No Ordinary Woman

by Valerie Byron

  After I was born, and my father had left to be with his mistress, he took baby Michael with him to their new home. He certainly showed no interest in Alan or me and only came back to Sandown Drive once, apart from the time he took us out in the car. On the first occasion, it was to demand the deeds to our house. My mother refused. We would have been out on the street if he had taken the house. What he did manage to do was take my mother’s ration books to clothe his new wife with a fur coat. It was only through the good graces of my mother’s brothers that we enjoyed the lifestyle we did. Rationing was in effect for many years, and we had to tear pages out of the ration books for food, clothing and luxury items.

  But I digress; let me get back to the story. Michael had been returned to his mother when he was about eight years old. He had run away from my father, for reasons that were not explained and on this occasion was about eleven years old. After that first visit to the slums of Manchester, I didn’t see Michael for quite a while, and the trips to see my father’s relatives grew fewer and fewer. They sometimes came to visit us, but not too often. The only time I remember Aunty Becky, my father’s oldest sister, coming to tea, was when my mother had asked me to ride my bicycle to the local shops to pick up some ice cream.

  In haste, I jumped on my bike, and rode through the fields behind our house, through the short cut by the local secondary modern school, and then arrived at the main road. I looked at the heavy traffic as I attempted to cross over to get to the newsagent’s shop. As I cycled across the street, my dress caught in the spokes, and down I went. A huge lorry could not stop, and crushed the back of my bike. I went flying into the street, and all the traffic stopped. If I had been able to have jeans, no doubt this accident would not have occurred.

  A police car came by, picked me up, and drove me home. I am certain the neighbours, who were watching through their living room windows, turned to each other with knowing smirks as I was let out of the car. “We knew she would come to this,” I imagined them saying to their spouses. I arrived home, sans ice cream, and pacified my mother by making tea and toast for our guest, my Aunt Becky.

  Michael came back to live at our house a year later, when he was about twelve years old. It was to be on a trial basis. I think my mother felt guilty and wanted to give him an opportunity to live in a nice area. I was just nine and had been home from boarding school for about a year. I remember sitting in his bedroom by the window, playing on the floor with my dolls. He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He started to talk about trains going into tunnels. I had no idea what he was talking about and carried on playing. He used the work “fuck,” which I had never heard before, so I ignored him.

  He heaved himself off the bed, and stood over me, watching me play with my doll. “Wouldn’t you like to touch it?” he asked, pointing to his groin. “Touch it?” I replied, confused. “No. That’s nasty.”

  I left the room in horror and disgust and went to sit on my mother’s bed. She had been taking a nap, but woke up at my entrance. I sat at the edge of her bed, idly murmuring “uck, buck, cuck, duck, fuck” until she looked up with a question in her expression and asked where I had heard that word. Immediately her alarm bells went off and she left the room to confront Michael. I later learned he had tried to seduce not only me, but Pauline and Carol, and had stolen money from the black tin money box which was kept in the dining room.

  After a heated confrontation, my mother returned Michael to his own mother, thankful he had not molested me. As he grew older, he got into more trouble and ended up in reform school. It was many years later that I heard he had been imprisoned for theft, and accused of molesting his own son. I only saw him once again, many years later, but it was a brief and unsatisfactory meeting. He died in 2008 after living the life of a thief and sex offender. Looking back, I have to admire my mother for protecting me, and making sure that no harm would come to me under her roof.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I remember spending hours one Christmas Eve sitting in front of the never-used fireplace in my bedroom, waiting for Father Christmas to show his face. He never did show up and if he had, I would probably have fainted dead away. To my delight, mysterious packages always showed up outside my bedroom door on Christmas morning. The gifts were simple, compared to what we give our children today. Flashlight batteries, books, dolls, teddies and board games were leapt upon with glee. Rationing was still in effect, and my mother would purchase boxes of sweets from Woolworth's, which were supposed to last for months. They were placed in our stockings, with the remainder hidden away in the cloakroom underneath the stairs. I always found them. I knew where everything was in that house.

