Highly Unsuitable Girl
Carolyn McCrae
Copyright © 2012 Carolyn McCrae
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
For my husband Colin.
Yet again he has spent months living with different people he does not yet know.
Their lives would have been very different without his insights.
Also for our good friend, The Lodger, because it would be unfair to leave him out.
Thanks are due to Mrs Cath Hedley of The Bradford Arms Hotel, Llanymynech for finding the time to read and encourage.
Chapter 1: Adolescence
Merseyside, August 1968
Anya stared at the pattern of dark circles forming on the pale blue quilt that had been her bedcover for as long as she could remember.
The steady flow of teardrops was slowing and her mind was beginning to focus on the interlocking patterns of damp dark blue. When she cried, which was often, she made no sound, she didn’t sob to get attention or sympathy or to be consoled. She had known from a very young age that that would be a waste of energy as her mother was rarely in the house to hear and even if she had been around she wouldn’t have cared less. In her eighteen years Anya had never cried to gain sympathy or attention.
As she lay sobbing on her bed she tried not to hear the noises coming from her mother’s bedroom. She was used to the men. Sometimes they stayed for only a few hours, sometimes a few weeks, but sooner or later they would leave and there would be a few days of quiet before another arrived. Some never spoke to Anya but others were kind, helping her with the washing up or, when she was younger, slipping her a few pennies to spend on sweets. She may not have known their names but she knew what they did with her mother as the walls of the two-up two-down terraced house were very thin.
Before she had given in to those tears that had given her no comfort, Anya had taken the key from the chain around her neck and unlocked the tin trunk that she kept under her bed. It was half filled with her multi-coloured diaries, exercise books acquired over several years from the school stationery cupboard all carefully labelled and stored in strict chronological order.
Almost every day since she was 10 years old Anya would sit up in her bed, her radio tuned to Radio Luxembourg or, more recently, Radio Caroline, to write in her diary. Sometimes she just described, without comment, what she had done hour by hour through the day, but frequently she would try to explain what she was feeling. For the last two years she had had a thesaurus by her bed so she could find the right words. Instead of repeating ‘lonely’ she tried ‘forlorn’, ‘friendless’ ‘abandoned’ ‘isolated’ ‘desolate’. She found it helped to locate exactly the right word.
There were times when she found some consolation in knowing she was clever. She hoped that in thinking intelligent thoughts she could separate herself from her mother and one day have a different life.
If anyone had known she kept the diaries, and had asked her why she kept them so assiduously, she would have said that she had no one else to talk to but herself. Had she had any friends they might have told her that much of what she was feeling was perfectly normal for a girl of her age. Had she had a mother who cared she might have been told that she would grow out of it and that, in time, she might even look back on her childhood as the happiest years of her life.
As she gazed at the fading blotches on the quilt she knew the black feeling would sweep over her and the tears would come again. But they were gone for now so she wiped her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand and returned to her diaries.
Picking out the next empty page of the most recent volume she wrote, slowly and neatly, Relief. She thought that perhaps there was an element of that now she had received her exam results, they had been far better than she had expected. It had seemed important to get better results than all those girls, like Henrietta Hodge, who thought they had more right to be at that school than she had; those girls who had clustered together in classes and in the playground, ignoring her. For seven years they had thought they were better than she was and she had beaten them all. She wondered whether she should write Satisfaction but she decided against it and instead wrote Fear.
She hated the life she led but at least it was familiar. Now her schooldays were over she would have to cope with new places, new people and new routines. She knew she couldn’t face it with the same confidence and self-assurance as Henrietta who had a mother who cared and, most importantly, a father.
Confusion was the next word Anya wrote. For as long as she could remember there had been two Anya Caves and she would soon have to make some kind of decision as to which one she was going to be. She bit the end of her pen before adding the word Loneliness. She looked at the words she had written trying to make some sense of her feelings.
As she wiped her eyes she knew anyone seeing her tears would have had little sympathy for her. They would have said that she had no reason to feel so sorry for herself. They would have said that, ten days after her 18th birthday, Anya had her whole life ahead of her; she had prospects as good as many and better than most and they would have concluded that the little madam should think herself lucky. Anya would have stuck two fingers in their direction and said ‘What the fuck do you know?’
She began to write the questions that she couldn’t answer. Who was my dad? What happened to him? Why don’t I have any family other than Mum? It was several minutes before she closed the book, placing it carefully back in its correct order.
Picking another out at random she opened it in the middle pages and read her thoughts of two years before.
