by Mary Hayward
Dad had got a job at the gas factory where they make the slot gas meters. He was probably working as a fitter or machine operator or some such role, and was involved in the assembly of the meters at the factory. He must have had a pretty good knowledge of how they worked and how they were assembled. I never found out how he did it, but he had worked out how to break into the meter and take the money out without being caught. I would have thought he would have fed the money back into the meter so that we could have the gas for free. Not for us, he took the money out and went down the pub and spent it. So when the meter ran out—we didn’t have any gas until he got paid, or I put the money in the meter from my earnings from Mrs Wilderspoon.
Sometimes I would have boys walk me home from school, but when they got to my house my dad would come staggering past completely drunk, and I would be very embarrassed and ashamed. At other times when the girls from school came round to see me, I couldn’t let them in and let them see the squalor I lived in. They would ask why the house was always dark and the lights were not on. They didn’t understand why, and more importantly I couldn’t tell them. They assumed that because I went round their houses and danced to records, that they could come round to my house and do the same. I guess that that was a reasonable assumption on their part. I couldn’t let them see into my life. There was no furniture and what little there was, was completely ruined by burn marks and stains from fags and drink. There still was no carpet, even after living there for more than six years. Life for me had not changed a bit as I got older. All that had happened was that I was able to earn a bit more money with the part-time jobs, and make sure I could keep myself clean and fed. I gave the rest to Mum.
Joyce and I used to travel all over the place. She was very generous with her money because she knew I couldn’t afford it. Up on the bus on a Saturday to Alexandra Palace where they had a big roller-skating rink. We used to hire the skates for a shilling, and then if we didn’t meet any boys, we would just go off down to the Wimpy Bar, or at other times we would go over to Stamford Hill Bowling Alley and do Ten Pin Bowling.
Joyce was so full of extremes that we never had a dull moment, although sometimes I found it a bit of a problem reining her in, she was so wild. On one occasion we were in the Wimpy Bar and we hadn’t been there long, when suddenly the waiter brought over two coffees to our table. We told him we did not order any. He just pointed toward some older coloured men at the other table and said they had paid for them.
We did not know what to do and thought they might have been a bunch or perverts or rapists of something, so we both got up and ran out leaving the drinks sitting on the table. I guess we were a bit frightened of them.
Then as we walked home, Joyce started chatting to some Greek boys. She obviously knew them and introduced me. We all went out off down the road as a foursome. Typical for Joyce, we missed the bus home and had to sleep at their place. I made sure that nothing was going to happen, and told them I was going to sleep and that was it. I wasn’t sure what Joyce did. She went off and slept in the other room.
As we walked down the path in the morning discussing the boys, we discovered that Joyce fancied mine and I fancied hers. We were talking about swapping, when they jumped out of the bushes at us, and we began to realise they must have heard. Well, that was it! If they heard us then we had to dump them. We couldn’t have boys thinking we fancied them, but it was more difficult getting rid of them than we thought. They would keep hanging around where Joyce lived, and we would keep bumping into them in the street. Joyce was blunt about it.
“Why don’t you just Fuck Off!” she shouted.
I never saw them again.
Because my house was so bad and the embarrassment of having boys bump into my Dad, Joyce and I got used to lying about where we lived. We would tell the boys to drop us off at some posh house and tell them we lived there. Joyce would tell them that she lived just a little farther up the road. We would walk the other way for a little while, and suddenly hide in the bushes until they had driven off. Then we would both come out from the hiding places and have a good laugh. I didn’t know if the boys came back or not, but Joyce and I found it much better than showing them where we really lived.
As I got out more, I started to take notice of other friends and how they lived. There was Christine, Janet and Vivian. Each lived in a different house, yet something was common: happiness.
Christine came from a large family and I could tell they were not as affluent as Margaret. Their house was well furnished, and the front room a little older fashioned in style, but very clean and smart. As I recall her mum was always washing, ironing or cooking.
“Hello, and do you want a cuppa? Christine’s somewhere so why don’t you go through and find her, love,” her mum would say. “She’s probably in the living room.”
Walking in through the kitchen door, I would be greeted by rows of hanging washing. The whole house had a comforting belonging feeling, a warmth and homeliness. I didn’t know if that feeling came from the warmth of her mum, or the decoration of the house.
Whenever I arrived home there was no greeting from Mum. Sometimes Jane would say something, but she was only a little girl. Dad would say “Hello Mary”, never calling me Mare, like Mother did. She couldn’t even be bothered to pronounce my name. God, it was short enough! Most mothers called their children by their full name; not mine.
Janet’s house was very comfortable. She had just one sister and it was quieter. Another girl I met when younger was Vivian, who arrived in our street one day on a large scooter with big front wheels. I became her friend and would go to her house opposite White Hart Lane, close to where my mum worked for Charles Page. They made kiddies’ paints, later to become part of the Windsor and Newton group, an artist material manufacturing company.
