by Mary Hayward
“That’ll teach yer to show off!” Melanie shouted, making funny faces behind her back and prancing around the room.
Joyce glanced back over her shoulder, corkscrewed round, and fixed her stare at me.
“Da ye nay know what Melanie has been saying about yeah?” she said, her arm outstretched, pointing accusingly at Melanie, then glancing sideways at me and nodding. “Been spreading rumours about ye and calling ye a slut.” She faced Melanie and screamed at her: “Stuff that’n up yir arse!” She swung round and beckoned to me with her hand, then flicked her frosty gaze back to Melanie.
I looked at Melanie. “No… I didn’t,” I said.
Joyce and I glared at Melanie, like two lions stalking their kill.
Suddenly I started to make sense of what was going on. Joyce had only told me some of it and she wanted me to hear it from Melanie, but even I was shocked at the speed and ferocity of the events that followed.
I crooked my neck over to look at Joyce, but she wasn’t where I expected. She had flung herself away from the mirror, her legs outstretched, her arms waving out, her red face screwed up, and I thought for a moment she was ready to tear Melanie apart. Unexpectedly she turned on me.
“Well, go on then, Mary! Go on! GO ON THEN!” She shouted again and again, louder than before. “Go and BLOODY ASK HER! GO ON!”
She spooked me with a fit of fury so powerful that it took everyone by surprise, especially Melanie, who was unnerved; the saucy smile that had been emblazoned on her face now wiped clean.
“So what’s she been saying?” I asked, flicking a glance back between the two of them.
Joyce egged me on as the hushed room waited for the executioner’s axe to fall.
“Okay then,” I said, “what’ve you been saying about me then?”
Melanie squirmed superficially, flung me a glance, her face flustered as if she hadn’t expected the fight.
“I haven’t said anything!” she said.
She started to back-pedal, excuse it all, saying how she couldn’t be sure that it was me she saw going into the Coach and Horses with a young bloke; none of it true of course. Then finally leaning backward she spun round on her heals like a tango dancer and delivered her one liner to Joyce.
“What’s the matter Joyce? No boyfriends then? Lonely cow?”
Joyce didn’t wait. She pounced on her as fast as a bug on heat.
“Not like you, yer dried up ole biddy!”
I could see Joyce, her eyes narrowing. She was going to crucify Melanie now and any friendship that might have been before was suddenly swept away. Raising herself to her full height, Joyce went for her!
“Gonna tell Mary what ye said, ye lying bitch,” she baited, first raising her clenched fists, then thrusting the point of her finger directly at Melanie as if to stab her there and then. Her tongue was sharp with rage, and precisely at that moment there was a gasp from the retreating crowd, as if she was going to punch Melanie full in the face.
I flinched as Melanie stumbled back, cowering down. “I didn’t mean to say anything nasty, it’s just that…” She stuttered, before turning round to look at the crowd, her eyes lowered, realising her support was ebbing away. She started to gather her belongings from the bench. But the mob wasn’t going to let her go. They were there for the kill.
“So what did you say about me then?” I said, squaring up to her. “Come on, tell me to my face.”
But she didn’t seem to be scared of me and her arrogance snapped back like it was on elastic.
“Bloody well ask Joyce, she seems to know all about it!” she said, spitting in my face and jabbing her finger at Joyce.
“Oh NO! NO! YOU tell me NOW!” I demanded, prickling with anger. “Well, YOU bloody tell me what you were SAYING about me? I don’t need to hear it from Joyce, I NEED TO HEAR IT FROM YOU?”
She sank down a little and then, trying to appeal to my better side, she spoke softly.
“Well... I didn’t really...” she began, flustered and embarrassed, her face crimson.
Lurching forward, Joyce grabbed Melanie roughly by the shoulders, held her there and then spun her round to face me.
“GO ON, tell her what you said to me!” she insisted, thrusting Melanie’s head forward, making it clear she wasn’t going to let her off lightly.
