The stable manager would often ask where the money came from. It was “Birthday money” or “Christmas money,” I would say. I wasn’t about to tell her it was stolen, money that Maggie had put away in her wardrobe, the savings she had hidden to pay the bills. I got too clever for my own good and stole over £100 in one go. I handed the money over to the riding school saying I wanted to “block book” some lessons. It didn’t take Maggie long to figure out who had taken the money.
“That’s it!” she screamed. I knew she was upset as she didn’t get cross with me very often. “Get in your room and don’t come out!” she bellowed pointing the way. I had a nice room and I didn’t mind at all. Maggie didn’t deserve the trouble I gave her. She had been very upset after her kids had gone to see their dad. I could hear her crying at night, sobbing about her boys and how she loved them and wanted them back. I felt so jealous. I wish someone loved me that much. I heard Maggie, on the phone to her ex husband, pleading to let her have her children back. She did what she did out of love for those kids, but I know people looked at her as if she deserted them. I knew different. She loved them so much I hated it, and I hated her for it.
We would go on visits to see them, but you could tell her kids were upset. They thought she didn’t want them. Well, that’s what her ex told them. He was doing a great job in turning the kids against Maggie. As much as I didn’t want another mum--after all, I’d had two already--I hated seeing how much she was hurting. I just wished someone cared that much about me. It didn’t take long before her kids stopped wanting to see her.
My mind finished wandering and I was jolted back into the present with her voice screaming at me. She was angry, so angry with me stealing her money.
“You wait until I speak to your father,” she said, slamming the door to my room. I didn’t mind, I liked my own space. I would sit there for hours listening to music or playing with my tape recorder, the one with the big, round reels of tape? That’s what we had back in the 70’s. Enid Blyton and my grey, long-haired hamster called Fluff kept me occupied for hours.
Dad never said anything when he returned at the weekend, nothing, that is, until I wanted to go to the stables.
“No way,” dad said. It isn’t happening again.
My mind went into pieces! I had decided that horses were my life.
“There is no point in living, if it’s without horses,” I screamed. “What else do I have?”
Dad ignored my pleas and told me to get used to the idea as we soon would be moving house again.
Great! I thought, rambling on inside my brain. I feel like a Gypsy, nowhere is home. Every time it’s the same. As soon as I make friends I have to move and start all over again. What about Lucy? What will happen to her without me there to keep her dad at bay? Will he really put her in a kid’s home?
Knowing that everyone at the stables would know I was a thief was the only thing that stopped me from going there. I didn’t know what to do with myself so I started hanging around with my boyfriend, Chris, and his friends. They were into “Rock and Roll” and we would spend many a night going to disco’s for Rock-a-Billy’s. Chris would spend more time doing his hair than any woman I knew, making sure his quiff was “just so.” It was about that time that I began stealing booze and drinking in secret. At twelve years old I had major attitude issues and was far too “grown up” to be told what to do.
As much as Maggie would try to give me boundaries or curfews or tell me off when I had been out of order, nothing worked. Grounded? Not me. I was on a downward spiral of self-destruction and I totally ignored her. Who does she think she is telling me what to do? I was angry with the world for letting me down and carried it with me like a solid block of concrete on my shoulder. It was evident in everything I did. Dad was never there to back Maggie up. In a way she was like a glorified babysitter, looking after me and Alex while dad was away at work. I guess all of his wives had been babysitters, after all he was always on the road.
When we moved to Kent a few weeks later, I totally shut down, another house move had made something pop in my head. I didn’t listen to anyone, and I didn’t smile very often. I didn’t even know it then but I had put barriers up. Pretty much everyone who had been in my life so far had hurt me. No one could protect me, so I mentally figured I could do a better job myself by shutting everyone out. I totally lost contact with Lucy; I never learned what happened to her.
My new school was situated at the top of a valley and was by far the biggest school I had attended.
“Reading your report from your previous school leaves a lot to be desired,” barked the new head teacher. “We will not put up with that kind of behaviour here.”