Vivian lived in an apartment in an imposing house with big stone pillars at the entrance, tall iron gates and tall railings. Her mum and Auntie were as posh as the house, and they really liked me.
The sad thing was that all of my friends had nice homes with the exception of Joyce and myself.
Then one day I went there as usual to play, and they had vanished lock stock and barrel—just as they had arrived. I was shocked.
At fifteen I found a Saturday job at Cope’s Pools in Bridport Road, working in the cash office. They asked me to work a new contract that meant that I had to work into the evening until 7:30 p.m. In addition we got time and a half, which meant my total earnings for the Saturday could be as much as £7.50p, almost as much as other girls got in a full-time week.
I loved working there because, although I would have to pay for lunch, it was so much better than I got at home. Rice Pudding and Custard, which was my favourite, and then because we worked into the evening, they would provide free sandwiches, cream buns and a cup of tea.
The money was great whilst I was still at school because it meant I could go out with Joyce, who was working full time. Of course it wasn’t all mine. I had to give £5 to my mum each week for housekeeping, which left me with only £2.50p.
Joyce loved to get me to open up, do something risky and be a bit more like her. She always considered me too safe, and so one day she dragged me along to Turnpike Lane Station.
“Come on Mary,” she said, “we’re going on a shopping trip.”
I gave her a glum look. “Can’t afford it, Joyce.”
“It’s okay, I’ve already got the train tickets.” She was like a child with a new toy.
I should have suspected something, but maybe inside I needed to be taken to the edge. The train arrived and we leapt into a lovely warm carriage, and sat chatting away about the shops she wanted to visit. She almost bubbled with excitement as the train moved off.
“There’s only one problem, Mary.” She drew two tickets from her coat pocket.
“What?”
She looked down at the two tickets as she showed me.
“I snatched them from the porter’s hut.” She glanced up to see the look on my fac
e. “They’re yesterday’s tickets.”
“Oh, that’s bloody great, Joyce!” If blood could boil! “So what do we do now?”
“It’s all right,” she said. “The tickets are valid for three days.”
I wasn’t convinced myself and I was even less confident when we got to Wood Green and saw that there was an Inspector waiting at the gate.
“It’s all right.” She tried to be reassuring, but I became flustered, and as I approached the ticket office, I dropped my ticket.
She was so good at bluffing, and there I was, grovelling on the ground for this ticket, frightened that I would be found out. Joyce had already gone through of course and blagged it and didn’t understand why I had a problem. Still, that was me. No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t be as bold as she was, and I really struggled with it all.
Of course, what did she do?
Joyce just stood on the other side of the gate jumping up and down with a mixture of begging, frantic waving, and what I can only describe as some sort of Mexican dance routine. As I stood there frightened, she became more and more animated, desperately trying to show me what to do.
Eventually I picked up the ticket and concentrated on looking straight ahead at Joyce. As I walked through she was standing on the other side, making funny faces and waving her hands in the air.
I always wondered what the ticket inspector thought of Joyce, but the distraction seemed to work and we managed to get away with it again.
21
Last Year at School
IN THE LAST YEAR AT SCHOOL, we all had lessons on how to behave at an interview and learnt about the techniques on how to get a job. Smart clothing and clean clothes, clean hands and clean language. Fingernails were scrubbed, and suits pressed, and shoes polished, and all the other tips and tricks of securing the first job.
Many of the girls at our school were encouraged to go up town and work for big companies.
I found the prospect of London exciting and I went for a job at Lyons.
Scrubbed up as smartly as I could, I travelled into London on the train and went to my first interview at Oxford Circus. I remember reciting the words of wisdom that were drummed into me in school lessons. The interview went very well, although I was a little uncomfortable with all the attention I attracted from the boys at the office. They kept staring at me, and smiling whenever I bumped into them, like lovesick puppies.
I returned home and waited anxiously for the job offer to drop through the letterbox.
One of the other girls, who made a suit for her needlework project, wore it to the interview. She looked absolutely immaculate and she was one of the first of the girls in my class to get a job up at the Haymarket. It made the wait for my letter seem all the more distant and I started to doubt my ability.
It was more than a week later that I received a letter offering me the job at a wage of £7.50p per week. It wasn’t the money so much as the fact that I had got the very first job that I went for. I was over the moon and couldn’t have been happier. I rushed down to the phone box and accepted the job.
It was absolutely brilliant and I was the happiest girl alive because now I could belong to the grown up world of working, and even though I was only a copy typist, it was a start. I really looked forward to starting my very first job, and up town! I was so excited that I scampered back to school and told everyone in my class that I met. At the end of the day, I rushed home.
“Mum, Mum!” I shouted as I bounced into the house. “I’ve been accepted! I’ve got the job up town with Lyons!”
“Why couldn’t you get a local job rather than having to go up town?” she replied.
I felt completely deflated. The stuffing had been knocked out of me—the pride at getting my first job swiped aside with her few painful words. Why couldn’t she just let me have something for once? For a moment I couldn’t speak. I recomposed myself and turned to face her.
