woman considerably older than her own mother.

  “Why, Janet hen,” the woman
exclaimed on seeing the soaking wet girl on the pavement before her. The woman flung her hand to her chest in surprise. “What brings you here at this time of night, pet?” she asked with genuine concern.

  The lady at the door was Mary-Ellen Tullen, her friend Sandra's grandmother with whom Sandra had lived for several years. Sandra's father had died seven years previously having suffered with lung cancer for a number of years and her flighty mother then disappeared into the wild blue yonder with a much younger man who worked on a travelling fairground, never to be heard from again. Sandra was left in the care of the elderly Mary-Ellen, her father's mother, who doted upon the young girl, making certain that she wanted for nothing.

  “I've left home, Mrs Tullen,” Janet replied, choking back the tears. “I've knocked me Da out cold in the hallway and I just know he'll kill me when he comes round so I've left home. I can't get anywhere tonight so I was wondering if I could stay here just until the morning?” Mrs Tullen swung the door wide without hesitation and stepped to one side as she responded.

  “Of course you can, pet. Come away in and warm yourself up in the back room. Sandra's in there.”

  Janet lugged her heavy case down the hallway and into the back room. Sandra was sitting at the table casually perusing one of her music magazines and looked up as she entered. Seeing the bulging suitcase in Janet's hand, she instinctively knew exactly what had happened and jumped up to welcome her best friend. Seeing the tears in Janet's eyes only confirmed her suspicions.