Losing Les

 

To understand the events that led up to the shooting, and why I was so lucky to have a friend like Joyce, I need to go back to when my story began.

My father James stumbled into the poverty stricken world of East End London, in April 1923, the youngest but one, of ten children with all the prospects of fighting World War Two as a young shaver in the Catering Corp. But slicing spuds wasn’t his strong point, and after he was demobbed his prospects never amounted to anything; he was a natural born loser. He was a tall dashing man in uniform, dark hair, with spectacles like panda eyes. Perhaps that was the appealing feature that attracted Nellie, a small mousy women born in 1916 to a well off family of bakers who lived in Chiswick. But later I realised it was more to do with funding the child she already had by a married man. That child was my half brother, Les.

I was born in 1948, in Gracie Fields Nursing Home, 136 Bishops Avenue, Hampstead, London. My legacy was my bright green eyes and full lips. Now, nine years later, my shoulder-length fair hair and slim build made me what my teachers kept on telling me—an exceptionally pretty girl; perhaps I would have preferred it if they told me I was good at Maths, or English, or something—but they didn’t.

I was just nine years old in 1957 when we moved, with my Mum, Dad and older brother Les, now aged fourteen, to a new Council Maisonette in Edmonton, North London. Of the four blocks ours was a ground floor unit in the centre nearest to the railway. It was okay as long as I held my cup firmly when the train went by. A single bare electric light bulb sucked its power through a thin cable from the outside lamp of the house above. It competed for light against the musty curtains that imprisoned me with a faint glow. It was like living in a vomit-stained refuge of a mangrove swamp.

In winter, the bone-chilling cold would draw the black damp from the air as I laid the open fire. Mum could use the gas pipe that ran into the side of the grate. But it was too frightening for me to use; instead, I would lay the fire with rolled up newspaper, and then make squares of toilet paper from the fragments that remained.

My home was a minefield littered with constant fights, latent arguments and simmering rows that festered between my parents, James and Nellie, and my fifteen-year-old brother Les.  I guess the upside was it blocked out the sound of the trains. But I lost count of how many times I heard them going at it hammer and tongs, screaming and shouting at each other. Not surprisingly, I suppose, the neighbours listened into our lives.

“Well Lill, did you hear that last night?” they would say.

It was better than listening to the Archers for them because the characters were real; they had genuine black eyes, no make-up to cover it up. No, not for us: real blood and pain!
Reality for me consisted of scampering off upstairs, hiding out of the way in case they suddenly turned on me. But, of course, I couldn’t stop it and the fighting continued, day after day. Eventually it got to me—the expectation, waiting for it to happen, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening when it was, and then banging my head into the pillow trying to make it stop.

I was trapped. There was nothing I could have done, except pray that somehow they would see sense and resolve their differences; but it never seemed to happen, and every day was just like Groundhog Day, grinding me down until it was a relief to go to school.

At school I appeared to be happy, popular and carefree. I never spoke about my life at home, and to everyone around me, I appeared a joyful little child without a care in the world.  I enjoyed nothing better than listening to the other children telling me about their problems, trying to think up different ways in which they might adapt themselves, and to pass on some of the solutions that had worked for me.

What was so frightening for me was the constant threat of the family torn apart, promising to catapult me into what Mum called ‘Care’. It was all right for Dad as he disappeared into a bottle most nights away from it all, down the pub or betting shop or both, but I had no such escape; I had to stay there in the thick of it.

‘Care’? I didn’t really understand what she meant when she said ‘taken into Care’. But it seemed to scare her.  One day she told me if I were taken into ‘Care’, then all the family would be punished and split up. Apparently it was a cross between a holiday camp and a prison, and I would be sent away never to see my Mum again. I didn’t know what a holiday camp was, but the prison bit scared me. I simply wanted the fighting to stop!

Then one day I came home from school, and everything was to change. After months of fighting with Les all the time, I discovered Mum sitting in the kitchen by the old Formica table. It stood on an old off-cut of Linoleum that attempted to cover the floor like some discarded rag. Our fridge was a cold stone slab sat at the bottom of the larder. It was designed to keep food fresh, although my Mum never used it either because she didn’t understand its purpose, or because we never had food long enough for it to go off.

Puffing away on one of her fags, muttering to herself, she was drawing so deeply on the cigarette, I thought she was going to swallow the bloody thing. She continued to puff out great smelly clouds of blue smoke, one after another, until the kitchen stank of it all. I hadn’t seen her like this before.

“Fucking sod!” She spat venom and hate with her spiteful words. “Les slapped me, he did!” She coughed and continued: “Stormed off out of the house! Don’t know where he is.” 
She shook her head from side to side, and rocked back and forth in the chair.
I didn’t think she really cared; she seemed preoccupied about how she was going to punish him. 
“Serves him right, that’ll show him. Yeah, that’s it,” she muttered under her breath. “Fucking sod!”

The door swung open, and before Dad could get in the kitchen, she was ranting.

“Les, the little sod, he’s hit me! Slapped me round the face he did, little fucker.” She pointed to the side of her face trying to justify her anger.

“What yer on about?” Dad lurched to one side. “Yer face always looks like that.”

