No Ordinary Woman

by Valerie Byron

  About a week before we were to depart for England, I was invited to a party at someone’s house near USC by a young Indian student, Al, whom I had met locally. I was not attracted to him at all, but he was fun and showed me a great deal of attention. I cannot remember how we got to the campus, but somehow I lost Al, and was introduced to a very dynamic young man named Steve de France. He was nineteen years old to my sixteen, and we were immediately attracted to each other. We spent the rest of the evening together and he invited me to come back to his pad in Hermosa Beach. I had never heard of Hermosa Beach, had no clue where it was, and had summer school the next day. That was not to deter me. Steve was cute and I was determined to go with him. I knew my mother was spending the night with her friend, Erna, so my absence would be unnoticed.

  As I waited for Steve to get his things, I wandered into one of the rooms of the house and noticed a young man sitting on a stool in the corner of the room, playing his guitar.

  He was of average height, with curly brown hair. There was an aura about him which was magnetic, and I stood there, watching him. He looked up, our eyes met, and he smiled. Without knowing why, I walked over to stand beside him, listening as he strummed his guitar. When he finished playing, we started talking, as if we had known each somehow, somewhere in a prior existence. The connection between us was instantaneous, something this girl-child of sixteen had never experienced before. He told me his name was Benny, and I responded “Hi, I’m Valerie.”

  I yearned to stay with him for the rest of the evening, but Steve was stamping impatiently at the door, waiting for me to join him.

  “Can I see you again?” Benny whispered.

  “I’m returning to England next week,” I responded, disappointed.

  “Can I write to you?”

  “Yes, oh yes. That would be wonderful.”

  I reached for my purse and tore out a piece of paper from my diary. I scribbled my name on it, with all I could remember of my uncle’s address in England. I handed it to him, smiled longingly, and left.

  I spent the night in Hermosa Beach with Steve, which turned out to be disastrous. His bedroom window opened onto the roof and we were wakened in the early hours by a brick being hurled through the window. The glass broke and shattered onto our sleeping bodies. I jumped up in fear and removed myself to the living room, while Steve cleaned up the mess.

  Apparently Steve’s much older girlfriend had been waiting for him to return, and when she saw he was with someone else, climbed on the roof and heaved a brick through the window. I eventually returned to the bedroom and huddled in the bed, trembling with fear, wishing I had never come with him.

  The next morning, he drove me home to Beverly Hills, and we rode back in silence. After he dropped me off at my apartment, my mother was waiting for me, furious and agitated. She had called Deana, who had no idea where I was. She had even called the school, who informed her I had not shown up that day. I hadn’t expected her to return home, so was duly chastised and promised that it would never happen again. And it never did happen again – - in America.

  My escapades were forgiven and forgotten in the excitement of packing, selling furniture and finally getting ready to leave for England. My mother was anxious and elated to see Alan Aitchison again, and I was eager to see my brother and my old friends, and to start life as an adult. I had no idea what my mother had planned for me, but I knew anything was better than staying in school. In early June, 1959, one month before my seventeenth birthday, we were ready to sail back to England on the Queen Mary, and I had a very strong feeling that my life was going to take a turn for the better.

  PART THREE

  MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

  1959-1969

  CHAPTER ONE

  We were finally packed and ready to return to England. We took a three-day train journey from Los Angeles to New York to board our ship. My mother had booked us on the Queen Mary which was older than the Queen Elizabeth, but bound to be every bit as nice. In those days, people took sea trips rather than airplanes – and the five-day cruise to Southampton would be an opportunity for both of us to relax and have some fun. And fun I had.

  It didn’t take long for me to explore the luxurious cruise ship, get settled in our cabin and check out the other passengers. Within a day I had met three young Americans who were about my age. Rusty, a cute redhead, was returning home to London. Bill, an American, was going to England on vacation, and Kenny was first visiting England, and then taking off for Paris. We paired off almost immediately, and Kenny and I had a five-day romance that kept me out of my cabin and my mother’s sight for the entire trip. No, there were no serious shenanigans, but we kissed and cuddled and fell in love for a week, promising to keep in touch. We never did.