I stood there looking at the floor, thinking to myself, ‘Blah fucking blah fucking blah, get on with it!’ Counting how many small wooden tiles were on the floor of his large office, surrounded by bookshelves, I felt sort of intimidated. He looked very official. I could feel my cheeks getting warm as he lectured me about school rules and standards.
Really? I thought. I bet you just want to do things to me too but haven’t got the nerve to say it!
“Follow me,” he said, standing up and marching towards the door. “You can go now,” he said to Maggie, dismissing her. She leaned forward to kiss me and I turned my cheek and walked on to follow the head teacher. I didn’t even look back. I wanted to so much, but I figured if I didn’t like her at all then I wouldn’t be hurt if she let me down or if dad buggered off with someone else!
I could feel the eyes burning my back as we marched along long corridors, out into a playground and we headed towards a wooden mobile classroom. I could feel the staring from the kids and I caught hold of a few which I met with an icy glare. I didn’t feel like returning the smiles, I just looked away and disappeared into dreamland whilst I was being introduced to the class of other spotty thirteen-year-olds.
The first day of school went grudgingly slow. I found where the kids went that smoked cigarettes and spent all of my breaks there. As the school bell rang to return to class, I was caught by the head teacher.
He said, “By the way young lady, less of the makeup.”
Less makeup? Who are you trying to kid? My makeup is part of my way of life.
I discovered being a modette was a brilliant way of hiding my true self. The black “bitch lines” on my eyelids defined me, as did the micro-miniskirts. My hair was dyed jet black and cut into a Mary Quant Bob. I looked like I had been pulled out of a 60’s magazine like the thin model, Twiggy, and that was my intention. Out of school I would scour the charity shops seeking the latest bargain in authentic 60’s clothing so I could look the part. I had the attitude to match.
It didn’t take long before I was playing truant on a regular basis. Maggie kept pleading with me to “be more like Alex” and get on with my studies. “Alex is doing so well at school.” He was not far from doing his exams and was, “going to do very well in life.” I overheard Maggie telling dad, “Why can’t Abbie settle down? It’s been months now.”
If only they knew, I thought. If only they knew that Alex wasn’t this little, blue eyed angel they thought he was. I was still covering for him, still taking the blame when something he had stolen got found out. I was the one who took the blame, who admitted to stealing dad’s alcohol or his fags. It was Alex who picked the lock on the telephone and ran up the bills, and me who took the blame. I guess I just looked guilty.
Yes, Alex is doing so well! Well, I suppose compared to me he was. I had started to run away for weekends. Maggie wouldn’t let me go when I asked; she said I was too young for those parties. Too young? I‘m thirteen damn it! I certainly felt like an adult and had experienced a lot more that most young adults. To hell with Maggie! I decided to go anyway. How is she or anyone else going to stop me?
The mod scene totally took over my life. I became even harder to reach. I would steal money on a regular basis, or if no money was available, I would steal something of Maggie’s or dad’s and pawn it for cash. P
art of me hated doing it; the other part stuck a finger up at her and everyone else.
One weekend I had stolen cash from Maggie’s purse and hitched a ride to Scarborough. There was a Scooter Rally going on that weekend, and if you were “anyone,” you were there. I had no choice I had to go. I would never live it down with my mates if I didn’t, so I packed my bag and just up and left. I often ran away to the streets of a big city or a scooter rally and tried to lose myself among the crowds. Other kids like me, kids who were running from one thing or another, all had a history locked inside that no one could reach. The streets were full of them.
The buzz that I got on rallies was electrifying. There were scooters everywhere, literally thousands of them. Mods and scooterists lined the road on both sides, new arrivals driving down the centre like a parade. Police directed scooters where they wanted them to park. It was heaving, the air thick with exhaust fumes and adrenaline. The Best scooters and Coolest mods would ride up and down so everyone could admire their fancy paint jobs, amazing artwork. Some scooters looked like they should be framed in an art gallery.
