No Ordinary Woman

by Valerie Byron

  Finally, my mother and Alan Aitchison returned to pick me up, and we made the trip by train to Southampton. We boarded the hugely majestic ship the “Queen Elizabeth” which was to take us on a five-day trip to New York. Alan stood sadly below as we stood high above the crowds and waved him goodbye. People tossed streamers in the air and there was an atmosphere of excitement and gaiety.

  I had no idea of my mother’s torment at leaving the love of her life because she hid it from me very well. As I leaned over the railing, waving frantically at Alan, little did I know that it would be a very long five years until we would see him again and that my life was about to be changed in ways I never dreamed of.

  PART TWO

  NEW YORK AND BEVERLY HILLS

  1954-1959

  CHAPTER ONE

  The trip to America was very rough and I remember being seasick on our very first night. After that inauspicious start to our trip, I enjoyed every moment. It was incredibly exciting to have meals served in a dining room by handsome uniformed waiters – and of course we were in “Second Class”, which was great fun. I don’t think I was ever taken out to restaurants during my childhood, except very rarely – so this was a real treat. I met a German couple on the ship, who taught me how to say “What is your name” and “How old are you” in German. I still remember those phrases and use them whenever I want to show off. I flirted with “Pip”, our cockney waiter, and ran around the ship at will. After five days of fun – seeing movies on board, eating non-stop, being entertained in the evenings and watching the outdoor swimming pool heave back and forth in the cold air (no-one ever swam in it) – we finally stood at the front of the ship, waiting for the Statue of Liberty to come into view, as the ship loudly honked our arrival.

  We were met by my mother’s feisty brother, Uncle Morry, and his beloved second wife, Gertrude at the bustling Ellis Island terminal. I didn’t know where to look first, I was so excited. Morry was a short, Teutonic looking man, with a Napoleon complex. Feared by most of the family because of his sharp tongue, nevertheless he adored my mother and always made sure she was provided for. I had a wary affection for him, mainly because he had always brought me Chiclets chewing gum and lollipops on his visits to England, which I used to bribe the neighbourhood kids so they would play with me.

  Morry and Gertrude lived in an apartment on E. 24th Street in Manhattan and took us by car back to their apartment. The sights and smells of the city were intoxicating, and I listened in fascination as a new musical group, Bill Haley and the Comets, played “Rock Around the Clock” on the car radio.

  I could not get enough of this new land and everywhere I looked there was something exciting to draw my attention: skyscraper buildings, drug stores, bustling traffic with honking taxis, window-dressed stores and those delicious American accents everywhere one turned. There were huge billboards high above us, advertising a drink I had never heard of before – “7-Up”. I felt as though I was in a different world, and I was.

  During our first few weeks in New York, Uncle Morry took us out to eat every night. We would usually go to the same small French restaurant, where I would choose either the minute steak or spring chicken. After a while, my uncle decided we needed a change, and took us to a Chinese restaurant, my first. I remember looking in the window of the restaurant and checking out the menu. “Bird’s nest soup – yuck”. I refused to enter the restaurant and Uncle Morry almost had a fit, stamping his feet in displeasure. Back to the French restaurant for us – and believe me, he was not pleased.

  It was cold and snowy in New York, and we lived there for three months. My mother tried to enrol me in the prestigious Hunter College, but was told that I was “too young emotionally” to be admitted. Academically, I was way ahead, but in age I was behind. Instead, I was sent to a local public school by bus, and hated every minute of it. My first day was terrifying. No-one escorted me to school in this new city – I was expected to find it all by myself at eleven years of age. I stood in line, waiting for the bus to arrive. When it finally stopped, young boys threw snowballs with rocks in them out of the window, and people shoved and pushed to get on. It was so alien from the orderly “queues” I was used to in England.

  During my first week at school, I sat in the back of the classroom and listened to what seemed to me to be foreign words. The children were called “Jose” or “Javier” or some such strange name – and we were taught about the Algonquin and Iroquois Indians – all of this being entirely different from our curriculum in England. I had never seen or spoken to a black person before and when a tall African American girl approached me and asked me where I was from, I responded “England”. “Wow” she said, “you speak English so well.”

  “What do you think we speak in England?” I retorted.

  “Uh, French?” she queried.

  School in America was not what I had expected. The children talked back to the teachers and got away with it. Failing to turn in homework, or not passing a test, was “rewarded” by being given a second chance, or a “make-up” test. I found it difficult to concentrate and learn due to the constant disruptions in class. I had never heard of the concept of Student Council, so when I was nominated for Class President during my first week, based solely on my English accent, I panicked and refused the honour.

  The school cafeteria was another place that caused me great distress. I remember being served a meal that contained hot sauerkraut, something I had never heard of before. The smell was so disgusting, that I refused to eat it. I was told that I would not be allowed to leave the table until I had finished it. I know I did not eat it – being the stubborn child I was – so they must eventually have given up and let me leave.