Tuesday 17th May, 1966
Bloody O Levels seem to go on for ever. I wonder why I bother. I suppose so I’ll do better than that spiteful cow bloody Henrietta bloody Hodge. That’d really tear her up, she thinks she’s so bloody superior all the time. She’s done her best to show me up ever since that first day. Everyone has to know what bloody Henrietta thinks about everything and how much she knows about everything and what her mummy and daddy are buying her for her birthday. WHO BLOODY CARES? Mum doesn’t even know I’ve got exams never mind what sort and how many and what subjects. I can’t remember when she last said anything to me other than ‘be a good kid and piss off’ or ‘here, take this and go buy me some cigs’ or ‘get your effing face out of that book and make the effing tea’ and ‘why isn’t there any effing food in the house’ and and and… Fuck her. I’ve got to find a way out of here, somehow, anyhow. I’ve been trying SO hard to get caught out. If I got pregnant I’d get married or I could get a place in a hostel, I might even get somewhere of my own and I could always have the baby adopted or fostered or something if it didn’t work out. But it wo
uld get me away from HER.
Anya, from the distance of two years, grimaced at her words. How naïve she had been. No, she corrected herself, she hadn’t been naïve, she had been stupid.
Putting 1966 Volume 2 back in its place Anya closed her eyes, drew circles with her finger in the air above the trunk and let it drop. She checked the date of the diary chosen, 1961 Volume 2. She paused before picking it out, she had hated 1961, that had been the worst year of her life.
She made herself open the book near the beginning and stared at the childish writing of her 11 year old self. She studied it objectively, noting the carefully dotted i’s and crossed t’s. She hadn’t written like that for years.
Monday, May 22nd 1961
Mum got the letter today. I’ve passed the 11 plus AND I got a scholarship. I thought she’d be proud of me but she said she’d rather have a daughter who fitted in than a clever one. She said what use was it to a girl to be clever. She said no one would want to be friends with someone like me and I’d hate it at the grammar.
Never without a man in tow, though never with the same one for long, her mum had had a particularly demanding boyfriend that Spring. Anya scanned the pages of the diary to see if she had written his name anywhere but could not find it, perhaps she had never known it. While he, whatever his name was, was around she had had to be out of the house so she had tagged along on the fringes of the gang that hung around the pub at the bottom of the next street. At first they had ignored her but, after she offered them a packet of ciggies she had nicked from her mother’s bag, they began to talk to her. She knew she looked a lot older than 11, maybe she could pass for 14 or even 15. It wasn’t long before each evening one of the boys would put his arm casually around her shoulder and lead her off to have a snog in the bus shelter or to go further lying down in one of the clumps of bushes in the park. She knew the gang were using her, but, if that was the price of having friends, she was willing to pay it. It didn’t mean she had to enjoy any of it.
With her hand tight in a fist Anya angrily wiped away the tears that gathered in her eyes at the memories. It all seemed so vivid and it hadn’t been fair. She shouldn’t have been allowed to do those things. She should have had parents who stopped her from being so stupid. It wasn’t fair that her mum didn’t give a shit. It wasn’t fair that she didn’t have a dad.
She picked out the next diary and found the entry for her first day at the school she had left for the last time that afternoon.
Tuesday, 5th September 1961
I HATE IT. How am I going to put up with five years of this? Maybe Mum was right! NO I didn’t say that!!! Mum is NEVER. EVER. RIGHT. I tried not to speak to anyone but there was this big fat girl called Henrietta Hodge. She kept going on at me so I turned my back on her and walked away. How did she know I’m a scholarship girl from Tennyson Street? I called her worse names back, words that she probably didn’t know the meaning of but she did try to hit me and pull my hair when I called her a fucking toffee nosed slag.
It was just like the day I started at the primary and they asked me what my Dad did for a living and I said I didn’t have a Dad. Everyone laughed, even the teacher and said I must have a Dad, everybody had a Dad. It was probably that afternoon I went home and asked Mum why I didn’t have one. All I learned was that Mum could smack really hard when she was angry. After that whenever anyone at school asked about my family I made something up but the stories were never the same so they all laughed at me and called me a liar and never asked me to be their friend. I don’t think I’m going to have any more friends now than I did then.
‘I was right,’ she thought wryly, ‘that was nearly seven years ago and in all that time I’ve never had what I could call a friend.’ With pursed lips and a grim determination to relive bad times she turned to the back of the book.
Sunday 31st December 1961
The last day of a horrid year. I asked Mum if any of the men I saw in the mornings was my dad. She slapped me so hard. I kept going on about Dad. Who was he? I asked why I had no grand-parents? No family at all? Only her? She really lost her temper. She kept hitting me and the more she hit out the more questions I asked. I don’t think she has the first idea who my dad was. I don’t think she’s ever been married and all she’s ever done is lie to me every day of every week about every single bloody thing.
Anya closed the book and put it carefully back in the box. 1961 was best forgotten.
