Drowning in the Shallow End

by Charlie Mellor

  Bronwen had been schooled privately before joining the grammar school part way through her A-Levels. Like many people institutionalised against their will, we shared an antipathy towards authority figures. I loved the way that the mandatory elocution lessons she’d been forced to take at her old school somehow made her rebellion sound even more potent. Hearing her form swearwords in her plumy voice was exquisite

  “Don’t be a baaarstard Charlie, pass me the faaarkinggg ciggiees. “

  I always thought it was easier to kick back if you were socially disadvantaged in some way – had little money, few prospects, were marginalised by an oppressive boss or misogynistic partner. It was easy to understand how such experiences could sharpen your mind and provide you with an external purpose. I was therefore intrigued by anyone with an orientation for disruptive behaviour, who didn’t conform to this assumption and was instead in possession of every social advantage. I was naive and believed the rebellions of the disaffected wealthy like Bronwen, were indicative of a more individual mind set because they weren’t involved in any ‘class war’ or political mentality. For an impressionable youth with a tendency to feel a little bit of an outsider, this flawed idea was compelling.

  Being with Bronwen was like watching a crackling fire – mesmerising, you couldn’t take your eyes off her. She was dangerously exciting and just a little scary, so Joe and I were both flattered and frightened when this older sixth former wanted to hang out with us. An afternoon with Bronwen was a tantalising prospect on its own, but knowing she was bringing the fey Miss Fenton along with her was almost too much to bear. Anticipating what may lie ahead, I thought about my bloody nose and told myself to play it cool this time and not get too flustered by this good fortune. Joe came straight over, he was especially curious about Pennie because while he’d never met her, he had heard about the impact she’d created at Lucy’s party.

  If it’s true you can evaluate someone through the friends they keep, I should’ve picked up valuable clues about Pennie’s character through her association with barmy Bronwen. Little did I know what a dreadful decision it was to invite them round to my parents’ house. Then again, how could I have possibly anticipated the significance of this visit? How could I have known that this event would provide Pennie Fenton with a springboard so that one day she could persuade me to move her into a spare room in my own house alongside my wife and family, in order for her to begin a duplicitous campaign to undermine my health, wealth and happiness?

  Bronwen arrived at the house in flamboyant style with Pennie by her side, about an hour after Joe had sprinted over. She waltzed into the lounge, checked no adults were present and then made herself at home. Grabbing the fullest bottle of spirits she could find, she demanded we drink. Next, we trundled upstairs to my room, closed the door as if to isolate our activities, put on some music and started to talk at a rate which betrayed our excitement. Bronwen was in her element being the centre of attention and explained to her attentive congregation, all the various techniques she’d ever used to get high. Her current favourite was taking five times the recommended amount of Feminax tablets, normally prescribed for period pains. In these quantities she claimed, it brought on a real ‘buzz’. I strongly suspect she’d failed to adhere to the recommended dosage long before arriving at the house.

  While all eyes were on Bronwen, all my thoughts were fixed very much on Pennie. What you saw was what you got with the flamboyant Bronwen, but with her ally, this couldn’t be further from the truth. Pennie had intuitively sensed that Joe and I were nervous and encouraged us to relax a bit by sharing stories about each other. I noticed the intriguing Miss Fenton had a splendid habit of revealing very little of herself, by simply repeating back to us whatever we had already said in the form of a question.

  “She said it back to you as a question then?”

  “Repeating the key points of what you had been told?”

  “Was harder to work out than most of the people who were present?”

  In this way, Pennie contributed without ever having to offer very much. She was right there at our side, yet remained a puzzle which was impossible to solve.