  I made no friends and after school was over each day, I would wander the streets of New York alone before catching a bus home. I had a few hours to kill before making my way back to the apartment, so gazed in shop windows or wandered around the drug stores, wishing I had the money, and the nerve, to buy myself an ice cream soda. When I arrived home, everyone was still at work, so I had to entertain myself for a while. After doing my homework, I would watch the “Pinky Lee Show” on television, or desperately try to iron out the wrinkles in my P.E. uniform. Apparently those who arrived at school with a starched and ironed gym uniform received kudos from the teacher. Unfortunately there was no steam iron in Uncle Morry’s apartment, and definitely no starch. I would take my poorly ironed gym clothes to school each day, hoping for praise from my teacher… but none ever came.

  On one occasion, after school let out, I looked into every shop window, frantically trying to buy a gift for Uncle Morry, whose birthday was coming up. I had little money and no idea of what to get. Eventually, I found an oilcloth for his kitchen table, and will never forget the nasty smell it emitted when I unfolded it. I was not too popular with my uncle. I think my mother’s siblings felt I looked like my father, whom they hated for what he had done to us. However, they loved my mother dearly and would have done anything for her, including taking care of me. Uncle Morry would have his small son, Michael, over for weekends, and the two of us would play together. He was a sweet child, and it made a change for me to have a young relative in my life. Uncle Morry was going through a difficult custody battle after a horrendous divorce, so time spent with Michael was precious for him and a treat for me. He had an older daughter, Wendy, who was about my brother’s age, but I never saw her as she was basically an adult.

  Just about the time I was becoming most unhappy at this new school – being put in the back of the classroom had not helped my learning experience because I could not hear what was being taught – my mother gave me the exciting news that we would be moving to California. Once again, I had been saved from a school that did nothing for my learning or social skills. I was anxious for us to have a home of our own, away from the critical gazes of relatives. It was time for Mum and me to be on our own again and I could not wait.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m not certain how we got to California
– probably by train – but we ended up in Los Angeles, and went to live with my Aunt Betty and Uncle Ernest, who lived in a sun-kissed, adobe white Spanish-style home across the street from Los Angeles High School. California was beyond my wildest expectations. The fragrant smells, balmy weather, profusions of flowers and shrubs, huge boulevards, beaches – everything was bigger, brighter, cleaner and more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. However, living with my aunt was not easy, and before too long there were many shouting matches exchanged between the two of us.

  “She’s just like her father,” my aunt would cry, as I huddled on my bed, afraid to come out of the room. My mother tried to keep the peace, but she couldn’t protect me as we had nowhere else to go. I had to learn to keep my mouth shut and be grateful for being taken in.

  My aunt was very frugal, preferring to shop at the big Farmer’s Market in downtown Los Angeles, bringing home spoiled fruits that she bought at discount. Conversely, my Uncle Ernest enjoyed the finer things in life, and never could understand his wife’s penchant for saving money. There was a great deal of arguing between the two of them, and tensions were exacerbated because of our presence.

  I had a long lonely summer to get through before I would start 6th grade. My mother went to work, and I was left alone in my aunt’s house. There wasn’t much to do since I had no friends, so I spent my time walking up and down the nearby streets or hitting a tennis ball up against the garage door. The weather was wonderful, so I often put on an unattractive swim suit, and lay out in the scrubby back garden, trying to get a tan.

  1955 – Los Angeles, California in Aunty Betty’s backyard

  It was on one of my daily summer walks that I noticed a library just around the corner. Curious, I stepped inside and was amazed to find a complete children’s department. My excitement knew no bounds. For so many years I had yearned for books, yet had no ready access to them. I asked the librarian if I could join, and she gave me the necessary paperwork. The next day I was back at the library, and minutes later was clutching my brand new library card and asking how many books I could take out.

  “Fifteen is the maximum,” smiled the librarian, and fifteen books were duly piled high in my arms as I rushed home with them. I dumped all the books on my bed and spent the rest of the day reading. The following day I was back at the library, repeating the process, and that is how I spent my first summer in California, voraciously reading.

  I was sent off to John Burroughs Junior High School for my sixth grade year. It was a fairly long walk, but the school was not too difficult to find. Again, I did not make friends easily and since I was approaching puberty, I looked gangly and awkward. My nose had grown in the past year, and was now bigger than the rest of my face. I was twelve years old, with a flat chest and an aquiline nose. I certainly never felt pretty and often put my hand in front of my mouth to hide my gapped front teeth when I smiled. Amazingly, I made friends with a beautiful blonde girl named Lynn Loehr. She invited me back to her house after school one day, where I was introduced to her handsome older brother, Lincoln. Again, this was the sort of family I had always pined for – and I enjoyed going to her house after school for a snack and just observing their family life.

  One day I decided to invite Lynn back to my aunt’s house. I felt guilty because I hadn’t done it before, so the two of us arrived after school while the house was empty. My aunt, uncle and mother were all at work – so we had the place to ourselves. I looked in the fridge and found a bowl of fruit salad, prepared from the spoiled fruits my aunt had purchased at the market downtown. I added some ice cream, and we had a little snack, and then Lynn walked home. When my aunt returned and checked the fridge, she immediately came to me and demanded to know who had eaten her fruit. When I explained what had happened, she had a fit, started shrieking abuse at me, and told me never, ever to bring anyone to her house again.

