by Mary Hayward
I rummaged around in the office, looking through his files, frantic to discover if he was married, but I found nothing. As I peered in the wastepaper basket, there amongst other demands, was a current gas bill in joint names. There it was—Mr & Mrs Fisher. I was certain that he was married. Tom was a complete mystery—I never knew where I was with him. I was glad I didn’t fall for him.
Glancing out of the window as I was collecting my things, I noticed Tom coming up the path with this woman holding his hand. I was frightened that it might have been his wife, and so I sprang into the nearby understairs cupboard and hid, just in time to hear the heavy front door swing open, and then, fortunately for me, I heard their footsteps continue on through to the kitchen at the back of the house. Why had he brought another woman back into the house? I couldn’t work it out.
For a moment I relaxed, drawing my suitcase close to me like a comfort blanket. I didn’t know whether to make a bolt for it, or stay silently listening in the dark. But whichever I chose, there was the constant worry that I might get caught.
Listening intently, I couldn’t catch everything they said. He was using the telephone in the kitchen and she was making a cup of tea, the kettle drowning out some of the words. He dialled a number, very fast—clearly, he must have known it by heart.
It was like a radio call, breaking up; all I could do was to make out the odd sentence. ‘Brook Advisory Centre’—and then something I didn’t hear, sounded like an address or name, and then again I heard him say something like ‘pay for a caution’.
I heard a scuffle as they burst out of the kitchen. I jumped back and pulled the door closed and held my breath. They hurried down the hall and slammed the door, screeching off down the road in his big Cherokee car.
I phoned Mum and asked if I could stay for a few days. She said it would be all right, as long as I didn’t bring Colin.
I didn’t wait for them to return. Instead, I hastily left some clothes in the drawer where the sanitary towel was, and hid some other clothes in a bag deep in the back of his wife’s wardrobe. I figured I wasn’t going to get paid without a fight, so I had a plan.
As soon as I got to the station, I checked the telephone book for the Brook Advisory Centre. I didn’t know what he meant by the words, ‘pay for a caution’, until I wrote it down on the page in front of me. It wasn’t pay for a caution—it was pay for an abortion, and the Brook Advisory Centre was a family planning clinic.
When I got to Mum’s it was late evening. I phoned Tom.
“Hello Tom,” I said quietly.
“You bitch! You left some clothes at the side of the bed deliberately so you did!”
Through the anger I heard the faint sound of children playing in the background.
I needed to play him for the money; after all, he had been playing with me all this time, trying it on just to get into bed with me on this pretence of a job. I wondered if that was what he told the other girl who got herself pregnant. I could see why his wife sent the signals, and I wondered if she was the wealthy one.
“Well Tom, there are more clothes hidden in a bag at the back of the wardrobe that you haven’t found yet. I want them all brought back to me together with the money that you owe me.”
“Where are the clothes then—which wardrobe?” He was calm, matter of fact.
“Are you going to bring my money? Or do I tell your wife about the other girl and the Brook Advisory Centre?”
“How the fuck do you know about that?!” His cocky confidence was swiped away.
Got him! I was never sure, but now I had him. It was an abortion clinic after all.
“Never you mind—I just want the money you owe me!”
“How much do you want then?”
“That’s better, now. I want all that you owe me for the six weeks work; no more than you promised me. I gave up my job for you and you haven’t paid me a damn thing, and now I want it all, otherwise I will have to have a conversation with your wife.”
The phone went silent for a moment and I was sure he was thinking about how he could wheedle his way out of it.
“How much?” he asked, as if biting his lip as he spoke.
“Nine hundred quid would be about right.”
He swallowed.
“Now, where are the clothes?”
“I put them in your wife’s wardrobe; right at the back hidden in a Harrods bag. I’m sure you will find it.”
“All right, I’ll come down in the van tomorrow night, your mum’s place, 7 o’clock.”
“I’ll be waiting. Now make sure you bring my clothes and the money you owe me,” I said, hanging up the phone.
