The Generation Game

by Sophie Duffy

  And then I remember Mother taking me there before I started school. When she felt educationally inclined. I remember Susan and Peter and Pat the dog who entered my literary world long before Thing One and Thing Two. But I can’t remember if I was ever a member or where my library tickets could possibly be. In a secret corner? In the bin? Over the ocean in a small condominium (flat) in Toronto, tucked up all forgotten about in my mother’s never-quite-empty purse?

  So that’s what I do after school, while all the other children queue up on the corner for Mr Whippy ice cream. Patty minds the shop while I drag Bob down town with me and we both join the library. I am beside myself with excitement to see so many books in one place and now I have the key to reading them all. And if I turn it, I might be able to make sense of my life. I might be able to work out how to get my mother back.

  2006

  Fran is back, a sheepish look on her rosy face because she’s the one who phoned him. Is she really allowed to do that? For all she knows, he could be a violent man. Not just an idiot.

  “He came,” I tell her.

  “Did he?” she says, surprised. “I didn’t think he would. I mean, it sounded like he wanted to give you some space.”

  “The Pacific Ocean wouldn’t be enough space.”

  “Oh?” Fran says. “What’s happened now? I thought the baby would bring a truce.”

  “Nothing happened. I didn’t see him. We didn’t see him. I just told him to go. Well, the nurse told him to go. I wanted to spit in his face.”

  “Oh,” she said again. “Maybe tomorrow then.” And she looks at you lying there asleep in your crib. “You should let him see the baby.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s the father.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe?”

  “I mean, maybe I will. But not yet. Not till I’ve sorted this feeding out. I can’t face him right now. I just can’t.”

  And for once she’s beaten and says no more. But not for long, knowing Fran.

  Chapter Eight: 1975

  Come Dancing

  I am ten-years-old and, seeing as Helena is still adrift on another continent, it is left to Bob to celebrate the survival of my first decade, which he does in Bob-style by giving me the present I most crave (a pogo stick) and hosting a thrown-together party for me at the shop.

  My circle of friends has remained pretty much the same and they are all invited. They arrive bearing gifts of talcum powder and Avon soap-on-a-rope, dressed head-to-toe like Agnetha and Frida. Here we are dancing to the Bay City Rollers in the living room. Bob hands out limeade and Twiglets, while Wink hogs the armchair over in the corner, knitting a wonky jumper, waiting for Jim’ll Fix It to come on. (She’s taken to watching our telly on a Saturday evening as we have colour and it is worth the trek up our stairs to see her two-dimensional heroes in their full glory.)

  The closest I have to a best friend is Cheryl who moved down from Solihull the summer before. She brought me some cherry flavour lip gloss which we apply extravagantly in the bathroom every ten minutes.

  ‘So how come your mum’s not here?’ she asks, during one such application. ‘Is she still away?’

  For although Cheryl is the girl I feel closest to, I don’t feel close enough to tell her about Helena’s disappearing act. Or the fact that I’ve only had five letters in three years. So I’ve told her that my mother had to go away to care for a sick relative in Canada. It’s easier that way.

  ‘Yes, I say. She’s still away.’

  Cheryl is nice because she never pushes any further than I want her to and she smells of Parma Violets. And because she asks me round to her house once a week for tea where we have normal family suppers of goulash around the dining room table with her younger brother Darryl and her mum and dad. Her dad is normal and tousles my hair in a non-annoying way and has an accent like Bernie’s. Somehow this makes me warm to Bernie so he and Auntie Sheila have also been invited to my party.

  Auntie Sheila has drunk one too many gin and oranges and when Cheryl and I make our way back into the fray, we witness her pulling Bob onto the makeshift dance floor (the slightly-tacky Axminster carpet) for a smooch to David Essex. Bernie breathes heavily on the sofa, his face slowly turning the colour of Sheila’s smudged red lipstick. As his wife wraps her arms around Bob’s girth a little too tightly, Bernie struggles to his feet and cuts in. Only Sheila won’t have it.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she slurs.