  Nights in my small bed were difficult. I had been relocated to a very small bedroom at the front of the house. Some attempt had been made to liven it up with nursery rhyme wallpaper, but my blankets were always falling off, and I would wake in the wee hours, shivering with cold. I would lie there for a while, attempting to pull the blankets back on the bed. Eventually I would creep into my mother’s room and stand at the side of her bed, watching her while she slept. She would somehow feel my presence and, without a word, would open the covers, silently inviting me to come in. I would immediately crawl up against her hot naked body, place my leg across her thigh, and fall into a deep and satisfying sleep. After days and weeks of this, she finally gave in and allowed me to sleep with her on a permanent basis.

  My childhood nemesis was a young adopted lad who lived down the street. Peter Chapman was small, perennially tanned, and had big blue eyes. He told me he was “brown” because his mother always left him outside in his pram. At that time, I imagined the gypsies had left him. Of course no-one knew that he was adopted, and we never thought to wonder why such tall people as the Chapmans had given birth to such a small, olive skinned boy. Peter and I never got along, particularly because he loved to shout “You haven’t got a daddy” at the top of his lungs whenever he saw me. Had I known then that he was adopted, you can be certain I would have retaliated in kind.

  Another hurtful jibe was his sing-song cry, “Valerie Byron is a siren”. Looking back, I am not sure if he meant I sounded like an automobile siren, or a seductive enchantress. In hindsight, it probably just rhymed and that was all there was to it. However, he was intensely irritating and, on one occasion, we were taunting each other in the partially constructed houses at the end of the street. I picked up a brick lying on the ground, and threw it at his head, aiming to miss, but unfortunately hit him smack on the forehead. I ran home, heart pumping, worried senseless that I had killed him. His mother marched over to my house in righteous indignation, and I hid, quaking in my bedroom. My mother must have soothed the woman, for she went away, and I wasn’t punished.

  Although mortal enemies, we still spent time together, playing in the fields. He was the first boy to show me his penis, and I recoiled at the purple head that was displayed when he pulled back his foreskin.

  In my tenth year, Peter and I decided to go to the local newsagent to buy an ice cream. On the way home with our treats, we sat on a grassy bank to eat them. As we ate and talked, I suddenly looked to my side, startled to see a young man sitting next to us.

  He had reddish gold hair and appeared to be in his late twenties. My innate desire for attention from men was already deeply ingrained in my being. Having been taunted by neighbourhood children with “you haven’t got a daddy” any man who spoke to me kindly warranted my interest. The young man smiled and asked if we wanted to go across the street.

  “I know a place where you can climb a tree,” he baited Peter. Always one to be the centre of attention, Peter immediately ran off, eager to show his climbing skills.

  I followed the young man into a ditch across the street, adjacent to the secondary modern school. Peter then disappeared up a nearby oak tree.

  The young man turned to me. “What colour are your knickers?” he asked.

  My face flooded with embarrassment and I mumbled that I didn’t know. He then asked me what colou
r I thought his were. At that point, he started to undo his trousers, and showed me the top of his underwear. Fortuitously, Peter came bounding back, interrupting a very awkward moment.

  “We need to go home now, Valerie. My Mum told me to come home right away.”

  The young man seemed quite calm, and asked me to come back the next day. “Bring sixpence with you, and I’ll buy you an ice cream” he whispered with a smile.

  Peter and I ran home, and I couldn’t wait to tell my mother the exciting news. “I met the nicest man, Mummy. Can I have sixpence? I'm meeting him tomorrow” I gasped breathlessly. My mother looked at me in amazement, asked a few questions, and then left the room. A few hours later there was a knock at the door, and two policemen came in. Mum brought them into the dining room and I was called in for questioning. Although reluctant to say anything derogatory, I answered their questions as best I could, telling them the time I had arranged to meet the stranger the next day.

