Through The Shattered Glass

by Jeanie Clarke

  On one occasion the owner gave chase, but my speed left him trailing. My years of roaming the streets gave me the advantage; I knew all the routes to find a quick escape. I quickly gave him the slip after hiding up a fire escape, and I remember watching him hunting for me as I sat just yards away from him. I patiently waited for him to give up his frustrated manhunt, and then I scarpered to the nearby chippy and bought a bag of chips with my riches.

  As my little arcade heists became less frequent, I had to find other ways to make money. Despite being such a young age, I quickly became quite the entrepreneur.

  I would go ‘bottling’, by going out and collecting all the discarded milk and soft drink bottles I could find and then return them to the nearest shop for the deposit. I would go out in the morning with an empty crisp bag and, by the end of the day, it would end up full of loose change.

  But one evening, while I was out collecting some empty bottles, I experienced my most terrifying and unsettling moment as a child.

  I was probably around eight years old at the time, and was approached by a man on the beach asking if I wanted to be ‘twizzled’. Twizzling is when an adult lifts up and playfully swings around a child. He seemed friendly and I was just happy to break the loneliness I was feeling walking the beach on my own. The man picked me up and started swinging me around and around. It started off as great fun and I was giggling, however after a few minutes I felt dizzy and asked to be let go. He completely ignored me and continued to swing me about. I asked again. I was feeling nauseous and so I started yelling at the top of my lungs. His grip just got tighter. I was starting to panic. I couldn’t see any other grown-ups on the beach.

  In fact, I couldn’t see anyone.

  Luckily, the man lost his balance and we both tumbled to the ground. I ran as fast as I could, escaping to one of my hiding places.

  A short time after this incident, I saw the man’s face again, but this time on the news. He was wanted by the Police for molesting several children. I considered myself extremely lucky that day.

  Despite the incident on the beach I still needed to find a way to earn money for myself. I used to hide the loose change that I had raised to stop it from being discovered by my mum and wasted on her drink habit. The safest place was under the carpet, and I found other hidey holes for my purchases of chocolate, sherbet and hard candy.

  With my little riches, I also treated myself to small toys and comic books, but my absolute favourite thing that I ever bought was a dress from one of the jumble sales. It had a print of ducks all over it and I would wear it all the time. Even when it was freezing outside, I refused to put a coat over it. I wanted everyone to see my beautiful proud garment.

  By age nine, we found ourselves on the move again. We occupied two upstairs rooms in a cramped block of flats. One of the rooms was a living area which doubled as my mum’s bedroom. The other room was the kitchen, with a couple of bunk beds set up about a foot away from the gas cooker. We had one bathroom which we had to share with the other residents, who all seemed strange and scary to me.

  With nowhere to move in the house, our lives became impossible as my mum’s drunken boyfriend came to stay after a night getting wasted with her in the pub.

  As our situation seemed to get worse, social services were called and they arrived to check up on our living conditions. After making an assessment, the authorities had to intervene. My sister and I were told we were going to boarding school.

  We were immediately taken into care and sent to a former orphanage in Sawbridgeworth, a town about forty miles north of Southend. It was an unnerving experience, as we didn’t know what to expect. I was just glad to have Valerie along to give me strength.

  It was a difficult adjustment as we were faced with the challenge of fitting into the regime of life in the home. In spite of everything that had happened, we missed our mum.

  One night after my tenth birthday, I was cuddling up to a toy Koala bear I had been given. I would speak to him, and told him I wanted to go back to Southend.

  Homesick, I decided that my Koala and I would be better off if we made a break for it, and run away.

  I managed to get out of the dormitory and took off into the nearby woods. Undetected, I carried my Koala up into a tree and sat there. I also had a bottle of perfume I’d taken from a girl in the same dorm. My plan was that if I was captured, I would drink the perfume.

  I had given up, and was ready for the worst. It was not the kind of idea a child should have, but I was just so sad to be in the home.

  After moments of reflection towards my deprived upbringing, I had a change of heart and headed back to the dormitory.

  My impoverished childhood had made me a survivor. I was determined that my situation would change now that I had been given a fresh start, as I had spent enough of my time running away or hiding.

  I was still a child, and ready to live life to the full.

  2 GO AWAY LITTLE GIRL

  Within a few months of being taken away from my mum, I eventually started to accept my new surroundings, and I even began to enjoy being at Sawbridgeworth.

  A lot of the children there had come from similar backgrounds, and I still had the comfort and protection of my sister Valerie.

  We got proper meals, and a regular bedtime. At the school, I got to resurrect my interest in drama and I even became the sports captain. I learned to play tennis, how to swim, and I even tried horse riding.

  For the holidays, we would get to visit our mum, but her situation hadn’t really improved. It was actually a blessing when our trips home would end, as we realised how desperate our old life was.

  Unfortunately, the joy of my new life wouldn’t last.

  At age eleven, I had been given notice that I was to be returned to Southend, while my sister would stay at the school. The council had given my mum a flat, and she needed a child at home to claim social security money.

  I was devastated.

