by Susan Lewis
I often ask myself how we would all feel, here in England, if we were starving to death like the poor souls in Africa and South America. Or if we had riots on our doorsteps like they’re having in Los Angeles; or earthquakes like the one that’s just devastated thousands of homes and families in Iran. That’s not to say we don’t have problems here, because of course we do, just not on that sort of scale. What’s making headlines in our papers today is the number of Tories joining the National Front, and that maniac Enoch Powell who’s stirring up hatred for the blacks. As if they don’t suffer enough of it already, poor blighters. And then there’s the trouble brewing up in Ireland … How do any of them manage to sleep peacefully in their beds at night, I’d like to know, and I strongly suspect they don’t.
It’s no wonder I sit down and write as often as I can, when the very act of it calms and nourishes me like nothing else. As the words stream from my mind they settle on the page like the gentle notes of a musical score and I feel myself floating along in the melody, leaving all the angst and strife of my insignificant little life behind.
I’m in a tea shop at the moment, on a Saturday afternoon, with a cup of Nescaff next to my notepad and a chocolate biscuit in a saucer. A well-dressed lady is smoking at the next table to me. I see what people mean by having plenty of money; if you do you can eat anywhere, or drink and mix with just whoever you fancy. Our Susan could be like that one day.
I make a quick note to myself: Must work on my conscience as there are so many conscientious people about.
I’m hoping it might be easier to get our Susan back to school at the start of her second year, but sadly I can’t say I’m seeing any signs of it yet. If anything, being home for the summer seems to have settled her back in with us in a way that I fear means trouble when it’s time for her to go. Already I only have to mention that she should think about sewing name tags into her new smalls, and she says she’d rather kill herself than do anything about going back there.
What do I do with her? I only wish I knew. She seems to have it stuck in her head that she’s at Red Maids as some kind of punishment, or to push her out of our family, and I can’t make her see it any other way. What’s worse, and tugs at my heartstrings mercilessly, is how we don’t seem as close lately as we used to be. I suppose that’s only to be expected now she’s growing up, but the occasions when we have a bit of a laugh and a great big hug are becoming fewer and fewer. She doesn’t want bedtime stories any more (though I know she’s listening when I read to Gary), and she’s started refusing to walk on the same side of the street as me.
‘You’re embarrassing,’ she tells me. ‘I don’t want people seeing me with you.’
I know a lot of parents have to go through this, but amusing as it can be, I’m afraid that this newfound self-consciousness has more to do with the crush she’s developed on one of the Sawyer boys who live up around the corner than with her age. It’s when we walk past their house that she doesn’t want to be seen with me. I haven’t spoken to her about it yet, but whichever one of them she’s keen on hardly matters, because they’re both far too old for her, and I can only hope that they know it, because it turns my blood cold merely to think of their sort leading her astray.
Twelve she might be, but there are times, when I look at her, that I see her mother at eighteen. The transition’s happening so fast I can hardly keep up with it. I tell myself that her body’s stealing a march on her and she doesn’t have any idea yet of how grown-up she looks, but I’m not always so sure of it, because half the time her attitude, and even her behaviour, belongs to a girl twice her age. But then there are other times, when she doesn’t know I’m watching, that I see the child she still is, vulnerable and innocent, and still very much in need of her old dad. She seems lonely too, which catches at my heart, though I’m not sure why I think that when she’s out so much of the time. She’s obviously got some friends somewhere, I just wish I knew who they were.
I’ve thought about following her to find out where she goes, but if she were to spot me, I dread to think how she’d react. Luckily she’ll soon be out of harm’s way, so rather than cause any more friction now, I’ve decided to let things be and hope that being back amongst the Red Maids will help return her to the straight and narrow.
The trouble is, I’m not sure how straight and narrow things are going up there with all the detentions she keeps getting. Dear oh dear, what a worry she is. I’ve heard people say that girls are the hardest and I’m not having a problem believing it. She needs Eddress more now than ever, but there’s not a lot of point in thinking that way when that’s all it’ll ever be, a thought, a wish that can never come true.
