I was greeted by my uncle's red-headed Irish maid, Peggy. She was down-to-earth and brusque but with a good heart and a happy smile. She took care of Stanley's family, which consisted of my older cousin, Alec, his sister Monica, who was a year younger than me, and the twin girls, Angela and Anita, who were about three years old.
The weekend was hell! The twins got hold of my kitten, and locked it in the large white refrigerator, which was located in the kitchen. I begged and pleaded with them to let the cat out, and finally Peggy found the key and rescued it. Then the poor kitty was placed in the washing machine, causing me to cry in despair. This household was nothing like mine. It was filled with shrieking children, nappies drying on a clothes rack in front of the coal fire, and steam filling the room with a most unpleasant odour. Cooking smells, furniture polish and urine all combined to make the atmosphere repellent to me.
Alec, who was about three years older than me, was a very sardonic and aloof thirteen year-old. He had red hair, pock-marked skin, and always seemed to look sickly, with wax coming out of his ears. He was not deliberately cruel, but he made fun of me and grabbed my underwear and laid it out on the bed for all to see. I felt humiliated and desperate to go home. Sobbing, I told my uncle that I needed to go home on Sunday, because I had school the following day. He refused to let me leave, giving no explanation. I became quite agitated and panicky, wanting no more than to get back to the civility and gentility of Sale, and my friend's family. Unfortunately, I was to remain there for another horrendous week before I was finally picked up by my mother and taken home.
On my mother’s return from America, she had very bad news. Her luggage had been lost in Los Angeles, and it contained her new purchases for me. My disappointment knew no bounds. Those elusive jeans were still beyond my grasp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In late May of 1953, just before my eleventh birthday, we went to visit my cousin Jackie and her mother, Auntie Corry in Luton, Bedfordshire, near London. The Queen’s Coronation was about to take place on June 2nd, and everyone was eagerly talking about the coming event. Cups and plates were being sold in all the shops with a picture of the new Queen Elizabeth II stamped on them. I enjoyed visiting my mother’s older sister and her family, who lived above their ladies’ lingerie shop. My aunt allowed me to “help” in the store, and it was fun selling packets of nylon stockings and hugely uncomfortable looking corsets to the few customers who came to buy.
I watched with interest as my aunt cleaned and plucked a chicken for dinner. I remember her pulling out an egg that had remained inside the poor fowl. The blood and guts were thrown into a bucket on the floor, and I took in every sound and sight of this domesticity. My mother was not a good cook, so I never really learned much in the way of housewifery.
Uncle Tony and Aunty Corry shouted at each other constantly, but such behaviour was ignored by their daughters, my cousins Pat and Jackie. Jackie, three years older than me, did not seem at all interested in befriending me. In fact she acted as if I did not exist. I ransacked her bookshelves for the current children’s books and comics but was basically left to amuse myself. Pat, an adult, was rarely around.
I shared a room with Jackie and slept in a bed that was placed next to a freshly papered wall. On my first night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep, my fingers reached out to pull a stray piece of wallpaper that had become unglued. One thing led to another, and by the time morning had come, the entire wall was denuded of paper. This led to some shouting and reproaches, and I was removed to sleep in another room with my mother.
Aunty Corry prepared a family dinner where I was to meet new relatives. My cousin Pat, eight years my senior, was engaged to be married, and her fiancé and his brother were at the table. Eager to show my sophistication, I picked up the crystal wine flute, and in my eagerness to swallow down the delightful drink, promptly bit a huge piece out of it. After spitting out pieces of glass all over the table, and crying my apologies, Aunty Corry assured me that it was perfectly okay. Shamefaced and embarrassed, I picked up my fork to eat my chicken. Biting hard on the fork, I chipped my front tooth, thereby ending a dinner that will remain in everyone’s memory. At that point, my mother felt the time had come for us to return home.