  Following the eradication of most of Mum’s whisky, Pennie suggested that Bron, Joe and I should play a rapid-fire game of strip poker. Before the boys had time to express their extreme discomfort with this idea, Bronwen was splitting a deck of cards like a Vegas croupier. Fair play to her as well. She hardly knew us, yet without any reservation was happy to strip totally naked and clearly revelled in this state of undress. Joe and I were rather more self-conscious about playing but reluctantly conceded as we gradually revealed our pale, un-toned pubescent bodies. Before Bron had time to snigger, we were all sat staring at each other’s butt-naked bodies.

  I am sure the intention was we’d all jump in to bed together and thrash about in wild sexual abandonment, but Joe and I were so paralysed by our circumstance that I have to admit, we just froze. Lascivious Bronwen flopped onto my spacious bed, like a wanton woman. Following an awkward delay (which lasted as long as it took for her to finally recognise that we were both much less experienced in these matters than she had hoped); Bronwen changed tact and decided to get her kicks from a tube of replacement lighter gas which she’d pulled from her handbag. Removing the nozzle, she pressed the thin feeder tube between her teeth and inhaled deeply. Even after all the whisky we’d drank, I knew this couldn’t be good for you. Whatever damage was done, it certainly provided her with the anesthetising effect she was after because she was absolutely off her face for the next thirty minutes. This brief sabbatical allowed Joe and I to regain our dignity, pull up our respective Y-fronts and finally spend a few minutes alone with Pennie, who by this point seemed far less intimidating than her insane accomplice.

  This second encounter with Pennie had therefore turned out to be as memorable as the first. Up ‘close and personal’ with her had provided a hint of what was to come. During her visit, Pennie had taken on the role of gentle provocateur. She never actively insisted that we complied with Bronwen’s crazy wishes; but there was always a lingering subtext that Pennie approved of them and, if we were to join in, she would approve of us. It is astonishing how she could generate such a subtle yet complicated message without uttering a word. It was as if Pennie was intrigued by the possibility of our corruption.

  A total of two brief encounters with Miss Fenton, one where I had been lost for words and suffered a never ending haemorrhaging of the nose; the second where I sat speechless in my faded blue C&A underpants completely petrified as to what would happen next. Pennie had seen the absolute worst of what I could offer and my awareness of this would make it difficult to forget her.

  5. Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre

  By the age of sixteen, Joe and I still weren’t old enough to drive but could usually get into the local pubs. While I still looked young for my age, Joe could get served if he didn’t shave for a week. We were initially suckered in by Debbie Hoare’s exaggerations of a throbbing Ripon nightlife, but soon discovered there was in reality very little going on. For this reason most of the old Friday night gang gravitated towards the students union bar at Ripon College. We’d discovered that if you timed it right and turned up in a large group during Freshers’ Week, the bar staff would assume you were part of the new intake of student teachers, who were, like policemen … looking younger every year.

  Our cunning plan worked and for twelve months Ripon College was the centre of our universe. We had a terrific time in the union bar most nights, getting served with alcohol in the same way real grown-ups did, meeting new, interesting people and blagging our way into loads of student parties. During this period, I continued to see Lucy on and off. We would capture the odd hour or two together when Neil was elsewhere and I wasn’t pretending to be a trainee teacher. While she remained just as demanding and manipulative; my exposure to lots of other people – many of whom treated me like an equal, meant I was growing increasingly dissatisfied playing second, third or fourth fid
dle to her revolving range of suitors.

  One evening, overcome by a wave of uncharacteristic courage, I decided to tell her how frustrated I felt. Following yet another heated altercation, this time over who should buy the cigarettes, (once again I conceded); we walked the short trip up to the college, chain smoking to conceal our tension.

  “It’s not just about the cost of the bloody cigarettes Lucy, it’s everything… you always take me for granted,” I said, sounding like a submissive mistress in a Mills and Boon novel.