Melanie ducked down and snatched herself away, and then grabbing her things from the bench, she barged Joyce aside and stomped off out of the changing room, much to the amusement of the crowd.
Something about Joyce drew us into a hidden Velcro-like bond, so strong that it took my breath away. She stood her ground beside me, and she brought me the adventure I needed. I toned down her reckless streak, and so between us we had danger within control. It was like I had only lived in black and white and suddenly Joyce had shown me the world in extravagant brilliant colour.
Her family lived in a maisonette above the Heralds Department Store, now a Weatherpoons pub, ‘The Gilpins Bell’. She had an older brother Ian, a younger sister Lesley, and brother Tommy, who was about eight years at the time.
I didn’t think she ever realised how difficult life had been for me because she didn’t have to worry about money like I did; she was hard up and she had a difficult time, but she didn’t have the trauma of begging or the shame of it in the same way.
We both had to cook and clean and look after our siblings; her father worked—mine drank. But like her, I had to keep my secrets from schoolmates. We didn’t speak about it much but the implication would always be there, and somehow, we simply accepted it in each other; she didn’t ask why I was sitting in the dark and I didn’t ask about her mum.
Her mum was a handsome woman. She had Joyce when she was only seventeen, and perhaps that was her downfall. I was told that she had a friend in Montrose, Scotland, who died falling from scaffolding on a building site. I didn’t know the details of it, but tongues wagged in the closed community. It forced the family to move to London to start afresh. Sadly it didn’t work for them, and Joyce ended up running the house, not her mother who was rarely there; her marriage had broken down and perhaps she searched for a new life for herself.
I really liked her mum, because despite her difficulties, she took time out to take an interest in Joyce’s schoolwork, something my parents never did. I was drawn to people who cared, and despite her mum having her own problems; I felt a warmth from her that I never got from mine. Perhaps in my childish way I wondered if love was like pollen, and that if I got close enough it would brush off onto me.
So that is how Joyce and I got to know each other. She had to adapt at a very young age, trying to blend in like me, trying to hide her background and keeping secrets. Joyce had a broad Scottish accent that would always be difficult to follow. Joyce didn’t have the support of her relatives as she would have had back home and I guess she was a little adrift when I met her.
19
The Milk Run
BOTTLES OF FREE SCHOOL MILK were delivered to the classrooms during the morning break. Students would take what they wanted, leaving the rest in the crate. Never one to miss a trick, Joyce suggested we go round nicking the bottles of milk.
“Aye, come on.” Joyce strolled down the corridor.
Suddenly she disappeared behind a classroom door.
“I’m not sure about this, Joyce.” I looked through the window.
I didn’t want to join in. I didn’t have the face for it, and I wouldn’t lie.
She was frantically waving with one hand, and holding up a bottle of milk with the other.
As I opened the door she pulled another bottle from the crate, clanking it loudly so that it echoed down the corridor.
“Oh, that’s really great,” I said, “so I’m falling for this one, am I? On the vague promise that we won’t get caught?”
“You will if you doon’na shut up! Now get yourself over here.”
“You’re bleeding mad!”
“There is an alternative, then?”
“Well out with
it, Joyce!”
“We stand here arguing you’ll get spotted, then I’ll stand here accusingly telling the headmaster how I caught you in the act, which will certainly happen if ye doon’na shut up!”
“I’m not happy doing this, Joyce.” I felt my stomach flutter.
“Stop the fuss’en, will yer!” She shoved the bottles at me. “Now dump the bloody bottles in your bag.”
“Why don’t you put them in your bag?”
“Och, it’s not big enough!”
She grabbed me. I stood up. She pulled me down. Someone came out of another class; a prefect I think it was. I didn’t feel at all well.
“Now stuff this in!” Creasing up with a fit of giggles, she tried once more to push the bottles into my bag. I snatched my bag away from her.