Before we left for northern parts, Mum wanted to attend a bar mitzvah. Her best school friend, Ada Siegal – known as Oudie to those who knew and loved her – had a thirteen year old son, Stanley. They lived in North London, and we were invited to stay with them for a few days before the ceremony, and then we would take the train home.
We arrived at Oudie’s house and I met her dour husband, Phil, and her very excited son, Stanley. Oudie was a petite woman, with olive skin and dark hair. She was very vivacious and outgoing, and welcomed the pair of us with open arms. This was a very Jewish home, and Oudie was the queen of culinary arts. Being a greedy child, it took everything in me not to leap at the food being offered. Home made brisket with vegetables and mashed potatoes. A sherry trifle, made with layers of fruit, cake, whipped cream and custard, and topped with fresh berries and sprinkles made my mouth water. I had never seen or tasted such cooking in my life. I was in heaven and never wanted to leave.
The day of the bar mitzvah came and we got ready for the event at Oudie’s house, before leaving for the synagogue. My mother had bought me a new suit – a navy gabardine skirt with matching jacket. I felt quite smart for a change and lingered while Oudie took off her clothes to change into her finery. My mouth must have hung open in surprise as I gazed at her nude body. Her breasts hung down to her waist in flat, elongated flaps. She nonchalantly lifted each one up and folded it again and again until it fit inside her huge bra. I had never seen anything like this in my life and the image has stayed with me to this day.
The ceremony was forgettable, but the reception remains in my mind’s eye. There were tables positioned around a huge room, each filled with some wonderful, mouth-watering platter of food. One table contained small glasses, each filled with a different coloured liqueur. It was a banquet fit for a prince, and I suppose Stanley was their prince. What a lucky young man he was.
Times were changing for me – I had by then completed a year at the private school, Southfields, preparing for my “eleven-plus” scholarship examination which, if I passed, would enable me to go to the local grammar school. If I failed the exam, I would have to attend the secondary modern school, filled with less bright children who could not pass the difficult test. I had already attempted to take the entrance examination for the prestigious Manchester Grammar School, but had failed miserably. I was ill-prepared for a test of that magnitude and had no understanding of any of the questions.
That summer, my hair had grown, and my mother made braids for me each morning. I wore my summer school uniform, which consisted of a blue cotton dress, blue jacket with a gold emblem on it, and a jaunty panama hat. I felt quite spiffy and being one of the older children at the school, behaved in a superior manner toward the younger ones. At recess each day I noticed a very young boy, named Eric, playing with his friends. He was a beautiful child, with golden curls and big blue eyes. He must have been around six years old, quite a bit younger than I was. He wore grey jersey shorts and a white shirt and I found myself waiting for him in the locker room every day. I would pretend that he had done something wrong, then place him, struggling, across my knee and proceed to spank him. Strangely, he didn’t cry, and he never told his mother. There must have been some strange quirk in me, because I almost had a sexual thrill chasing after him, pulling down his little shorts and smacking his round white bottom. I suppose I had graduated from slapping faces to slapping bottoms!
My teacher, Mr. Coglan, was old, crusty and sharp tongued, but we children adored him. On Friday afternoons, as a special treat, he would walk our entire class about a mile to a local park where we played “rounders” – equivalent to American softball. I looked forward to Fridays eagerly, as sports were a passion of mine. I entered the school’s Sports Day, and excelled in the long j
ump, high jump and sprinting. I was a very fast runner and always did well in these events. Mr. Coglan coached our class for the scholarship exams and had faith in our ability. I found the test much easier than the previous one I had attempted, and passed with flying colours. My Coglan announced my achievement with pride to the whole class. I was to attend an all-girls grammar school in Altrincham, two bus rides away. Mr. Coglan died shortly after I left Southfields, but will never be forgotten by me, or his devoted students.
Mum had taken me to Lewis’s in Manchester for a haircut before I started my new school, and they chopped it off in a most unattractive manner, adding little to my sense of self-esteem. My school picture shows a very gawky and tomboyish child smirking at the camera.