  Bob immediately lets go of his dancing partner, throwing his hands up in the air as if this were a stick-up.

  ‘You’ve had enough, Sheila,’ Bernie announces in an authoritative manner so that Wink looks up from her knitting and the circle of friends stop dancing to David.

  ‘Yes, Bernie, you’re right,’Auntie Sheila says, surprisingly. ‘I have had enough. Enough of this marriage. I’m in love with Bob and I want a divorce.’

  I haven’t thought about divorce in a long time but suddenly I remember a short man in a smart suit, with dark eyes and long fingers that fluttered over the keys of Lucas’ piano. Surely Auntie Sheila doesn’t mean it? And I have this longing for Toni to come back from London (where she’s finished with ballet and taken up tea-making in an estate agents in Hampstead). I even think sympathetically towards Terry for one brief moment until I remember he’s never had a kind word or deed for me. Where are they now? They should be here, doing something to save their parents’ marriage.

  I am slightly mortified as my fragile circle is staring open-mouthed at the Play for Today unravelling in front of them. Will their parents ever let them come here again?

  Meanwhile Bob has gone green and sickly-looking like the time we caught the Dartmouth ferry. He didn’t anticipate this turn of events when he heard David Essex crooning (appropriately) Hold Me Close only a few minutes before. Bernie looks like he might be about to embark on his second heart attack and I consider dialling 999 and asking for an ambulance quick smart.

  Wink, on the other hand, is more concerned that Jim’ll Fix It is about to start.

  ‘Take it somewhere else,’ she barks, echoing earlier days of being a barmaid in Catford. And with that, someone switches off the record player and people scatter from the room to different parts of the maisonette.

  ‘This is what I call a party,’ says Cheryl, downing the last of her limeade and instantly deepening our friendship. A friendship I hope will carry me through my teenage years. I am going to need it.

  That night, lying in bed, I have lots of scenes to replay in my head. Lots of possible repercussions to think about. I feel I am on the cusp of the next stage of my life. Maybe Bob will marry Auntie Sheila thereby making Toni some kind of step-sister. Maybe Bernie’s heart will finally get the better of him. Or maybe he’ll give his heart a second chance and lose some weight (weight that he’s piled on since giving up the fags and booze and women). Maybe Bernie and Sheila will make a concerted effort to reach their silver wedding anniversary. Maybe Wink will learn some manners. Maybe I will become the most popular girl at school, renowned for throwing the best parties. Maybe I will find my own happy family, a normal family like Cheryl’s (though I could do without the younger brother). Or maybe, just maybe, despite the smallness of her condominium (flat) or the unwillingness of Orville Tupper, Helena will reclaim me. (I’ve given up hope that my father will ever learn to read a map.)

  In fact this is the last we see of Auntie Sheila for quite some time. She no longer calls in at the shop. Bob seems quite relieved at this outcome – as does Patty who’s never got used to having Sheila’s beady eye on her. I miss Auntie Sheila. But I have Bob and Wink and Patty.

  Patty has a boyfriend called Lugsy. He is very handsome despite his big ears. Fortunately for him he’s grown his hair long, like every young man in Torquay and on Top of the Pops, so that his legendary ears are almost hidden and only a gust of wind reminds people why he collected his nickname.

  Lugsy is the type of boyfriend I would like but I am only ten and boyfr
iends are a long way off. All the boys I know my age are only interested in Kevin Keegan and Choppers. I much prefer my pogo stick because I can stay in the backyard with it and keep away from the holiday-makers who are currently clogging up the Bay. Cheryl and I steer clear of the boys in our class, though this isn’t always possible as Christopher Bennett occasionally comes into the shop to buy cigarettes for his mum. He’s lost the green crust from his nostrils but there is still something distasteful about him. Possibly the ridiculous hairstyle he’s recently acquired thanks to his mum’s Carmen rollers.