Everyone would be dressed to kill. They thought they were cool and so did I. I spent hours getting ready. I died my hair black again renewing its glossy shine. This time it was cut in a Quant five point bob, back combed into a beehive at the top. My bitch lines were done to perfection. I could even do them without a mirror and they were perfectly straight. I wore the palest pink, almost white lipstick. I wore a black and white checked mini dress, white calf-length PVC boots and a white matching clutch bag. I had found both boots and bag for £1.00 from Oxfam.
I look good! I thought. Heads were turning, and I knew I could pull tonight. Well I needed to because I had nowhere to sleep. Most would take a tent or book up hotels or bed and breakfasts if they had cash, but a lot of people would just find somewhere that was dry to “crash.”
I was approached by a smart looking mod guy, dressed in a two-tone, blue suit, Chelsea boots and Fishtail Parka coat. He looked the part with his button down shirt and thin one-inch tie. But I strutted in my usual “you’re not good enough to walk on the same side of the road as me” attitude. I think he liked it. He followed me down the road trying to look cool but working to pull me at the same time. I couldn’t make it too easy for him, but eventually gave in and agreed to meet him later at the dance hall. There was to be a dance there tonight, with 60’s music and “Northern Soul.” I agreed, secretly hoping I had found a bed for the night.
The sweet music pounded out of the doors of the dance hall. Back Stabbers by the O’Jays, what a tune! Everyone was having a great time dancing and popping pills to help them feel even better and more relaxed. I had my first “voluntary” pill that night, and the sensation was weird. It seemed so much different than when I had been forced to take those silly pills before. My whole body relaxed but I felt happier than I had been in years. I danced the night away oblivious to my new found stalker who had given me the pills. He wasn’t too bad looking if the truth be known and he had a lot of friends with him too. They had driven up from Shepherds Bush in London, my home town. I thought to myself, Most mods dream of living in the City, where the action is. One day I will be back in London.
London was the coolest place to be if you were a mod; the clothes shops in Carnaby Street were the best. They had the most original clothes that everyone looked for, but one had to pay the price. It wasn’t cheap. The clubs around Shepherds Bush catered to mod music with live bands. It was heaven, I planned to go back soon.
The night passed in a cloudy blur. The dance was so packed I was relieved to be helped and guided outside by my new friend. The fresh air hit me like a sack of spuds. I was drunk, even though I didn’t remember drinking that much. It was the pills I guessed. We walked along the beach, as I listened to the sound of waves rushing up onto the sand and smacking off rocks. The waves teased the pebbles going in and through them while they lay lifeless being tossed around with no control. It’s just like me, I thought. But the sea gave a sense of freedom and power. I sat down in the sand and stared out into the distance. For the first time that I could ever remember, I felt alive, free and relaxed. The salty wind blowing in my face made me come to my senses for a second and I felt my knotty hair.
“How the hell am I gonna get a brush through this after the wind has finished with it?” I threw my head back giggling and lay down on the sand, staring up at the stars. I didn’t want the night to end. I could hear giggling farther down the beach and even farther away, behind us, I heard the chorus of a gang of lads singing.
“We are the mods, we are the mods, we are, we are, we are the mods,” they sang. This is the life, I thought. Being a mod was a way of life, and it was that night I realised it had got hold of my soul.
Gary, my new friend, lay down beside me. He turned on his side looking my way. I still felt good and it only made sense to share it with someone. I knew I would have to perform sexual acts tonight, especially if I wanted a warm bed, so I didn’t resist at all when Gary leant over and kissed my neck. He moved straight on top of me and in a bit of a fumble he undid his trousers, pulled off my knickers and slipped his dick inside me.
I hadn’t had full sex for a couple of years and it hurt a bit. I felt myself tense, and as Gary was banging away, my mind wandered off, back to Uncle Joe’s. Just like I had done there, I went off to my safe place and didn’t feel Gary anymore. I felt myself sinking away, like I was going deeper and deeper into a tunnel. It was dark and the deeper I went, the darker and quieter it became. I liked it there.