‘How have they been today?’ I ask Florrie when I go to pick them up after work one night.
‘To tell the truth, I haven’t seen much of them,’ she answers. ‘Gary’s been in and out, the way he usually is, but Susan’s been over that park all day again, hanging about with all and sundry, not even coming back for her dinner.’
‘She hasn’t eaten all day?’
‘Oh, she has now. Wolfed down two Marmite sandwiches and a bag of potato puffs the minute she came in the door, about half an hour ago. Smelling like a bloody tart’s boudoir she was too, so she must have been next door raiding our Kay and Wendy’s bedrooms again. They’ll be after her when they find out. And have you seen what she’s done to her arm? She’s only gone and scratched some boy’s name on it. Kev, it says.’
I feel myself starting to tense. ‘It’s the name of one of the Sawyer boys,’ I tell her.
‘You mean the family that lives up around the corner from you? They’re no good, Ed. You ought to keep her away from them.’
‘Believe me, I’m trying, but she seems smitten with him at the moment, his name’s all over every book she owns, and now you say she’s scratched it into her arm. What am I going to do with her?’
Florrie gives a troubled sigh. ‘She’s as headstrong as her mother, I know that much, and woe betide us all if we don’t let her have her own way.’
‘Woe betide us if we do,’ I correct.
Florrie doesn’t argue with that, only sits with the worry of it all, wondering, like me, what’s best to be done.
‘Where is she now?’ I ask.
‘She went next door with our Gary about ten minutes ago. Are you going to stay for a bit of tea? I’ve got some nice pork chops our Arthur brought in earlier. We can have them with some mash and runner beans.’
Arthur’s one of her sons who works part-time at a butcher’s shop in Staple Hill. ‘Those chops are for you,’ I tell her. I expect he’ll be wanting one too. How’s he getting on with his young lady?’
Florrie rolls her eyes. ‘She’s a queer little thing, if you ask me,’ she tuts. ‘What she sees in an old goat like him God only knows, when he’s old enough to be her blooming father. And if she thinks he’s got any loot stashed away, she needs to think again, because he’s poorer than a church mouse, and twice as dim.’
‘Oh, he’s not that bad,’ I say loyally, though I have to admit it’s not far off the truth, because Arthur’s never been the brightest of Eddress’s brothers, and it’s a bit of a mystery to me too, why someone as young as Cherie Amos is going after him.’ They say she was down Barrow Gurney for a while,’ Florrie tells me (she means the mental hospital the other side of Bristol), and I can believe it, because she behaves like someone out of the loony bin, with all her dancing in the middle of the garden and lighting candles round the toilet at night. What on earth do she want to go and do something like that for? She’s touched up here, that’s what she is.’ She taps her head, sighing.
Actually, I think Cherie’s more of a hippy than a halfwit, but if she’s taking drugs, which is what it sounds like, I suppose that could be one and the same thing. She’s someone else I was afraid would have a bad influence on our Susan when she first turned up, but luckily that doesn’t seem to be happening. In fact, I wouldn’t mind too much if she were to take our Susan shopping with her, b
ecause I’d much rather see my girl in long dresses and flowery headbands than all these flipping miniskirts that seem to be getting shorter by the day, and the new-fashion hipster trousers that are coming in now. I hardly know where to look when I’m walking along the street these days with all that bare flesh on show – it makes me feel like a peeping Tom when all I’m trying to do is mind my own business.
Anyway, I suppose I’d better go and turf them out of next door, then decide whether or not to tackle my girl about where she’s been all day. If I do, it’ll be bound to lead to a row, followed by tears and more tantrums, storming up the stairs, doors slamming, and more yelling from inside her room. We could all do without it, especially our Gary who hates it when she flies off the handle and starts lashing out at us. What a temper she’s developing, and Florrie’s right about how headstrong she’s becoming. A lot worse than her mother, I know that much. If I didn’t have more sense I’d think a flipping devil was trying to take her over.