  “You know I’m seeing Neil, he is my boyfriend. This is how things are. I always thought you were cool about it.” She laughed. “It’s not like I’m ever going to date you, am I! You’ve always known it Charlie”

  “Maybe so, but even when we do manage to hang out together, you treat me like shit. Everyone takes the piss out of me for being your lackey,” I said, standing my ground. “I used to really look forward to seeing you, but recently…”

  “Recently, what?” she said, looking rather more serious

  “Well, recently, I don’t”

  “Is all this because you’ve promised to meet your sad little mates again at the union bar, Charlie? I do hope this isn’t an attempt to get out of waiting with me for my bus home – you know how I hate standing in that grotty shelter by myself.”

  It was another pointless exchange. Walking in unison, mirroring one drag on a ciggie after another, we were miles apart. Arriving at the college grounds she was more annoyed I wasn’t intending to wait with her, than by anything I’d told her. Unable to change my mind, she turned round, faced squarely up to me and without warning laid into me with a barrage of punches and kicks. By enduring the most violence attack I’d ever encountered, her uncontrollable rage reinforced why I needed to separate myself from her. Amazing how a little rain can sometimes clear the streets. Even though the beating took place in the vast open space of the college grounds, not a single person was around and so my humiliation was a thankfully private affair. Years later I would become entangled in a far more dangerous abusive relationship. The equally explosive ending to this second destructive relationship would however, be as public a conclusion as was possible to imagine. Significantly, this next battering would turn out to be a high-visibility affair and would be played-out in front of millions of people.

  Defending myself on the college lawn was the last time I saw Lucy. Her job was done. She had effectively cleared the ground for Pennie’s introduction. In retrospect, Lucy was always there to wipe away the bracken, remove the obstacles and even dust the path. Her instrumental role was to make it as easy as possible for Pennie to arrive. She fulfilled all her requirements to a high standard and in doing so also provided me with a mental template to work from, in terms of what to expect from future relationships.

  Released from Lucy’s clutches, it seemed like my life was finally taking off. Flanked by old mates Joe, Andrew, Paul and Smithy, I felt lighter and more self-assured. Back in action, we flirted with the freshers, went to gigs, signed up for as many college trips as we could afford, helped out with discos and even joined the various clubs and societies. It was like being a student without any of the hassle of studying. Then, just as the year was turning into being the most liberating so far, my dad was diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas. It was an aggressive form which was picked up too late to operate on and he was given only weeks to live. No one had chance to take on board the ramifications of this shocking news and before any of us could begin to process what this might mean, Dad was gone. As a family, we didn’t discuss his death, talk at all about his life or about the impact of not having him around anymore. Numb and in a dissociative state, I felt cheated by his death. Cheated not only because I had lost my father, his love, his companionship, his presence and his support; but also for ever believing all the ‘how you should live your life’ messages which I had absorbed from adults in an unquestioning manner. All his life Dad had been a model of sobriety, never smoked, ate the right things and exercised regularly. The implied equations for a long and prosperous life therefore did not add up.

  On the day he died, ill-equipped to express my emotions and with little opportunity to do so, I went up to my bedroom and blacked-in the eyes of all the posters pinned on my wall using a felt-tipped pen. After I’d finished, the array of actors, musicians and models appeared as soulless as I felt. I looked back at one of the prized letters I’d received from Dad while he was away with the RAF ‘Be good son and if you can’t be good be careful – don’t forget you are the man of the house now’. Wiping away the tears I was aware that this responsibility was going to sit uneasily on my narrow sloping shoulders.

  Soon after the funeral Mum accepted a teaching job in Harrogate, an affluent but strangely impersonal kind of place. Because she’d always flatly refused to learn to drive, we had to move house to the nearby spa town. Although only twelve miles from Ripon, it may as well have been on another continent. Since none of the family had access to any form of transport, we were effectively marooned in the middle of a large, partially-completed housing development. I felt particularly lonely in the characterless house which seemed more like an empty shell filled with bits of new furniture, all paid for through a recently redeemed life assurance policy.