But I had a nagging doubt—he seemed to agree far too quickly and I wasn’t at all sure he was going to pay me; I needed to do something else. I explained to my Mother what I planned to do.
She was horrified and started to argue with me not to do it, but she didn’t fully understand my desperate need for a home of my own with my little boy. I needed the hard earned money that Tom had promised. After all, his business had benefited from my marketing, and as a consequence the sales had risen by more than ten percent; I had seen the figures and I knew. I wanted what was mine and I wasn’t going to be fobbed off by some lame excuse, and so that very afternoon I rushed down to the local electrical shop, Mosses.
Turning up in his old Ford Transit van about 7:30 p.m. at my mother’s house, he knocked on the door. We walked back to the van, I got in and we sat outside in Langhedge Lane.
“Hello Tom, have you got my money?” I said. “I gave up my job to come and work for you and you haven’t paid me a penny.”
“Well then, I’ll have to send you a cheque, sure, I don’t have it with me.”
“I’m not sure about that. Have you brought my clothes?”
“Sure I’ve got all your clothes here in the bag, and the stuff you left in the wardrobe. You bugger, caused me a lot of trouble with the misses, so yer did. You didn’t have to do all that you know. Ole, I would have paid you anyway, it’s just that I was a bit short at the moment and besides, how’d you find out about the Brook Centre? I’m sure I didn’t tell you!”
“I heard you talking to her about paying for the abortion whilst I was hiding in the understairs cupboard. So if you don’t pay me my money I shall have to go to the police.”
“I’m not paying you here and that is final.”
I sensed the anger, now deep within him and I could hear the hackles rising in his voice. Inside, I was frightened about what he might do; after all, I was a lone woman in a dark van at night; anything could have happened.
Preparing for the worst I moved my hand and grabbed hold of the inner handle of the van door. He glanced sideways at me, wondering what I was about to do as he fidgeted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. I made ready to make a quick exit if I needed to, then delivered the final line that I hoped would persuade him to part with his money and pay me what he owed.
“That’s a shame,” I said, “because I have a tape recorder in my handbag on the floor here and it’s been taping this conversation, and before you ask, I also recorded the conversation that we had on the phone. So unless you want a problem in your social life I suggest that you hand over the money now. I need that money for my son Colin. We need a home together and that’s my goal.”
I could see him almost explode, his hand gripping the steering wheel hard, his fist clenched and his face screwed up as his eyes narrowed in the darkness. I was scared, but at the same time I felt an intense anger come from within me.
Perhaps it was the anger I still felt for Joyce and I was reminded of the way that men treated her. I didn’t know, but if I needed that anger to get my money, then it had served me well.
“Well now, okay, I get the message. I only have eight hundred and fifty on me though.”
“That will do.” I snatched the money from his hand, picked up my handbag, and sprang out of the van with my parcel of clothes.
I didn’t look back and I had no intention of
hanging around. I ran back into my mum’s house thankful that I had eventually been paid.
32
Boat People
WITH THE MONEY FROM TOM, I was now looking for a home for my eight-year-old son Colin who was still living in his Dad’s flat in Brentwood, along with two other strange lodgers; it was far from ideal. I found it heartbreaking to be separated from Colin, always wondering what was happening to him, and I so desperately wanted him to be with me.
I applied for Local Authority Housing immediately after leaving the flat, and since I hadn’t heard anything about my application, I decided to visit the council offices in Silver Street, Enfield. They told me to go to Redlingtons, a once proud building that stood alone in Baker Street. Humbled, and black with soot from the chimneys nearby, it served as the Housing Department.
I walked up to reception. They told me to wait. The lady’s brown hair had a fringe, flickups and butterfly glasses. She called me into a stuffy little office. Dressed in a twin set with pearls, and high heels, she sat down behind her smart modern wooden desk. I judged her shoes more expensive than my entire wardrobe. I didn’t have a good feeling about this meeting. She was young, and inexperienced; and then she spoke.