When I woke up I was alone on the beach. My clothes were a mess; my skirt was up around my waist and my knickers were on the sand. I looked like I had been raped, but I knew I hadn’t. It was definitely consensual, I’m sure of it, I thought, although my memory was a bit foggy due to the drugs. I really had no worries about my body, even if it had been used and abused. I didn’t care. I used my body as a tool to get what I wanted. I had neither pride in it nor fear of it.
The sun was rising and I rushed to my feet in a panic, looking around to see if anyone was nearby that could see me like that. Pheeew, no one around. It was silent apart from the waves crashing and the odd seagull waking up, calling and screeching for breakfast.
I made my way up to the road and looked for a public toilet to sort myself out. I remember giggling when I found one. On opening the door to the strong smell of ammonia, I was greeted by bodies everywhere in sleeping bags. People obviously couldn’t afford a hotel so they crashed in the loos. I made myself presentable, re-doing my bouffant hair and applying my liquid, black eyeliner to touch up the bitch lines that were crumbling away. After a dab of lipstick I looked in the mirror and thought, Okay, back in business.
It was another day, a day to be who I wanted to be and not what anybody else wanted me to be. The day was the same as the one before, lots of posing on scooters, showing off clothes and looking cool, well, attempting to anyway.
I met up with some lads from Hampshire and spent the day with them. They looked smart and I wasn’t ashamed to hang with them. I quite liked one of lads, Greg his name was. He had short, fair hair and the most shocking blue eyes. I fancied him straight away and I could tell he knew it. I felt all silly around him. But I knew that after the Bank Holiday weekend was over, I would probably never see him again, so I refused to let myself get carried away. There was no point in him having my number as I was never at home anyway.
During the day, lots of fights broke out with skinheads. I found that fighting gave me an adrenaline rush, something I hadn’t felt since riding horses. It didn’t take much and I was hooked. I started fights for even looking at me the wrong way. Greg looked out for me grabbing my hand as we ran down the side streets shouting, “We are the mods!” all in chorus. We smashed shop windows and anything in our path. I laughed so much I thought my sides would split. There must have been at least sixty or seventy of us running like a pack of dogs, not giving a toss about anything. We were being ourselves, being free
from rules and totally out of control. It felt great. We did our best to out-run the police that had pulled up in vans, lots of them in riot gear. They attempted to block our access to other parts of town, herding us like sheep where they wanted us to go and where we would cause the least amount of damage.
Greg kissed me lightly on my lips later that night, and together we wished the weekend wouldn’t end. He promised me a lift back to London on his scooter, and I crawled into his sleeping bag and cuddled up. I could feel his heart beating. I knew we had a connection but it didn’t make the sex feel any nicer. He was gentle and slow while he was groping me, feeling my nipples and running his hand down my body between my legs. He was rubbing my bits trying hard to help me enjoy it, but I couldn’t. He kept asking me if I was okay. Okay? I wondered. What is okay? I had left my body as usual, left it for him to take what he wanted, which he did. I had no control. I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to; sex meant I had to leave my body and my mind would go to my safe place. I did it all the time and learnt how to get there quickly.
The journey back to London was cold on the back of the scooter. I hugged Greg even though it really was not looked on as cool to hold on to the front rider. It was much cooler to hold onto the back of the seat with your hands behind your back or to just put your hands on your knees. But on this occasion I held on, wishing things could be different and the next Bank Holiday would hurry up and arrive. I felt deflated, knowing I was going back to the world of normality.
Chapter 11
The London traffic was jammed, slowly edging forward. Although we were on Greg’s scooter, we skipped around a few cars but didn’t get far. It was so packed and slow getting to Shepherds Bush that Greg said he couldn’t stay and have a coffee in a café. I tried to delay the moment of being left alone. His mates where there waiting on their scooters, and it would have been totally wrong to kiss me in public to say goodbye. He winked at me and said thanks for a great time, revved up his Lambretta engine and raced off with his mates. It sounded like a bunch of giant hairdryers riding down the road.
Invisible Tears Page 7