  Bored and disconnected with our new environment, I half-heartedly began an A-levels course at a local technical college but soon felt disillusioned with it. Instead of focusing on my assigned texts, most of my time was spent at the back of the class reading either copies of the New Musical Express (NME) or The Unexplained magazine - a fortnightly glossy guide to all things paranormal. I made no effort to talk to any of the other pupils during the first term and actively avoided one ingratiating lad from our estate called Gav Langham who always tried to sit next to me in lessons. He appeared to have no friends at the college and must have assumed that any new boy in town would be as desperate for company as he obviously was. He was wrong.

  Flunking out of my new course before it had time to get going, I signed on the dole and spent most of the next year in a magnolia painted bedroom thinking too hard about possible ways to occupy the next hour. I admired my sister Kirsty, for having taken the initiative to fill her spare time by joining a girl’s rowing club. I’d never been interested enough in any of the organised sports to benefit from the social introductions their membership provided and so, bereft of any useful distractions, I looked elsewhere for ways to keep myself entertained.

  No longer harbouring ambitions to become an actor, I searched for unconventional role models who could help me to vicariously lead a more exciting life than the one my arid house promised. While many of my peers were encouraged by their parents to emulate celebrated sporting heroes or the academically gifted; I spent hours watching Woody Allen films on a repetitive basis. Sleeper, War and Peace, Take the Money and Run and Annie Hall were seen so many times I could (and did) recite certain lines word-perfect - much to my family’s annoyance. I was drawn to the comedian’s pessimistic view of the world, one which still managed to be gloriously humorous. I loved the way his screen character’s somehow managed to generate entertainment from their own anxiety; comedy from their own unhappiness.

  Encouraged by the neurotic ramblings of the people he played in his films, I cultivated my own expanding list of foibles during this uneventful time. Like my new antihero, I acknowledged and embraced them. Interest in Woody also helped me to recognise an inclination towards slightly compulsive behaviour. On discovering any new interest I invariably became quite obsessive about it, collecting as much as I could to do with the new found fascination. Wanting to get all of a band’s records, read all of an author’s books, make lists of all the director’s films seen and not seen. While this orientation may have satisfied the hoarder within me, it also hinted at one of my more dangerous characteristics, one which Miss Pennie Fenton would latch onto and then exploit.

  With so much time on my hands during what was turning out to be a fairly miserable year, I spent most days in my b
edroom listening to records. With very few friends to consult, all my tastes were influenced by NME. I would wait for the paper to arrive each week and then cadge money off my mum to buy the most unusual sounding new release by artists like Joy Division, The Young Marble Giants and The Teardrop Explodes. As these were all newer bands, it meant that I was able chart their rise through the music press and feel a little more connected to what was happening on the outside world.

  A liking for The Teardrop Explodes, took me to another new Liverpool group called Echo & the Bunnymen, who I felt an instant affinity with. I loved their debut album Crocodiles. The whole record was filled with a sense that they recognised something was wrong, but were unable to pinpoint precisely what it was. The Scouse combo were full of contradictions. They were a little belligerent like my old mate Joe Morrit, but also had the same caustic wit as Woody Allen. Their music was at times uplifting, but also as cold and dark as the most sombre Joy Division song. The music press would later go on to dub them as the ‘band who could’ve been bigger than U2’, but to be honest I always liked the fact they were regarded as an underground group who only attracted a cult following.

  One rumour I loved from around this time related to an alleged incident which took place while both U2 and the Bunnymen were jostling for recognition as they tried to establish themselves. Both post-punk bands were extremely competitive and had slagged each other off a few times in the press. As luck would have it, they both ended up in a nightclub together following gigs in Dublin. An opportunity to make amends. The story goes that U2 decided to offer an olive branch to the Bunnymen and sent over some expensive champagne with flutes on a fancy trolley, accompanied by a note which said ‘Come over and join us’. The Bunnymen, in typical dour fashion, waited for ages to reply and then sent over four cans of best bitter on a battered old tray along with the message, ‘No, you come over and join us [2]’.