  When I got back, I felt deserted. I was missing my sister, and my mum’s alcoholism had gotten even worse. She would be out all night with her latest boyfriend, and I hardly saw her.

  In the meantime, I enrolled in Shoeburyness High School, which was a two-minute walk from the flat. I tried to maintain a positive outlook, and endeavoured to make new friends in this unfamiliar area.

  The strongest memory I have from my time in High School involved an awakening to the purest of form of love.

  One Easter, the class were set to view a film called King of Kings. It was a film which depicted the life and times of Jesus Christ. After I watched that film, I burst into floods of tears.

  In the portrayal of Jesus, I saw a compassion and kindness that I had never experienced, and it moved me. I sobbed uncontrollably, and couldn’t stop. With no alternative, the teacher sent me home for the day.

  The movie was unlike anything I had ever witnessed in my upbringing, and I had never known that such warmth could exist from a person. It made me realise what I had missed in my life, a nurturing figure to provide me with love and kindness.

  Not only had I been raised to feel unloved, but most of my experiences with adults had been unsavoury.

  To me, grown-ups were the people who chased away a hungry child, tried to snatch and molest a youngster, used authority to break up siblings, or neglected their own kin.

  A large part of this distrust stemmed from the place that a child should never feel scared; the home.

  The most frightening experience I had there occurred when my mum’s boyfriend came in past the house.

  His name was Jim Baker. I had seen his face a few times when I had sneaked into my mum’s favourite singing venue, The Eagle Club, to watch her perform.

  Cleaning my clothes in the kitchen, I was in the house alone and wearing only a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

  I heard the back gate and, clutching an opened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label Scotch whisky in his hand, he trudged into the house. I knew he was going out with my mum, so I was not alarmed to
see him.

  “My mum’s out just now,” I informed him.

  I noticed his eyes glancing at me, and he smiled.

  “I know your mum’s not here. I came to see you,” he leered.

  I was confused, I couldn’t quite understand what he suggesting, but I was starting to feel uncomfortable around him.

  I had an idea by his body language that there was a fondness for me, but at thirteen, I was still very much a child.

  He advanced towards me.

  “Just lay back. Let me give it to you, I won’t make you pregnant,” he whispered.

  Shaking with fear, I sprinted out the house, with tears streaming from my eyes.

  I found my mum, and I told her what had happened with Jim. She had an angry look at me, I am not sure if it was jealousy, but it was certainly disgust. I knew she really loved Baker, and she refused to accept what I was telling her.

  Upset, I went to see my friend Janice, who lived in a nearby flat above our one. She could feel my pain, and she was a great support to me.

  Her family could sense how destitute I was. They would frequently have me round for dinner and even offered me a job. I would clean their house for some pocket money. Enjoying the escape, I soon offered to do similar odd jobs for other families in the neighbourhood, including outdoor gardening work.

  I already knew that happiness would not be handed to me, but if I worked hard enough, I could possibly earn freedom from misery.

  Increasingly independent with each day, my life seemed much happier as I entered my teenage years. I was a regular girl of my age, and would spend most of my time with my school friends. I was interested in fashion and music, and also started swimming at the local pool.

  As puberty dawned, I started to gain an interest in boys. After noticing that some of the lads at school were quite cute, I developed a huge crush on the television star Donny Osmond.

  He was the lead singer from the famous brother group, The Osmonds. My infatuation developed as soon as I heard the song Puppy Love, and I would listen to it over and over on the gramophone.

  Stricken by the love bug, I completely covered the bedroom walls with pictures of this American teenage heartthrob, and my fantasy was to travel to the United States and meet him.

  At thirteen years old, I found out The Osmonds would be playing a tour of the United Kingdom.

  Brimming with excitement, I caught the earliest train and made my way to the box office. I wanted to be the first in line to get tickets for their show the famous Rainbow Theatre in Finsbury Park, London.

  On the night of the gig, my little frame was put to good use. I managed to worm my way right to the front, screaming so loud I couldn’t speak for days. It was such a thrill to see my idol in the flesh, and was the happiest memory of my life.

  The rush of live music was infectious, and I revelled in the crowd atmosphere of a concert.

  Exhilarated, I wanted to share the experience with my friend Marion, and we started attending all the gigs that we could. I got a couple of part-time jobs, securing work at a greengrocer and at a local hairdresser, to fund my interest.

  Over the next few years, we saw performances from David Bowie, Slade, Queen and countless others.

  We would often hitchhike to the events, and after a while we made friends with some of the road agents who would sneak us in for free.

  Our faces became well known, and it was not long before we were invited backstage to the VIP after-parties.

  The most amazing of these was held at the London Hilton, where I met David Essex. To top it off, he even autographed my arm and complimented my frock.

  I was star struck. Afterwards, I travelled to Wales with his roadies, and hung out with his supporting act, the 1970s soul group The Real Thing.

  However, all the travelling about and chasing of bands had caught up with my school life and my absences were starting to be noted. Nevertheless, my imagination was captured by the thriving music scene, particularly with the explosion of punk rock in 1970s Britain.