  The following afternoon there was another knock at the back door. My mother opened it, and there were the policemen with the man from the day before. My heart almost stopped. He was such a nice man, and now he wouldn’t be able to buy me an ice cream! As he looked at me shamefacedly, I identified him, and then he was taken away.

  Weeks later, my mother took me and Peter Chapman to court where we had to testify on the stand as to what had happened.

  I had never seen my mother smoke a cigarette, but on this occasion she puffed away furiously, waiting for my name to be called. We were led into the court room and I was placed on the stand, by myself.

  Peter had refused to say anything so it was left to me. I was just nine years old, painfully naive, and totally unable to say the word “knickers” in a courtroom full of strangers. I would not speak up clearly, due to incredible shyness and embarrassment, and the man, who apparently had just been released from a mental institution, was eventually placed in the custody of his brother. Years later, upon my return to England in my seventeenth year, the newspapers were full of the murder of little Helen Sternshine, killed by this very same young man. My life was being watched over by some unknown protector – yes, I do believe in guardian angels.

  Despite her apparent concern regarding my safety once something frightening had happened, my mother seemed oblivious to the every day dangers that confronted me, her mind being elsewhere most of the time. Even though I had just narrowly escaped being molested by the “nice” man, she still allowed me to take the bus into town to see movies, all by myself. I could not get enough of the “pictures” and would often go to the local cinema on a Saturday afternoon. On one occasion, I had taken the bus to Altrincham to see “The Jolson Story” starring Larry Parks. As I was sitting alone, in the middle of the row, a man appeared out of nowhere, and sat next to me. After a short time, he put his jacket over my legs and offered me a cigarette.

  “I’m only a little girl,” I told him shyly. He put his hands under the jacket and started to stroke my legs. I sat there, staring straight ahead at the screen, not knowing what to do. Finally, he stopped and left to go to the men’s room. I took that opportunity to fly out of the cinema, and get the bus home. On my return I told my mother all about it. She showed no visible reaction other than to telephone the cinema the next time I planned to see a movie, to ask the usherette on duty to keep an eye on me. My mother could not be described as an overly protective parent. I know she cared about me, but she certainly allowed me to run wild and do as I pleased.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My grandmother came to live with us when I was almost ten years old. She was old at seventy-two, with grey hair tied in a bun, and a shawl that was always draped over her shoulders. She would sit on the sofa in the lounge, and stare into space for hours. I would see her sitting there when I came home from school, but we never conversed. I am sure she found it difficult to understand my broad Lancashire accent and, although she was born in Poland, she must have understood English, having lived in London for so many years. “What do you say my child?” she would often ask in Yiddish, but I had skipped off by then, having lost interest.

  I would often walk by the spare bedroom – the same room that had housed my cot when I was a baby – and see her lying on the bed, moaning in pain. I would stand to one side as my mother cared for her – dabbing her face with paraffin, as she had skin cancer.

  Grandma had run an orthodox Jewish restaurant in the East Side of London during the early 1900’s. Bringing up a family of seven children and slaving in the kitchen had taken their toll on her. But she still kept her faith and we had to light the candles every Friday night and say the Jewish blessing over them. She insisted on it. It was a real nuisance for me, as I was not permitted to turn on the light switch until Saturday at dusk, so I felt a little resentment towards her. In fact, it reminded me of the hellish days at boarding school and I came to hate everything related to organized religion.

  Yes, I was a selfish and uncaring little girl, and didn’t take the time to try and get to know her. I regret that I never had a relationship with my grandmother – I am sure I could have learned a lot from her. On the day she died, a very old seventy-two, all I wanted to do was go out and play with my friends. The moment the ambulance left with her body, I forgot all about her. To my shame, I never shed one tear over that poor, sad woman.