  “But she let me come to her house,” I cried. “I should be able to return the favour.”

  “Never bring anyone here again,” Aunty Betty retorted angrily. “I don't want strangers in my house!”

  I was totally devastated by this attack and unfortunately my mother could not or would not protect me. We were living there on my aunt’s good graces, and I had to obey the rules. It was very difficult and our life there was no fun at all. I tried to placate my aunt by buying her a box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day. Her response was, “Why did you waste your money on this?” I had earned the money myself by taking a job typing envelopes in an office, and I was only twelve years old. I took the bus to downtown Los Angeles each weekend and spent hours typing in order to earn some pocket money. My aunt’s dismissal of the gift pierced my heart and I never forgot, or forgave, her total disregard for my feelings.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After a year of hell with my relatives, my mother felt able to fend for both of us, and we left Rimpau Boulevard, Los Angeles for the dizzying heights of Beverly Hills. Mum found us a one-bedroom apartment on South Canon Drive which was small, but affordable.

  Our apartment was on the second floor, but there was no elevator. We had to carry bags of groceries up the stairs; in fact, we had to carry them all the way from the store which was several blocks away, because she did not drive.

  The unit contained one bedroom, one bath, a small kitchen and a living room, overlooking Canon Drive. It was central to everything, but quite small compared to our spacious house in England. However, it was located in the central part of Beverly Hills at a price Mum could afford.

  There was a large closet in the living room, but my mother placed the couch in front of it, so we could not put anything in it. What a waste of valuable space!

  We shared a bed, and my mother allowed me to decorate a small area in the hall, where there were drawers and a mirror. I pinned posters of movie stars over my paltry belongings and tried to make the place look more like a teenager lived there.

  My mother and I were a team and I was happy for us to finally be alone together in our tiny nest, living without critical looks and being able to eat without being censored for what I took from the fridge.

  She got a job with an actors’ agency, Famous Artists, through her cousin, Ben Benjamin, and I was to go to Beverly Vista Junior High for 7th grade. The school was just down the street, within walking distance. My mother never did learn how to drive a car, so she always took the bus to work. I walked everywhere, which kept me fit and slim for many years.

  It was now 1956 and I was almost fourteen years old. A new music star, Elvis Presley, was ruling the air waves and his music played incessantly. I spent a few weeks of summer alone in the apartment, mainly watching television before my new school was to start. I loved Dick Clark and American Bandstand, a popular teen show, but also enjoyed the Mickey Mouse Club. I devoured everything on television mainly because there was nothing else to do. I had a small, blue transistor radio which operated on batteries. I started listening to the music of the day and was gratified to find that teenagers were being catered to. My mother let me buy a portable record player, and I purchased 45 rpm records with my small allowance. I would sit for hours, listening to the mournful tones of Roy Orbison or Johnny Mathis, wondering what it would be like to fall in love.

  Before the summer ended, my mother managed to get enough money together to send me to camp in the Malibu Mountains, along with a young relative, named Barbara. She was a few years younger than me, but I was happy to have a friend along for moral support.

  The two of us had a wonderful time – swimming, hiking, and camping under the stars, going to movies and generally enjoying being with other young people. We were taken to see the very racy film “The Man with the Golden Arm”, starring Frank Sinatra, and we both felt most grown up learning about heroin addiction.

  It was during these few weeks of camp that I first got my period. It was a very exciting experience and I telephoned my mother immediately.

  “Mum, guess what? It finally happened!”

  “Oh, Val,” she resp
onded, “how wonderful. I will mail everything you need right away.”

  She sent me the necessary pads and belts and I felt like I was becoming a woman at last. When camp was over, I spent several weekends visiting Barbara and her siblings in the San Fernando Valley. Again, she was part of a close-knit family and I loved staying with them. Barbara and I would sleep in the same bed and shared our first “practice” kiss together.

  Summer was over and starting another new school was a major obstacle to face. In those days, one had to be pretty or have a fabulous personality just to be accepted by the other kids. My 7th grade class at Beverly Vista was filled with rich, attractive young people and my only saving grace was my English accent. I made friends with a couple of girls, which made school bearable, and I enjoyed my teachers. Lunchtimes were spent playing volleyball, which I loved, but Friday afternoons were hell. The 3 pm dances we had to attend were nightmarish for me. I was rarely asked to dance, so I just sat there, watching the cute, snub nosed girls dancing up a storm with handsome, crew-cut boys. I felt so out of place and alien, wishing I could be anywhere but where I was. Dancing had never been something I had thought about, and I watched my classmates gyrate to the music with envy, wishing I could join in without embarrassing myself.

  The cruelty of children is never more evident than in seventh grade. I sat next to a casually evil young man in my homeroom class. He would call me “beaky” or “hook nose” and I would race home after school in tears. This had never happened to me before, and I would stare at my profile in the mirror, horrified at the way my nose looked. On her return from work, my mother would find me sobbing in our shared bedroom, absolutely devastated with shame from the cruelty inflicted by that uncaring boy.