She sat on the bed looking at the volumes of her diary feeling sorry for the girl who had written them. All the times she had recorded school work and exam results the handwriting was neat and precise. But there were many barely legible entries scribbled in haste when she was drunk on sex and cheap cider.
Carefully she chose Anya Cave 1964 Volume 2.
Saturday 23rd May, 1964 actually written on Sunday 24th
I lifted some stuff from Lewis’s. I wondered if I’d get caught but decided it didn’t really matter. Put them on in the dressing room and just walked out. It was so easy. It was worth the risk when a boy in the lift nodded towards me and said ‘nice tits’ to his mate. He must have meant me to hear. I looked over my shoulder as I walked out of the shop and they were following me. I wiggled a bit and kept checking and they kept following. Just as I was reaching the station they caught up with me and asked if I wanted a coffee or something. I said I’d prefer ‘something’ in a really grown up voice. They looked at each other the way boys do and I went with them.
I’ve been pretty close lots of times but it was great to find out what it was really like. It hurt a bit and at first I wondered what all the fuss was about but one of the boys was gentler than the other and just as they were finishing I began to enjoy it.
After a bit I said I’d better be getting home and they said I didn’t really want to go did I? They’d go out and get some fish and chips and some beer and we could make a night of it. I didn’t think Mum would miss me. When I got back she was still in her room with whatever-his-name-is-this-time. She didn’t even know I’d been out all night. So at 13 years 9 months 2 weeks I’m not a virgin any more. It wasn’t so bad after all.
Anya held the book open wondering how she could have been so stupid.
One by one she took other diaries out of the box and read pages at random, picking out the ones written carelessly in an almost undecipherable scrawl. It was masochistic of her, she knew, but the pain suited her mood. But then the girl who had written all this wasn’t really her was it? She really didn’t want it to be her.
She flicked through page after page which she knew described evenings spent hanging around The Anchor. The entries most days ended with an initial and a score out of ten. The most frequent initial in her diary was R. Anya remembered Ray, the youngest Longton boy. He had been her favourite because he was always gentle and usually thanked her afterwards. She wondered what had happened to him, she hoped he wasn’t in borstal somewhere, or jail. She didn’t think he would do well in jail. She hadn’t seen the Longton boys for a couple of years but there had been a time when every night of the week she had gone off with one of them.
It was the Longton boys who had taught her how to steal from shops and from cars. She had got quite good at it but she didn’t go with them when they broke into houses because she felt that was wrong.
Page after page of her diaries repeated the stories of nights occupied with drink, sex and petty vandalism but always, mixed in with the badly written scrawl, there were short, neat entries recording the days when she had only school work, essays and exam results to report.
Monday 9th May 1966
Exams started today. UGH. Still I should be all right. I’ve worked hard and Maths this morning seemed OK. Haven’t been out for a couple of weeks, I wonder if they’ve missed me, I doubt they’ve even noticed I’m not there. In a way I wish it wasn’t like this. I wish I could be different. I know I’m becoming as bad as Mum but it’s the only way to get away from here. I know people say unmarried mothers are the lowest of the low, just slags
, and their families chuck them out but I wouldn’t mind that, what could possibly be worse than staying here? But I can’t believe I’ve not got caught yet. I must have done it a couple of hundred times now (though who’s counting) and nothing. Not one month missed or even late. It’s not fair.
Anya knew better now, but that didn’t make the reading any easier. Determined to feel as much humiliation as she could inflict on herself she flicked through the pages to the entry for the day that had really changed her life.
Wednesday 22nd June 1966
It’s been SUCH a WEIRD day.
I was sitting in the library at lunchtime. Exams are over and I was reading just for the sake of it when Miss Hill came up to me. I put my head down in the book but it didn’t work as she tapped me on the shoulder and gestured for me to follow her. I followed her up the staircase we’re never supposed to use to her office. She shut the door behind us and told me to sit down in one of the comfortable armchairs and started to chat! Chat! It was WEIRD.
She wanted to know what I was going to do now O’s are finished. Did I want to stay on to do A’s? I just said I hadn’t thought. She was really nice. She said I had a chance of going to University! University! Me! I had to point out that money wasn’t exactly flowing out of my ears. I’d have to leave school, earn some money, my Mum was expecting me to get a job.
She just changed the subject and told me her brother was a doctor whose surgery was on the other side of the park from our street. She said that when she visited him she’d seen me hanging around with the boys outside The Anchor. She said she wants to make sure I’m doing what I’m doing with my eyes open. Miss Hill said her brother knew everything that went on in and around the park because he’d had to clear up the mess for girls like me more than once. I didn’t need to ask her what she meant, it was pretty obvious.
Highly Unsuitable Girl Page 1