It’s five o’clock on Sunday morning, and here we are, the three of us, rolling around my bed laughing our heads off like we don’t have a care in the world. Gary’s so beside himself I’m afraid he might choke, and Susan’s holding her sides in pain she’s laughing so hard.
‘Ssh, ssh,’ I warn, ‘he’s about to do it again.’
And right on cue the cockerel our dad dumped on us yesterday teatime, now shut up in the rabbit hutch under my window, goes, ‘Cock-a-doodle-errrrr!’ and off they go in fresh gales of uncontrollable mirth.
I told them just now that we knew the cock was Bristolian because of the errr, and I’m not sure whether it’s the fact I said ‘cock’ that’s making them laugh so much, or whether it’s the bird’s regional burr. Probably both, and I don’t mind if they’re laughing for the wrong reason, because after all the ups and downs we’ve been through lately it’s lovely to be having these precious moments together, especially as it won’t be long now before Susan has to leave.
Heaven only knows what the neighbours are thinking about the darned cockerel. Being woken up at this time on a Sunday morning won’t be making them happy, of that I’m sure. I’ll have some apologising to do later, and then I’ll have to work out what to do with the blinking thing, because we won’t be able to keep him. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it’s the reason our dad brought him here, because his own neighbours have been complaining, and who can blame them? Graham, Eddress’s eldest brother who lives next door to Florrie and keeps chickens himself, would no doubt offer to come and wring its neck so we can have it for Sunday dinner, but I don’t think even I could stomach that. And I definitely wouldn’t want to be the one to tell the kids it was what they were eating.
After a while all the hilarity dies down, and we lie quietly together, getting our breath back and eventually starting to doze off again. I can’t help thinking what a shame it is that I have to take Susan back tomorrow, but of course I’d never be foolish enough to tell her that. I’d never get her out of here if I did. The truth is though, we feel more like a proper family when she’s around, in spite of all the tantrums and frustrations she throws in our faces. Still, Gary and I will soon get used to being without her again, even though we might not like it much, and God willing, she’ll take a lot less time to settle into her second year at Red Maids than she did her first.
Susan
Dear Governors of Red Maids School,
I am a pupil in the second form and I am writing to tell you that my dad has made a terrible mistake in sending me here, and so I am asking if you will talk to him to make him see sense. He needs me to be at home taking care of him and my brother. I can go to the local comprehensive, called The Grange, or to Rodway Technical College, which is a very good school, just like Red Maids, but I wouldn’t have to board.
I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if I do go home to live, so I am depending on you to help me to put my family first.
Yours faithfully,
Susan Lewis, RM 74
I then add our address in Greenways so they’ll know how to contact my dad, and after I’ve finished writing, I read the letter through, before showing it to Sadie.
‘It’s really good,’ she tells me, ‘especially the bit about putting your family first.’
I’m actually particularly proud of that, so I take the letter back and placing it into an envelope I write on the front, Governors of Red Maids School, Bristol, because we don’t know their names or addresses. I’m hoping someone at the post office will, and after licking the shiny strip I seal the envelope up.
‘There,’ I say, once the stamp is on, ‘my dad’s going to have a real shock when one of them orders him to let me go home, and he won’t be able to argue because they’re much too important.’
Sadie’s looking a bit worried. ‘What are you going to do if they write back to you first?’ she asks.
I frown as I think. ‘I suppose it depends what they say, and actually, I hope they do, because then I’ll be able to tell them exactly how vile it is here, and I think someone should, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ she agrees forcefully. ‘And if they ask me, I’ll say the same thing.’
‘Good, so let’s go and put it in the post basket ready to go tonight.’
As we walk down the back stairs together Laura suddenly comes rushing up the other way, followed by a couple of her friends. ‘Ah, there you are,’ she gasps, all out of breath. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Apparently some coffee’s gone missing from the kitchens and everyone’s saying you took it. Seaweed’s on the warpath. So’s cook.’