  Bill, Rusty, Kenny and Val – Queen Mary – 1959

  When we finally docked in Southampton, my mother and I took the train south to Devon to spend a few days with Alan Aitchison’s Aunt Kit, in Budleigh Salterton. While I was there I received a phone call from Rusty, inviting me to come to London to spend a weekend with her family. I accepted immediately and took the train to London, excited to be travelling on my own as a beautiful, sophisticated young woman. I noticed men checking me out, and preened inside as I drank in their admiring glances. All I can remember of that weekend is that Rusty lived above Lawrence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. According to Rusty, they fought like cats and dogs. We spent our weekend walking the streets of London, eating in restaurants, and laughing like only teenage girls can. And then the party was over. It was time to start really living my new life.

  My mother met up with me in London, and we travelled by train together to North Manchester. It had been decided that we should live with my Uncle Stanley until such time as we could afford our own place. We arrived on the day before my seventeenth birthday, July 3, 1959 and were shown to our new digs. You may remember I had stayed with Uncle Stanley and his four children when I was ten years old, and had experienced a horrendous week with them. Fortunately, the household had shrunk as all the girls were now living with their mother at a different address.

  Uncle Stanley lived in a very large house in Prestwich, a Jewish neighbourhood in North Manchester. He had divided his house into two separate apartments, and we were to live in the downstairs flat. His household now consisted of his Irish housekeeper, Peggy, her husband, Jimmy, and my older cousin, Alec, who spent most of his time at the London School of Economic, coming home only for vacations.

  The day after our arrival was my 17th birthday. We had barely unpacked our suitcases, when I learned that Peggy, the housekeeper, was about to give birth to her second child. I remembered Peggy from childhood visits to the house, such memories not being too pleasant. However, she was now ensconced in the master bedroom with her husband, while Uncle Stanley was relegated to the maid’s room in the back of the house. The morning of July 4th, I went upstairs to re-introduce myself, only to find her screaming with pain and cursing in agony as she gave birth in Uncle Stanley’s bed. I stood there in excitement as the midwife pulled the red-faced baby from Peggy’s body, wrapped it in a blanket, and handed it to me. I looked down into the most beautiful face I had ever seen. Little Johnny was an angel and I was ecstatic to be the first to hold him. I was particularly thrilled that he had been born on my birthday. What a present.

  I raced out of the room with the minutes old baby in my arms, and banged on Uncle Stanley’s door. “Look, look, Peggy had the baby,” I cried. Uncle Stanley staggered sleepily to his door, took a disinterested look, and returned to his bed.

  The midwife took the baby from my arms, and handed me a huge bundle of newspapers. I had no idea what they contained.

  “Take this downstairs,” she ordered. “Burn it in the fireplace.”

  Obediently, I ran down to the kitchen, and found a coal fire burning in a very small grate. I placed the leaking parcel into the fire, and prodded it with a poker. The poker went straight through, and blood started seeping out. I had been given the afterbirth to burn.
Oh God, I thought, Why me?

  The days went by slowly. My mother got a job and I spent a great deal of time alone in the house. Peggy allowed me to take her first child, Helen, aged ten months, for walks in the neighbourhood, to give her time to attend to the newborn. Helen was the most breathtakingly beautiful little girl, with black hair and wide blue eyes, so it was a pleasure to wheel her around the streets, receiving compliments. I pretended she was my baby and was pleased with the admiration she received.