“Shut up.” I held my hand over her mouth. “Someone’s coming.”
Joyce bobbed up and sneaked a glimpse out of the window.
“It’s okay—it’s only a first year.”
“What do you suggest we do then? Clank our way past the headmaster’s office trying to pretend everything is fine, lift yeah skirt or show yer tits?”
The classroom door opened into a corridor. To the right led straight to the headmaster’s office, the stairway and out of the school. To the left there was a door that led to the stairs and cloakrooms beyond.
“Doon’na be stupid!” She glanced back at me, her eyes big and wild with excitement. “No—we slip out the back through the cloakroom—go on.” She shoved the bottles in my bag and bundled me out. She held the door ajar. I squeezed through as quietly as I could.
I ran for all I was worth, the bottles dancing like two rampant ferrets in a bag.
Where was she?
I had a clear view down the corridor to the headmaster’s study. I felt exposed. I couldn’t risk opening the door for fear of dropping a bottle.
“Come on, Joyce.” She was slowly closing the classroom door.
I waited by the exit to the stairs clutching the bag in both hands.
“Open the door, for Christ’s sake, before we get caught! I’m standing here like I’m pregnant!”
“Okay, whatever you say.” She let the door go.
Slam.
The classroom door echoed loudly along the corridor.
“Oh! Right! That’s really great! Fine friend you are. Remind me—I’m the one with all the stuff and you’re throwing a strop.”
“Well?”
“Before I drop like a pregnant cow, get down here and open the flippin’ door before the geezer we call the headmaster comes out with his big cane!”
“Come on!” She rushed down the corridor, snatched the bag, spun round and swung through the doors, dropping down onto the stairs. I shot down after her as fast as I could, trying not to make any noise until she caught me by the arm. Together we tumbled out of the door into the playground. Joyce slung the bag back at me, and we both ran back to her house, giggling and laughing as we went.
Thinking the house was empty, Joyce ripped the tops off, lit the stove, and threw the milk into the saucepan. We chilled out and chatted, smoking ‘Rothmans King-size’ cigarettes in her kitchen, and drinking hot chocolate. Tommy, her younger brother, must have heard the noise and wandered into the kitchen. He had come home at lunchtime not feeling well, let himself in and gone straight to his bedroom.
Joyce made him a drink, put him on two chairs with a pillow, and covered him with a blanket so she could keep an eye on him. Usually we had the house to ourselves, to sit and chat about things, boys and plan for our nights out.
20
Best Friends
ONE DAY JOYCE’S MUM left the family home and went to live in a flat in High Cross, Tottenham. She had apparently met another man. I didn’t know the truth of it. Joyce’s dad used to give her money for housekeeping, and she was forced to do everything else like her mum.
Joyce’s dad was a short, slim, and quiet man. He had a regular job, so she didn’t have a problem in the same way I did. At least she had money coming in for the family, and she was able to buy her clothes, and food. Sometimes her dad would give her a fiver as we were getting ready to go out together.
We wore the same dress size, and although Joyce’s clothes were a bit louder than mine, we used to swap. I thought it was really great because I would be able to expand the range of clothes I had. Lovely ‘shift dresses’ she had. One was white with blue scalloped edging round the hem. I really liked borrowing this dress because it suited me. She had an outrageously shiny bright purple coat with a long fur collar, belted at the waist. She loved to shock and make a statement and I think she saw me as a challenge, with my conservative pinks and blues.
I must have been about fifteen years old at the time, because I recall dancing with my friend Margaret to ‘Love, Love Me Do’, which was the 1962 release from the Beatles. The following year, 1963, President John Kennedy was shot, and my brother Les had just moved out from my Auntie Glad’s house. He had moved to a second floor flat at 102 Edith Grove, London, living with Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, who were starting up a band at the time which they called the Rolling Stones.