Furious, I turn to Sadie. ‘Bloody cheek assuming it’s me,’ I rage. ‘What do I want with their fucking coffee?’ I’m swearing all the time now, and I can tell the others are impressed by the way they keep copying me.
‘Go and tell Seaweed,’ Sadie says to Laura, ‘that she can bloody search Su Lu’s bloody cubicle and mine too, if she wants, so she can find out for herself that we fucking don’t have her coffee.’ Sadie’s not all that good at swearing yet, but she’s getting better all the time.
‘Where are you going?’ Laura asks, turning to follow us down the stairs.
‘We’re posting a letter,’ I inform her, ‘and then we’re going to listen to some records before prep. You can come too, if you like.’
‘Susan Lewis! Is that you I can hear?’ Cluttie bellows down the stairs.
I look up through the stairwell. ‘What do you want?’ I say rudely.
‘Report to Miss Sayward immediately,’ she commands. ‘She’s waiting in her office.’
‘Then she can carry on fucking waiting,’ I mutter, and as the others giggle we continue down to the main hall.
The post basket is still there, so I drop my letter on top of everyone else’s, then Sadie and I link arms and wander on through to the rec area to play jacks and dance to the music we bought during the summer hols.
I can hardly believe that only a week has gone by since Dad forced me to come back here. It feels like a year already, and I hate it so much I can hardly keep my temper any longer. It was bad enough before, but now I’ve met Kev, and Mandy has become my best friend (apart from Sadie who’s my best friend here), I really, really, really can’t stand it. What’s making it even worse is that Paula Gates isn’t here now. Of course, I knew she wouldn’t be, because she left at the end of last term, but I didn’t want to think about it when it was happening, so I pretended it wasn’t. I thought if I did that, then something might happen over the summer to make her come back again. I can see that doesn’t really make any sense, and anyway, I should have known better, because no one ever comes back.
It’s a pity she’s not here though, because I know she’d want to hear all about Kev, and how every time he sees me he always looks over, and sometimes gives me a wink. I’m so in love with him that I can’t think about anything else. She’d be able to give me advice about how to get off with him because she’s really experienced with men. Still, at least there’s Sadie
to talk to, who’s a very good listener, and she understands how miserable I am about not being able to see Kev. I’ve told her, and the others, that I’m actually going out with him, because I don’t want them thinking that it’s not serious, when it is. Or it will be just as soon as I manage to meet him properly – and that’s not going to be possible while I’m here, is it?
After the night up the shows, when Mandy tried to get me off with him, she’s tried lots of times since, but he keeps on saying I’m too young which is driving me mad.
‘It’s not that he doesn’t fancy you,’ Mandy insists, ‘it’s just your age that’s a problem, because his sister’s obviously told him how old you really are.’
That cow Lizzie, she should mind her own fucking business. Still, at least she’s said I’m thirteen, instead of twelve, which goes to show how much she knows.
Almost every day during the holidays while Gary and I were up Gran’s and Dad was at work, Mandy came to meet me in the park and we either went up Staple Hill or Kingswood to do some shoplifting; or down to Brains, the factory where Kevin and his mates work, to wait outside for them to come out. Sometimes Rich walked along with Mandy, and I’d have to follow behind, which made me feel a bit stupid, but I didn’t want to be a gooseberry and walk with them, and nor did I have the guts to go and walk with Kev and his mates.
Sometimes I only just made it back to Gran’s before Dad came home from work, and once he found all my knocked-off stuff hidden in one of Gran’s bandage drawers. Luckily, I was quick enough to say that it belonged to Uncle Arthur’s weirdo girlfriend, Cherie the loon, so he left it where it was, and I was able to smuggle it out to Mandy the next day so she could take it home to her house for me. There was loads of it, mascara, eyeshadows, pansticks, rouge, tights, a hairbrush, shampoo, soap, and a really fabsville miniskirt that I wore out of the shop under my own longer skirt.