  I saved all the cash I could to afford tickets to the shows, and Marion and I would spend hours talking about forthcoming tours. When we weren’t on the road, we became the best of friends, and I would love spending time at her place.

  Marion’s house almost felt like a second home, and she had a really nice family. Her mum worked in the same factory as mine, and her dad was a bricklayer.

  At the weekend, we would hang out in the kitchen and would sometimes hear these fantastic noises from the living room television. I was intrigued.

  It was the sound of crowds roaring and bodies being slammed to the mat.

  We went through to watch what was being broadcast, and it was professional wrestling.

  It turned out that Marion’s dad was an avid fan of the sport, and I discovered that he tuned in every Saturday afternoon to watch the matches.

  Marion’s dad seemed to know everything about the wrestling. He had watched it for years, and the weekly coverage was a genuine highlight for him.

  Every week, professional wrestling was featured as part of a programme called World of Sport, a regular fixture on the British channel ITV which showcased a range of athletic events.

  Knowing all the top stars, he spouted off the names like Mick McManus, Jackie Pallo, Kendo Nagasaki and the nefarious Les Kellett. He told us that all the moves had wild and impactful labels too.

  There were punishing holds such as the Surfboard, the Half-Nelson and the dreaded Power Lock, spine-crushing throws like Body Slams and Backbreakers, to exotic attacks like the Kamikaze Crash and the vaunted Japanese Stranglehold.

  And just like our passion for the music gigs, Marion’s dad would go to all the wrestling events that he could.

  But one afternoon, Marion came over with excitement in her face.

  Her dad was feeling a bit ill, and couldn’t attend an upcoming event at the nearby Cliffs Pavilion in Southend.

  He offered her the pair of wrestling event tickets that he had already bought and she was dying to go.

  At first I was hesitant, but Marion had gone to all those music gigs at my urging. It was only fair that I accompanied her to an event that she wanted to see.

  Reluctantly, I agreed.

  I was on my way to my first wrestling event.

  3 SECONDS AWAY, ROUND ONE!

  At first I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, nor why Marion’s dad was so obsessed with the wrestling. But once the crowd warmed up, I started to be drawn towards the drama in the ring. The British crowds were notoriously rowdy and would really get into what they were seeing. The touring villains would play to the audience as they would sneakily cheat, argue with the referee, and hurl insults at the baying crowds who were so desperate to see them get their comeuppance.

  I soon learned that it wasn’t uncommon for members of the audience to actually get physically involved in the matches to help their hero.

  Any self-respecting bad-guy wrestler, or heel, would only think they had a good night if they were thrown a couple of punches from the local punters or if they were battered by the handbags of the many elderly ladies who seemed to populate the front rows of every show!

  Some of the wrestling’s finest villains have come from the UK. Mick McManus, Steve Logan, Adrian Street, Dave ‘Fit’ Finlay and many others were all able to get under the skin of their audiences and cause near riots just by their arrogant demeanour, which I later realised was the exact purpose of their job.

  One of the very best this country produced was Mark ‘Rollerball’ Rocco. He was the first thing that made me sit up and take notice during the show. With his jet black hair and rugged good looks, I actually found him incredibly cute.

  Mark ‘Rollerball’ Rocco, former wrestler: “British wrestling had the highest viewing audience during the 70s and 80s. The TV coverage inspired not only the fans but also the main advertising agencies that appeared on Saturday 4pm during World of Sport became household names. Every wrestler had an image and the public followed
no matter what. Some of the conflicts carried on for many weeks. I was fortunate enough to be among the wrestlers who attracted the public to the intense storyline. I never spoke to or made eye contact with the public as my job was to make them insane with anger - it must have worked as I found it difficult to leave the venue as the public thought they had permission to damage a wrestler was included in the entrance fee.”

  As the evening went on, I started to really enjoy myself. I could relate to the sheer exuberance from the crowd, as it was exactly the same kind of highly-charged atmosphere that I experienced at music concerts.

  I also loved the showmanship of the matches too, having spent all those years enjoying taking part in school plays and shows. I could really empathise with the theatrics of it all and the way these guys in the ring adopted their characters to enhance the drama.

  To me, the wrestling was like a stage production – it just involved a lot more physical attributes. But the storytelling, even down to the facial expressions and voice work, was exactly the same concept.

  The British wrestlers were true masters of their craft. They could create a narrative and make people believe every second of it.

  As the show finished, we thought we’d hang back and let the heaving surge of bodies leave the venue before we attempted to exit. So we ventured to the bar to have a drink. In the midst of the throng we were casually standing there, chatting and minding our own business.

  A tall, dark haired guy then approached us, adorned with the cutest smile I had ever seen.

  “Hi, I’m Chris Adams,” he said.

  At the time I first met Chris, he had only been wrestling for about a year. He had broken into the business almost by accident through a friend, as his first love was actually judo.

  Growing up in Warwickshire, in the West Midlands of England, Chris had been practicing judo since the age of nine and he had followed his father Cyril into the sport, much like his younger brother Neil. He was a natural sportsman and also played football, cricket and rugby, but judo remained his passion.