  The first time I saw a television set was an incredible experience. It was 1952, a year before the Queen’s coronation. I was playing in the street when a little boy exclaimed “Hey, did you know the people at the end of the road have a television?” I had no clue what a television was, but trooped after the others as they crowded into the neighbour’s house.

  I saw a small box sitting on a table, and the children’s program “Just William” was playing. I had seen this show at the pictures, and it was one of my favourites. I would have loved to have been invited to stay and watch, but was asked, politely, to go home since too many children were filling the living room.

  I was absolutely enchanted by the notion of live pictures in my own home and even more excited when my mother eventually decided to splurge on a set for us. We became very popular with that purchase, and evenings were punctuated with rings at the doorbell. Pauline and Carol would be standing there, both exclaiming in singsong unison “Can we watch television?” I found them quite irritating and did not enjoy seeing them at the door every night. I am sure my sour expression revealed my feelings, but it never put them off coming to watch the latest offerings on the tube.

  In those days, televisions were black and white, with a very tiny screen, and programming started at 8 pm. There was only one station, the BBC, and it promptly ended at 11 pm. Naturally there were no commercials. My mother decided to make our television colour, and purchased a piece of plastic to tape on the screen. The top was blue, the middle red, and the bottom green. How absolutely ridiculous, but we were mesmerized.

  The very first television series we watched on Saturday nights was called “The Quatermass Experiment.” It was performed live and was avidly watched every week by what seemed to be half the neighbourhood. When Alan Aitchison was visiting, he refused to watch. He would sit in the lounge with us, but his head would be turned away from the screen. He was somewhat of a snob in this regard, and felt that it was all rubbish. His attitude had no effect on the rest of us, who ate up every offering. McDonald Hobley was the very first television presenter and, like every woman in the country, I would walk up to the set and kiss him goodnight when programming ended for the evening.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  About this time my mother took a trip to Italy to see my eighteen year old brother while he was stationed in Trieste. He had left school and joined the Lancashire Fusiliers. She then went on a holiday to America to visit her brother, Morry, and her sister, Betty. While she was away, I stayed with my friend, Pauline, whose family lived across the street. I usually stayed at Carol Gibson’s house during my mother’s absences, but for this trip I was to stay with the Shevloffs. Pauline’s f
ather, “Uncle” Maurice, was a tall Jewish man and her mother, “Aunty” Mary, was a beautiful Catholic woman who used to be a model.

  Pauline was an only child and her home was quite different from mine. She had all the latest comic books and toys, and had access to her mother’s wardrobe!! We spent hours dressing up in Aunty Mary’s clothes, putting on make-up, and taking walks up and down the street in high heeled shoes, pretending we were grown-ups. I loved sitting in their small family room in front of the fireplace, modelling plasticine or reading comics, sometimes playing with their Scotty dog, Angus, and generally feeling part of a real family.

  My mother wrote me letters from her trip abroad, and one letter in particular set my heart pounding. She wrote that she had purchased beautiful clothes for me in Italy but the words that excited me the most were “Italian dungarees”. Dungarees were jeans – and I had always longed for them. I could not wait for her return, and to see the goodies that she had promised to bring. She also wrote of her trip to Los Angeles, describing the wide boulevards, the shops, tall palm trees and details about our extended family who lived there. It seemed so exciting and foreign, and a place I would dearly love to visit one day.

  While my mother was away, and I was still staying with the Shevloffs, I received another letter from my mother. She told me to telephone her brother, my Uncle Stanley, who lived in Prestwich, North Manchester. I complied, and he asked me to visit his family for the weekend. This was a long distance for a child to travel on her own, by bus, and I didn't want to leave Pauline and her family. Not only that, I had a new white kitten, and was wondering what would happen to it if I left. I had started attending a private school, Southfields, and had to be back on Monday morning. Uncle Stanley insisted that I come, so Mr. Shevloff drove me in his car on the Friday afternoon, with the kitten in my arms.