  Lugsy has a motorbike and he picks up Patty from work everyday. Wink says they are living in Sin. I have no idea where that is, somewhere in Paignton maybe, but she sounds disapproving when she says this. Surely Paignton isn’t that bad? And why Wink should disapprove of anyone with her colourful past is beyond me.

  Now it is the summer holidays, Bob and Patty are so busy that even Lugsy comes in to roll up his (cheesecloth) sleeves and lend a helping (nicotine-stained) hand. Lugsy is probably Bob’s only male friend in the world and, when there is a lull in the quest for Herald Expresses, they go out the back to smoke roll-ups together even though Bob doesn’t officially smoke.

  I usually hang around the shop doing word searches or practising my pogo-ing in the yard while I wait for Cheryl’s mum to drop her off. We spend every day of the holidays together. Neither of us go away because when you live in a seaside resort you tend to stay put all year round. Especially if you have a shop that does its best business in the season.

  So we go to the pool at the Rainbow Hotel or down to the shops to look for cheap clothes. Or we make our way over to Cheryl’s for a Soda Stream and a game of Swingball. Now I have Cheryl, Lucas seems a long way off. A little boy from a fairy tale. A speck of stardust.

  The long days of summer are finally over and Patty takes me to BHS to kit me out with new school uniform. I’ve had a growth spurt, mainly upwards. No sign of the old puppy fat (hurrah!) or of a reason to buy a bra (boo!).

  I am to be a fourth year junior, the oldest in our school. Bob fills my new Adidas bag with his finest stationery and waves me off on a warm September morning.

  Our new teacher, Miss Mills, is the most on-the-ball we’ve ever had. She is actually a friend of Miss (Mrs) Parry and she might well have ruled Scotland in a former life, beating the English at Bannockburn on her way. She tells us this is the most important year of our lives so far (oh dear). In a few weeks we will sit the Eleven plus (which is a bit unfair as I am still only ten). Those who pass will go up to the Grammar. Those who fail… well, they will have to go down to the Secondary Modern which isn’t as modern as it sounds but is definitely secondary to the Grammar. One short exam that will divide our class forever into winners and losers, high achievers and drop-outs.

  What if Cheryl passes and I fail? Cheryl is clever and comes from a family with educational aspirations. Cheryl’s mum and dad met at university. Cheryl’s mum has a part time job, teaching French at evening classes. Bob wants me to do well because he did so badly at school but he doesn’t really know how to ensure I’ll pass. He just reminds me to do my homework and pins up the times tables in the outside loo which has by now been done up so it is useable and no longer the forbidden place it was in Helena’s time.

  Now it is becoming more and more clear that that was a different time entirely. A time when I had a mother who loved me.

  The big morning comes and Bob makes me a Full English breakfast and sends me off with a packet of Dextrose so I am high on sugar and fat. Fortunately these dietary excesses get me through the verbal and non-verbal reasoning and even the maths. So it is a huge relief and the proudest moment of my life when I discover sometime later, once Christmas has come and gone, that I have passed. And so too has Cheryl.

  The circle of friends will disintegrate by the end of the year which is no great surprise when you think of it. But there are two shocks to come out of all this: Mandy Denning, of the doll hands and clicking eyelashes, has failed. And, more extraordinarily, Christopher Bennett is to be a Grammar School Boy. It seems that all that surplus energy he harboured was a result of being bored and he has in actual fact a very high IQ. Who would have thought it of the Bogey Boy? He becomes more unbearable than ever, snatching all the credit for his academic achievement when really he has Miss Mills to thank for discovering and nurturing his talents when all her predecessors wrote him off as a naughty boy (which he still is, deep down, as far as I am concerned.)

  But I am Clever Philippa. Grammar School Philippa. I am going places. One day I will leave Torquay to seek my fortune. I will go to London. I will fly across the ocean and track down Helena and release her from the clutches of Orville Tupper. I will enlist the help of the British High Commissioner if I have to. I will get her back. Because now I have power at my fingertips. I have knowledge in my heart and in my brain. I have the whole wide world at my feet.