I had to take two buses to get to Altrincham Grammar for Girls, plus a long walk up a hill. It was an arduous trek, relieved only by a stop at the newsagent’s shop for sweets on the way. I occasionally rode my bike to school, but it took hours and I soon gave up. The curriculum was especially difficult because I had no male figure at home to help me with homework. I enjoyed English and French but started falling behind in science and maths. I developed a huge crush on my French teacher, Miss Jean Smith, and often mouthed off to her in class, just to get her attention.
Altrincham Grammar School for Girls – 1953
School was made bearable by the few friends I made, and the fun we had during recess. We would play in the woods attached to the school, and then go to the cafeteria for a hot lunch, which inevitably consisted of dry tasteless meat and an evil smelling orange vegetable called a “swede”, which tasted like stringy turnips.
I would come home from school frantic with worry because I just didn’t “get” the math assignments. Fortunately, Alec Gibson, Carol’s wonderful Scottish father, offered to help me with my homework. I adored both Alec and Alice Gibson, and to me, they were the epitome of what “family” meant. Alec was patient with me, and was one of the few male role models I have ever had in my life.
When I got to stay with them during my mother's trips abroad, it was so incredible to have a lunch packed for me each day to take to school, instead of having to eat the nasty institutional school dinners. To joyously find a little chocolate mouse tucked inside the brown paper bag for my mid-morning snack – well, it was nothing I had ever known before and I wished I could live with them forever. Alas, my time with them was coming to an end as the winds of change were in the air.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As I approached my twelfth birthday, my mother had finally decided to go to work and was learning Pitman’s shorthand. We would sit by the gas fire in the lounge in the evenings, and I would watch her make the strange scribblings, which fascinated me. I tried to copy what she was doing, and she took pride in showing off her newfound skill. Little did I know that shorthand would be my bread and butter in a mere five years. After a few weeks, Mum got a job in Uncle Morry’s import shop in Manchester, and was able to finally support us by herself. Thanks to her brothers’ largesse, Mum had always managed to provide me with the luxuries of life that other little girls took for granted. I was dressed up in pink satin outfits for my ballet lessons – and performed like a fairy elephant. The Austrian piano teacher wrung her hands because I refused to practise, and only learned one piece by heart. I begged for horseback riding lessons, but lost interest quite soon. Ice skating? Forget it. I couldn’t do much except grab the railings at the rink, and stagger around the edge, hoping it would soon be time to go home.
Pauline decided she wanted to be a famous singer, so I thought it would be fun to be an actress. I had staged several plays in my dining room over the years, using the long drapes as curtains and had written scripts for the neighbourhood children. This idea stayed in my head for quite some time, and Pauline told me that the famed Garrick Theatre in Altrincham would be holding auditions for a children’s theatre troupe.
I really wasn’t sure what being an actress entailed, but decided to give it a shot. Mum suggested I learn the lines from “Joan of Arc” and I memorized them in no time. Unfortunately, I had to take the bus to the audition by myself because no-one was available to go with me for moral support. I nervously stepped into the theatre, and waited in the ante-room, going over the lines in my head. I remember being called in and standing before a panel of adults with my knees shaking. With voice trembling, I spouted the lines “Light your fires! Do you think I dread it as much as the life of a rat in a hole?”
I am sure I did as well as can be expected, but I was thanked and told that they would be in touch. I am so profoundly grateful that I wasn’t good enough because acting simply was not my forte in life.
There were two things I hated about myself when I was twelve. The first was the gap between my front teeth and the second was my bitten fingernails. I suppose I could have grown my nails, but since my fingers were always in my mouth, this was not an option. My fingertips were always red and torn, and my knees were usually covered with warts or scabs. I must have been a charming sight, certainly not a dainty, pretty little girl with flowing curls. My mother had consistently sent me on my own to the dentist, but years of eating sweets had caused lots of cavities and I dreaded going. When the dentist attempted to put a gas mask over my mouth to anesthetise me for needed fillings, I flailed my arms in the air and hit him. When he tried to take impressions in order to make an archaic form of braces for my teeth, I pulled them out. He gave up, and I was not to have those braces until I was pregnant with my daughter, years later.