“My name is Felicity Ursula Carlin-Kent.”
“Hello, can you tell me what’s happening to my application please?” I gave her my name.
“Well, you are far down the list, I’m afraid.” She spoke as if sitting on her horse. “If only you had more points it would help you a great deal.”
It wasn’t a surprise to me. As soon as she opened her plumy mouth something told me this was going to be about as helpful as a pickaxe in a china shop. In fact, I couldn’t think what town she might have come from, but it certainly wasn’t anywhere near Edmonton!
“So how do I get more points?”
“We have to give priority to thousands of homeless people first, you know. The Vietnamese Boat People are coming over to the country, and they have a much greater housing need. Did you know they have fled their country in fishing boats with nothing but the clothes they were standing up in?”
“Very commendable, but how does that affect me?”
“Well, there is a war on in the East, you know. Vietnam has attacked Cambodia, China has attacked Vietnam, and now thousands of refugees are fleeing their country, some drowning and others sold as slaves. A British Oil Tanker has picked up fifty-three from the open sea. It’s very dreadful, you know, and we have a duty to house anyone who is homeless. Mr Callaghan, the Prime Minister, has agreed to take over twenty thousand, and of course they will be homeless; you at least have somewhere to live.”
She spoke as if I didn’t know who the Prime Minister was. I looked at the ceiling and sighed.
I didn’t know what to say to that. I felt humiliated. I didn’t understand how my social deprivation and the psychological hardship that I suffered separated from my son, was somehow insignificant, or, worse, unimportant. Didn’t I pay my rates and taxes like everyone else? Hadn’t I earned my right to some sort of support when the chips were down?
“So what do you suggest I do then, go to Vietnam and throw myself into a boat, tossing my son in the water for good measure?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic!” She looked down her nose at me. “It is a humanitarian need of vast proportions and I think we all need to do our bit for the world’s people, don’t you?”
No, I didn’t think so. I had known enough hardship in my own country and I certainly wasn’t too happy about the response I was getting.
“How do I get more points and increase my chances of getting housed?” I asked again. “I am lodging in one room, my eight-year-old son is living in the flat with his father, and two other strange men. He lives miles away over in Brentwood, and my son Colin is picking up all sorts of ideas and language that I don’t approve of.”
“Well, you need to have more babies,” she trotted out bluntly.
“More babies?” I screamed. “Oh, that’s a great idea, that is! I have just got divorced!”
She looked surprised at my onslaught.
“Do you know what that is like?” I continued. “My best friend has just died and I am living in one grotty room as a lodger, desperately trying to keep myself alive. I am in no position to start having more children. What do you want me to do?” I said, “Go on the streets, pick up someone like a common prostitute, get myself pregnant and live in a tent down the Blackwall Tunnel, just so as I can get more points on your bloody housing list!”
She stiffened. “Well, if that’s the way you want to look at it, then I’m afraid I cannot help you!” She got up from her chair and pointed to the door.
“Well, you haven’t been very helpful, have you?” I turned on my heels, held my head high, and made a brisk exit from the office.
I walked out past the reception, through the swing doors into the bright sunshine, but I couldn’t hold back the tears. They burst onto my cheeks as I reached the steps. I stopped and searched for a hanky.
Walking into a phone box at the end of the road I spoke to a friend of Andrea’s, a girl called Janet, who lived nearby. I needed to take shelter in her house and have a cup of coffee, and I hoped she might be able to help me.
I was crying when I knocked on her door.
“Hello Janet,” I said.
“Mary, look love, I don’t have time at the moment for coffee, but just tell me what’s happened.” She invited me in and we sat on her sofa.
I explained what had happened at the Housing Department.
“Right,” she said, “here is a direct line for Mrs Amy Emsden. She used to be the Mayor of Enfield; she is the Chair of the Housing Committee now.” She scribbled on an old envelope. “Phone her now, mention my name, explain what happened at the Council Housing Office.”