  My cousin Alec was much more approachable now that he was a student at university, and he introduced me to several of his friends. They would come over at night to play poker, and I would hang around, watching them play. Naturally I started to date a couple of them to fill the time, and soon was feeling comfortable enough to check out the local talent as well. Dating was becoming so easy for me, that it seemed as if a veritable plethora of young men were coming in and out of my life. I chatted to the young constable who sat in the police box across the street. I sneaked out of the house at night to talk to him, and we ended up going to a movie or two. My uncle was horrified with my behaviour and screamed abuse at me when I came home late. He made me believe that I was a very promiscuous young woman, and perhaps I was.

  Shortly after my arrival in Prestwich, a letter arrived for me. The address was sketchy. There was no street number or street name, just my name and the city, with a note scrawled across the envelope stating “Good job the postman knows you.” It was from Benny, the young man I had met at the party at the University of Southern California, the week before I had left California. I eagerly tore open the envelope and devoured the contents. He was such a caring young man, and his letter was full of compliments and endearments. I loved to write letters, so immediately responded, writing pages and pages, filling him in on my life.

  Over the next two years Benny wrote consistently, and we became close through our words. I opened my heart to him and asked his advice regarding the young men I was dating. He always had something sensible to say and I valued his opinions. I saved all his letters and put them away in a safe place. After a few years the letters stopped coming, but I never forgot Benny, and kept him in my heart. That is where he stayed until I saw him again fifty years later.

  Benny 1960

  CHAPTER TWO

  One cool and rainy afternoon, as I was walking back to the house, a van pulled up alongside me. I stopped and looked up to see a most attractive young man smiling down at me. Ray Bookbinder was a Jewish lad of about twenty-one who lived close by. We chatted for a moment, and he asked if I would like to take a ride so we could get to know each other. Without a second thought, I hopped into his van and off we went.

  He had an interesting family, and told me all about them. His sister, Elaine, was fourteen and a budding musician. His younger brother Tony also played an instrument, and was in a band. Ray played the trumpet locally and worked in his father’s bakery. We started dating right away, and I fell madly in love with him. He was beautiful, with perfect white teeth, short dark hair and warm brown eyes. Although he was quite short in stature, he appealed to me on many levels, and I didn’t care about his size. His mother, however, was not too thrilled with our dating – even though she had never met me. Like Dave Brown’s mother, she felt I was not “Jewish” enough for her son. I could never figure out what that meant, but suspected family background had a large part to play. I was an unknown quantity and his family was suspicious of me.

  Ray and I spent hours together, making love in my flat, riding around in his van and just enjoying being together. Unfortunately, all that ended when he told me one day, after about nine months of dating, that his parents had arranged a marriage for him with a girl in London and that we would have to end our relationship. I was devastated and cried for days. The following year, 1960, his brother, Tony Bookbinder (now re-named Tony Mansfield) joined the successful band Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, and little Elaine became the wildly popular British singer, Elkie Brooks. Ray and I were not to meet again until I visited England with my husband and children twenty-five years later.

  Meanwhile, putting aside my misery over losing Ray, I met Rafik El Khoury at a local dance club. He was an Arab, who was attending university in England. He was a little older than me, but quite exotic and sophisticated. At first I was a little afraid of him, not quite certain how he would react to the question I posed:

  “You are from Lebanon. I am Jewish. Am I safe with you?” I baited him, in a flirtatious manner.

  On a date with Rafik El-Khoury 1959

  Rafik laughed out loud, and assured me that he would not try to do away with me. We spent a few months together on a platonic basis, and I enjoyed outings in his rattletrap convertible sports car, taking trips to Blackpool, or helping him paint the car, which he lovingly called “Rumble Tummy.”

  Rafik El-Khoury – 1959

  When we stopped seeing each other it was as friends. Fifty years later I learned he had become an important architect in the Lebanon, helping to restore the shattered structures of Iraq.