My nose was aquiline, but would not reach its full growth until my fourteenth year. I was not aware of being different from other children since my features were still childlike. I never felt pretty or graceful – I was a combination of awkward and belligerent, a child who desperately needed to be loved and accepted. Somehow I never seemed able to get that love, no matter how much I wanted or demanded it.
After my first year of grammar school, Mum sat me down with some incredible news. Her family had pressed her to emigrate to America, telling her that she would have more opportunities there. She would have to sell everything, leave her lover, and make a brand new life for the two of us. She was not really happy about it but realised it was probably the best future for both of us. Alan Aitchison's family did not approve of “the Jewess”, as they referred to my mother, and Uncle Alan was not prepared to take on the responsibility of being a father to me. I suppose she felt she had no choice but to leave since he refused to marry her. I think he was afraid of his father cutting him off and didn’t have the balls to defy dear old dad who ran the family business
My Uncle Morry lived in New York, and Aunty Betty lived in California. Both agreed to sponsor us as it was evident that Mum was now qualified to earn money as a secretary. I was beside myself with joy, mainly because it meant leaving school and journeying to the magical country “America” that I had seen so many times at the pictures.
The next few months were filled with activity and excitement, and I was even allowed to have a going-away party with friends from my grammar school. Our house, which had been purchased twelve years before for nine hundred pounds, was sold for the mind boggling amount of three thousand pounds. It seemed like a fortune to me. I was still a child in so many ways, believing the world revolved around me and never noticing anyone else's feelings. It never occurred to me for one second that my mother was heartbroken and that she was leaving the love of her life. I also believed my mother when she told me that she was finding a good home for our young cat. Poor thing… she no doubt had it put to sleep since it was an inconvenience.
I was sent to North Wales to stay with my mother’s friends, Marian and Leslie Bradley. To this day, I don’t know where my mother went after she left me in Wales, but I suppose it was to spend her last weeks with Alan. The Bradley’s lived in a little town called Rhyl. Their house was located directly across the street from the icy Irish Sea, and I would love to run across the road in the mornings with their two dogs, Sugar and Crybaby, and race with t
hem across the beach. I would clamber over the damp dunes, sniff the salty air, and then sit on the deserted beach, watching the two dogs frolic in the surf, dreaming of my future life in America.
Rhyl, North Wales 1954 with Sugar and Crybaby
The sea air gave this ever-hungry young girl a huge appetite. My main meal consisted of sharp cheddar cheese, tasty firm tomatoes and delicious crusty French bread. All were eaten with gusto, and have remained a favourite all my life.
My last weeks with Marian and Leslie were very calm and I enjoyed being taken shopping for clothes for the big adventure to America. Looking back, the new clothes were horrendous, but I thought they were wonderful. I remember being fitted out with a yellow, wool turtle neck sweater, and green wool plaid slacks, my very first! I had the navy suit that had been purchased for the bar mitzvah, but cannot remember much else. In those days, money was in short supply and I did not have the wardrobe that I later provided for my own children.
Most exciting in 1954 was that rationing had finally ended – on my birthday, of all dates!! This made it a little easier to shop for clothes, but it wasn’t going to matter. I was leaving for the wondrous shores of America and would finally be able to buy those elusive jeans!!
My brother, who was by then nineteen years old, came to visit for a few days while he was on leave from the army. He drove me around on his motorcycle and we had a rare opportunity to spend time together before parting for good. Little did I know that my brother would spend a great deal of time with the Bradley’s after we had left for America, helping to care for the alcoholic Leslie, and that Marian would become his first lover. She was a beautiful, petite woman dealing with an ailing husband. I suppose a young man pining for her proved to be irresistible. She was my brother’s first love and they spent an illicit six years together before he realised that a woman twenty years his senior was not wife material.
No Ordinary Woman Page 6