I looked up at her, hesitant. She thrust the note in my hand.
“Do it now,” she insisted. “Phone them straight away and see if she might be able to help.”
She got up to leave.
“Thank you, you have been such a help. I’ll do it as soon as I get home.” I left it at that.
I rang Mrs Emsden as soon as I got home. I managed to speak to her over the phone, as Janet had told me. I blurted out exactly what had happened at the Housing Department. She asked some questions about where I was living and what access I had to Colin. I told her I was living at my mum’s, only seeing my son at the weekend.
She said that it sounded like I was overcrowded. I asked her if she knew what it was like to be living like a single woman, only seeing your son for the weekend. She told me she fully understood the pain of it and the difficulties I was suffering. She was due to attend a Housing Committee Meeting shortly after and promised to raise the matter on my behalf. In the meantime, someone would be sent to talk to me and get some details.
A lady called a few days later. I gave all the details, and then it all went quiet and I didn’t hear any more.
Mum telephoned me at work to tell me there was a letter for me. She had opened it and told me that it offered me a place at Dendridge Close, in Enfield.
“It’s lovely, Mary.” She sounded excited.
I caught my breath for a moment.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve got the keys, and me and Jane had a look. It is so clean Mary, bright and lovely. Just decorated. You will love it.”
“What do you mean, you have been round there and had a look? Before me?”
“Yer, me and Jane got the keys.”
“You should have waited until I got there, Mum.”
I was a bit upset that Mum had gone round there without me, nosing, before I had really had a chance to see it myself, but at the same time I was so elated that I had managed to get a home; because it was now just Colin and I, and the long wait to get back to a family was over.
I dashed round there on the bus and let myself in. It was a little two-bedroom end of terrace maisonette in a quiet cul-de-sac just off Turkey Street, Enfield. I
ran up and down the stairs, thinking how bright and airy it was, and the wallpaper so tastefully decorated, with pastel colours—perfect, just perfect. There was a train station just five minutes’ walk away, direct to London. A little green for Colin to play. It was my little piece of heaven.
I phoned Janet and Andrea and asked them to meet me at Janet’s house on Saturday. I went to the baker’s on my way to Janet’s house, and bought some fresh cream cakes. It was my way of thanking them both for all the help they had given me. I was overjoyed.
I ordered a new single bed for Colin, a double for myself, a new chocolate brown carpet for the hallway and stairs, and a rich deep piled claret carpet for the living room. Now the cash from Tom had made it all worthwhile. I rang Terry straight away, and arranged for him to bring Colin over at the weekend to see his new home.
It was the first sign of my independence. I felt so good! I was ready to start building a life for myself. I found a good babysitter for Colin nearby, and he enjoyed playing with their children. It all worked out very well, for both Colin and myself.
I took driving lessons and passed my driving test, although I couldn’t afford a car.
Despite all the joy of having my own home at last, one problem seemed to dominate my life; I was still terrified of the dark. It had been there since losing Les in 1957, left over from my childhood, and now it all came flooding back to me. The way the electric would cut off when you least expected it, and then crawling round the walls, searching for the cupboard, fiddling with a coin to put in the meter. The trauma of it was tattooed on my mind. It was all there.
I hadn’t been able to shake it off no matter how hard I tried. I just couldn’t get to sleep at nights. I would sit up with the light on, drinking endless cups of tea, and checking all the windows and doors. It became an obsession.
Andrea called me and we met up with another friend, Vaz, a tall, slim, elegant Greek woman. We went to Martha’s Wine Bar, in Cricklewood to celebrate my new home. The three of us were chatting away in the bar while a musician, Billy his name was, sat playing his guitar and singing. He was Scottish, and his accent reminded me of Joyce. He could be found singing his quiet casual songs in the wine bar most nights, and when he wasn’t singing his songs, he would be found up against the bar chatting to the manager and his wife about tales at university and life in Edinburgh.