  2006

  Power and Knowledge have both run off and deserted me. I have to trust those who are here. Fran and the doctor.

  The doctor comes and checks you over, though she can’t possibly have years of medical training; she looks like a sixth former on a careers day out. But she has a proficient pair of hands and you are a floppy doll in them. She looks at your eyes, listens to your heart, holds your little hand in hers as if she is reading your palm, telling your fortune.

  It seems she is a little concerned. She would like to do a blood test. I can’t really concentrate on what she’s saying. I must be hearing things because there is nothing wrong with you. Nothing serious. My initial instincts that all was not as it should be was a little premature in a way that you were not. That was a gut reaction. A mother’s worry. Looking at you now, I’d know if there was a real problem. You’re just a slow feeder. A little pale. A sleepy baby. I probably should interrogate the doctor further (What are you doing this for? How? Why? etc, etc) but how can I be expected to focus on all her words when I’m so tired. So consumed.

  You are not happy about this turn of events. Neither am I for that matter. It wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I first saw that little blue line in that little plastic window. I thought this was my chance to be what Helena wasn’t. I didn’t expect a nurse to be rubbing magic cream on your hand. I didn’t expect the waiting around wondering what the hell is going on. Or the needle pricking your little vein. The drops of blood in a tube being sent down to the lab. I didn’t expect to be dealing with this on my own. I didn’t expect your father to be in love with Someone Else.

  I will find out who she is. I will find out and I will kill her.

  Chapter Nine: 1977

  Summertime Special

  Two years later and I’ve only got as far as the Third Year, where I am conscientiously working my way up through the streams to try and join Cheryl at the very top. Unfortunately for me I’ve chosen a best friend who is cleverer than me (bringing back memories of my Lucas) and there are days, not so good days, when I wish I could shine above her – and everyone else for that matter.

  Bob, in his own 1970s-man blundering way, understands something of my self-esteem issues and tells me that I am the best shop assistant he’s ever had. But I can see through his weak attempt and know he is just being nice in a way that makes me want to both kiss and hit him at the same time (I am virtually a teenager, after all). It is quite obvious to anyone who steps inside our little shop that no-one comes close to Patty. Patty, who can weigh out sweets, do a stock take and make a cup of tea at the same time, whilst being able to sing the whole of the Top Twenty off by heart.

  Punk Rock elbowed its way into the Top Twenty quite some time ago but it has only recently made it down to Torquay. Lugsy now sports a half-hearted snot-green Mohican which, with his renowned ears, makes him look like a gonk and riles Captain the parrot when Lugsy calls in with fish and chips for Wink. Captain thinks it is some kind of giant tropical bird come to take over his place at the helm of Wink’s home. The Mohican doesn’t last long as it is too h
igh maintenance for someone who has to get up at the crack of dawn and deliver milk. It also scares too many old ladies and most of the neighbourhood dogs who, between them, cause a cacophony to rival the seagulls of a morning. The Dairy says he has to change his hairstyle or face the sack. So Lugsy gets a number one and becomes a skinhead instead.

  Despite this fickleness, he sticks by Patty (he knows which side his bread is buttered) and saves up for a nice engagement ring which he presents to her on her 21st birthday at (where else?) the Berni Inn. Unfortunately for Lugsy, this doesn’t go down too well with Patty who murmurs a firm No. So he has to make do with yet more living in sin. And of course now I am virtually a teenager, I know that Sin isn’t a place but rather an action.

  I have discovered one or two other sins:

  1. Smoking: which I’ve always known a lot about, having lived in a tobacconists for much of my life and also clinging memories of Helena who always had a cigarette in hand. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

  2. Drinking: I’ve raided Bob’s drinks cabinet on a few occasions and found that Babycham is the best he has to offer. All the others make my eyes water and my throat burn.

  3. Boys: I know what boys and girls do but there is no way I am ever going to do it. (Bob delegated the little chat about the birds and the bees and the Curse to Wink, who took on the task with some relish – and far too much X-rated detail – thereby putting me off ever wanting to become a woman.)