Mum said she was going to see Les at Edith Grove and would I like to come? I hadn’t seen him for about six years and I thought it would be lovely to see him again, and find out how he was getting on. When we got there Mum knocked on the door and a girl answered in this big cowboy hat. Mum asked for Les.
“Phelge—it’s for you!” the cowgirl shouted up the stairs as loud as she could.
“Who is it?” He was standing at the top of a long flight of stairs.
“I fink it’s yer Mum.”
“What does she want?”
“What do yer want?” Cowgirl asked.
Mum shuffled, looking at the floor.
Cowgirl turned round.
“Don’t know.”
“All right.” He dropped down the stairs.
He wasn’t best pleased to have his mum arrive on his doorstep in sight of all his flatmates. I learnt later that he had decided to use a different name—I didn’t understand why, but he started to call himself James Phelge. I thought I was going to get invited in to meet all his mates and have a nice afternoon but it didn’t happen that way.
“How are yer?” Mum asked.
Grunt.
“Haven’t got any money—could yer lend us something for food?”
I wondered what was going on. Mum had the money for the train fare to get there, and yet she was asking him for money. I was confused. I thought she was seeing him because she missed Les; he was her only son, after all. Yet it sounded more like a business trip. There was no tenderness or affection of any kind. No tears, no laughter, no longing, no love. Mother was an empty shell of emotional bankruptcy.
“Right, er, right.” He rummaged in his pockets and gave her what he had, which was about £1. “Here—that’s it.” He promptly closed the door.
I did wonder if it was worth all the train fare getting over there in the first place. I didn’t think it was really about the money; I think she thought he was a lot better off than he really was; and besides, she probably thought that she might milk it for a bit; or perhaps she may just have been curious to see him again.
In any event, it was a bitter disappointment for me. I would have liked to have seen Les again, find out how he had managed after being slung out, and catch up with him because I still missed him being at home. All Mum wanted was to scrounge money from him. I was devastated.
When we got home, Mum turned to me as she walked into the kitchen, and then almost as an afterthought, she said, “Mare, erm, can you go down the shops for me? Get some food on tick?”
It came completely out of the blue.
“What about the money you just got from Les then? What about that?”
“Well, er…” She shuffled her feet and looked down at the floor. “I’ve got to put that in the gas and electric meter. I don’t have anything for food.”
“Why not? Yer found the
money for the train fare to Les’s place all right.” She looked up briefly.
“Yeah, well…” Her head sank down as she was having trouble looking at me. She shuffled her feet.
“I’m not doing it anymore,” I said, and walked back out to the hall.
“Well, we won’t have anything to eat tonight if yer don’t go.”
“Why doesn’t Jane ever go? It’s her turn—she’s done nothing.” I pointed to Jane sitting in the living room.
“She’s too young, she ain’t old enough yet.”
“What do you mean, too bloody young? It was all right to send me at her age—you didn’t have any problem with that.”
Jane heard the commotion from the living room and sauntered out into the hall. She spoke almost adult like.
“I don’t care what happened, I don’t see why I should have to do it—it’s not my job.”
“What do yer mean it’s not your job? Do yer want to eat or don’t you?” I asked.
“I don’t care—I am not going and that’s that.”
“You can’t make her go if she doesn’t want to, Mary.”
Mum shuffled over and sat with Jane at the kitchen table.
“We haven’t got anything for tonight though.” She looked up at me standing by the door.
“Look—I am warning you,” I said. “This is the last time I’m doing this—right?” I put my coat on, snatched the note out of her hand, and stomped to the corner shop to scrounge food for dinner. I was damn sure I was not going to put myself out for those two and decided to get whatever I wanted to eat. They would have to put up with whatever I brought home.
I found it very embarrassing at my age, now fifteen, and Mum did not really have any sympathy for me, or realise the humiliation I had to bear whenever I passed the corner shop. I knew, and he knew, he wasn’t going to get paid. He would look at me, and it made me feel ashamed.