  It had been over five years since I had seen my brother. When my mother and I had left England for the States in 1954, he had been serving in the army, the Lancashire Fusiliers. At that time he was only nineteen years old, and had been stationed in Trieste, Italy. My mother insisted that she had travelled to Italy to say goodbye, and to tell him we were leaving. She said he should go to stay with Uncle Stanley and then continue his education or, he could join us in America if he wished. Somehow he “forgot”, or misunderstood, and returned to our house in Sale, thinking we would be there. When he realised we had gone, he took the bus to Uncle Stanley’s home in a panic, not knowing what else to do. For many years, he truly believed that my mother had abandoned him, and had left the country without telling him.

  My brother had never had a real home of his own, and our leaving caused him pain and suffering that is with him to this day. After finishing his National Service, Alan enrolled in medical school in Sheffield, Yorkshire, receiving ten shillings a week pocket money from Uncle Morry. By the time my mother and I returned to England in 1959, Alan was twenty-five years old and about to graduate from medical school.

  I was still curious about what my mother had planned for my future.

  “Valerie, you are going to secretarial college,” she pronounced shortly after our arrival in England.

  “You can never go wrong with a background in shorthand and typing, and they will teach you book-keeping as well.”

  I was horrified at the prospect, but soon realised I had very few options. In fact, there was nothing else I could possibly do, given the limitations of her finances and the fact that I had not completed high school.

  “You will always be able to get a good job if you have skills,” she explained, and I had to agree. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad, after all.

  It was arranged for me to be enrolled at Greenwoods College in Manchester, and I was to commence my training in September 1959. I was to learn the basics of becoming an executive secretary, and the course was to take nine months. Happy to have some direction in my life, I eagerly took the bus into Manchester to start my new education. At the same time, Mum had found a lovely flat for us to live in. I was excited to learn it was located in our old hometown of Sale, Cheshire, but not in the fancy area where we used to live. That was fine with me… I was just glad to get out of Uncle Stanley’s home and once again have a place we could call our own.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My mother and I moved into Holly Grove, Sale in early 1960 after having spent the prior six months in Prestwich. It was fun to watch my mother become excited about furnishing our little home. We had a two-bedroom second floor flat, with one bathroom, a large living/dining room and a small kitchen. My bedroom was furnished with twin beds, beautiful bedspreads in silver and burgundy brocade, with matching lined drapes. Alan Aitchison was now back in our lives on a more constant basis, having finally divorced his wife. He gave my mother his antique baby grand piano
, which held pride of place in the living room along with an antique music cabinet and several pieces of furniture, which helped a great deal since money was tight.

  It was wonderful to have our own home again, although it was quite a trek getting into Manchester for school. I either had to take the bus or a train, and then a long walk, but it kept me in good shape. Unfortunately Manchester has the worst weather in the world. The skies were black at 7:00 am, and most mornings it would rain, often staying that way all day. I would stand shivering at the bus stop, taking shelter under my umbrella, hoping to keep dry. Sometimes the strong wind would blow my “brolly” inside out, and I would get soaked, trying to put it back together. In those days we girls wore nylon stockings and high heeled shoes, so it was difficult to avoid having mud splashed over the back of our legs. Added to the cold and damp, we often had hail, lightning and snow. As my mother once said, “A land fit only for fools and heroes.”

  Once settled in our flat, my brother Alan immediately came to visit and we spent happy hours catching up on the past five years. Soon after our arrival in Sale, I looked up old friends from my childhood. Pauline was still single and immediately made plans for me to join her and her friends to go out on the town. She picked me up in her new car and off we went to visit a nightclub in Manchester. Soon the days turned into weeks, and we were going to a different club every night, having a blast. I met so many young men that it was hard to keep track of them all. At the same time, I was attending Business College and had to keep alert for that. Being young was an advantage because burning the candle at both ends didn’t seem to affect me at all.

  Greenwoods College was located in an old building in the heart of Manchester. I found the curriculum quite easy as I already knew how to type. Shorthand came very naturally, as I had watched my mother learn it years ago, and book-keeping was not too difficult. More important were the two friends I made there, who are still on the periphery of my life today.