“I want to work up town, Mum, and anyway, the school said that once I had accepted the job I couldn’t turn it down!”
She spun round and snapped at me: “Well,” she said, then paused for a moment. “We’ll see about that.”
I was in class, when I got a message that my mum had come up to the school and I was asked to go to the headmaster’s office.
My mum didn’t come up to the school for anything, not prize giving, not open evening, not unless it was to complain about something. Now I was worried.
“I’m here about me daughter Mary. Being sent off all that way to Lyons in London! Why can’t she get a local job like the other girls, eh? I don’t see why she has to go all that way up town, and what about all the train fares, eh? She’ll have to pay them out of her wages. By the time she has finished with bus and train fares there won’t be enough left to buy a biscuit.”
The headmaster, Mr Evans, shot a glance over at me to see my reaction. I was just as horrified as he was. He tried to answer back but she wasn’t having any of it.
“Err, Mrs…” he began before being interrupted and shouted down.
“And another thing!” she added, now shouting at him even louder than before. “What’s in it for you then?”
He didn’t know what to say to her. He hadn’t done anything and I am sure the school was doing it’s best to get the girls good jobs and a good start; after all, Lyons was a big company and could take quite a few girls each year. It was probably a good deal for both the school and the company, because ultimately it would enhance the reputation of the school and improve the chances of the girls getting better jobs in the long term. Anyway, I wanted to work up town and it was exciting to travel with all the other interesting people on the train.
“I reckon that you’re all getting paid by Lyons for all the girls you send up there and making loads of money for yourselves? Yeah! That’s what I think.”
His face was so red as he fidgeted like a child wetting itself.
“I think all of yer teachers ’er getting backhanders or something, and I think that yer all on the take!” she added for good measure. “Sending all these girls up there. Just for your cheap labour and then ripping them all off! Don’t know why you’re so keen to send them all up there otherwise, and anyway, I’m not having it!”
“Just a minute, just a minute there—I think...” he said.
“All you teachers are the same! Sitting there behind yer big desks, lazy sods. Yer only work part of the day, while the rest of us all skimp and save while we’re all trying to make ends meet. And you? Making money out of the poor girls for yourself! Yeah. Lining yer own pockets! Yeah. That’s what you’re doing, ain’t yer?” She scowled, pointing her finger and raising her voice again like some wild animal snarling and gnashing her teeth at him.
“That’s unfair.” He raised himself to his full height and was clearly preparing to ask Mother to leave.
“You should be ashamed of yourself! She will have to get a proper job locally and I’m telling yer!” She exploded: “I’m not having my girl sent all that way!” She paused to take a breath. “So that’s it!” she shouted defiantly once more, almost spitting in his face as she got up from her chair. Clutching her handbag she turned and left as suddenly as she came.
The headmaster turned and looked at me. I didn’t know where to put my face, I was so ashamed and publicly humiliated.
Normally she was like a mouse, frightened to show her face on the street and never—and I mean never—came to the school to see my work or anything like that. She even walked down to the shops with her head looking at the ground, didn’t talk to anyone she met on the way and would normally ignore them. In terms of communication, my mum was normally a non-starter. I didn’t mean she wasn’t educated, not that, because she was brought up with a posh mum and had a good upbringing. No, it was something that developed later and appears as a result of being with my Dad.
Perhaps it was the shame of living with the poverty and hardship, I didn’t know. I had to give up the job I loved up town and look for another locall
y.
After that I managed to get a job with United Dominions Trust in Bull Lane. The money was about the same except that I was paid monthly, and of the £32 per month that I got, I had to give my mum £21 for housekeeping money.
Now that was the problem. She wouldn’t have been able to ask me for £21 if I had been paying for all the train fares to get up town. It didn’t matter whether I was happy or not, it was all about the economics of the issue from her point of view.
One of the rules the school taught us was to stay at a job for at least six months, and that’s what I did.
I got a job with Taylor Woodrow Construction at Northumberland Park Road that was paid weekly. I could pocket the month’s pay because I would get paid from the new company the following week. It was like a little windfall of three weeks’ money. I realised that this little bonus would solve another problem for me.
I wasn’t allowed to bring anyone back to the house. Mum said it made it awkward and she didn’t want me to invite people in because she didn’t have much furniture. Well, I thought, I had this money saved, so if I could buy some furniture for Mum she would let me bring someone back to the house, like I saw all my friends doing.
I gave Mum enough money for a deposit on new carpet and chairs. She went to the shop with Dad, and picked what they wanted.
I asked to bring a friend back to the house.
No, she said I couldn’t have anyone back to the house.
I was furious with her. It was all a pack of lies. It wasn’t about the furniture, it was about her, and she didn’t want anyone coming into the house, regardless of what I did.
22
Rape
IT WAS DECEMBER 1965 and the shops were full of decorations. They were so pretty, all decked with tinsel and lights everywhere, ready for Christmas.
Banging on my door, Joyce appeared out of the blue; she was giggling and laughing, and she was full of it.