“Yeah, see, look at it! Les, the little bastard, belted me one.”  Turning her face to one side, she pulled her hair back as if to expose some marks, but there was nothing there I could see.

Dad snatched a glance at her through his misty thick-rimmed glasses, leaned a little and tried to steady himself on the handle of the kitchen door. But it swung away from him and smacked him in the face. As he lurched forward trying to regain his balance, he flung me a puzzled gaze before slumping down onto the nearby kitchen chair in a drunken stupor.

She knew she wouldn’t get any sense out of him until he had sobered up a bit. She snatched his dinner from the oven, spat in it and thumped it down in front of him, slopping the gravy onto his shirt.

“Oh, shit,” he squirmed as hot liquid burned his flesh.

I made myself scarce and escaped up to my room. I knew better than to get too close when they were going to have a row.  My room had a bed and an old wooden chair that served to stop what clothes I had from falling on the bare floorboards. By means of a single candle stuck to the windowsill, I was able to keep my hands warm from time to time.

Mum started first. “I’m not having it! No, I’m not going to put up with it any more. You mark my words, and as for Les—well, he’ll have to go, and that’s it!”

The next thing I heard was someone knocking on the door. Bang, bang, bang!  I didn’t know if Les had lost his key, but it was enough to make me jump.

It was Dad who first broke the silence and started whispering again, arguing with Mum in the kitchen until finally I heard Mum’s voice booming out: “I’m not having ’im here and that’s final!”

I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. It must have been Dad rummaging around in Les’ room. He was gathering all his stuff, wrapping it up.

Bang! The letterbox snapped back. Les was clearly getting impatient at the door.

By this time Mum had disappeared into the living room, hiding behind the door. It gave her a clear view down the hall. Not that she appeared to be frightened, as I might have imagined, but to ensure Dad did as he was told.

“Go on then—tell him!”

She was standing back like a referee at a wrestling match, and no doubt she figured that if someone was going to get hurt, it wasn’t going to be her.

I watched as Dad picked up a brown paper parcel all wrapped up with string. He stood there like a refugee in some sort of paralysed indecision. Like a fox in the headlights, he turned round and round, until, eventually he turned away, as if to make a run for it into the living room.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Go on then, tell him!” Mother shouted again, attempting to drag his arm back along the hall.

Stepping back from her, he broke free, hesitated, and I sensed he didn’t want to do it. His whole character was like the drink: pathetic. He flung his arm round to hit her, missed and almost fell over, then, recovering his composure, lurched in the direction of the front door, muttering. It was as if he were rehearsing what to say in his mind.

I tottered downstairs, my head between the balustrades as though I were in the front row of the cinema waiting for the start. I was ready for the entertainment for the night, and although I fully expected Dad to give Les a good belting, I wasn’t really ready for what happened next.

All Les’ things, bundled and tied with string, lay behind the front door.

“I’ve had enough of your arguments,” Dad said. “Mum has had enough of yer, and she doesn’t want you here anymore! So you’re not coming in!” He calmly turned and picked up the parcel.

I didn’t hear what Les said to him, and maybe Les didn’t say anything at all; perhaps he had already anticipated this, I didn’t know.

“I’ve got all yer stuff wrapped up: now you’d better go and live with your Aunt Glad and Grandma in Chiswick.” He shoved the parcel at Les and pushed him away.

Les shrugged his shoulders and accepted it, and I wondered later if he was as happy to go as they were to get rid of him. They used him to claim overcrowding with the impending arrival of a new baby, and now they had their new house, it seems they didn’t need him anymore.

The door quietly shut and I heard the sound of someone walking back up the path that I assumed was Les. Rushing up into the bedroom at the front of the house, I pinned my nose to the window trying to catch a glimpse of Les as he left. I tried to wave but he never saw me. I banged on the window trying to get his attention. But he didn’t look up. I strained to catch sight of him as he reached the end of the block, and I remember desperately trying to open the window, and then falling back onto the bed shocked and saddened that he had left. I sat at the window for ages looking for him, searching as I sobbed into the night. But as the hours ticked by, my heart sank as the disappointment took hold.

I remember thinking, what did I care? After all, he was the source of all the shouting and arguing and stuff. But then I did care, of course I cared; he was my only contact in this hellhole to share the misery. How could I find myself thinking that I didn’t care? No longer was there anyone to stand up for me, to protect me from the horror of it all.

Unwittingly I found myself expecting him to walk into the room. But he never did.

No one prepared me for it, the searching, and the daydreaming trying to remember his voice in my mind, but gradually I found myself struggling to build him into my dreams. It was as if he had died and I remember feeling strange and crying quietly to myself at night. Unconsciously I would wander into his room to talk, and realising he was no longer there I would unexpectedly wake up in the darkness, stare at the menacing shadows flickering on the wall, and bolt back to my room in terror.

Emptiness and those nighttime anxieties replaced the little irritations Les brought to my life. The impish pranks he would spring, making funny faces, farting and other noises to scare the wits out of me; ‘nankering’ I think they called it.

After slinging Les out, Dad ambled back into the living room. Mum glanced up but didn’t say anything.

Turning to pick up his newspaper and packet of fags, he slumped into his fireside chair. Mum looked down at the floor. She always did that when she was afraid to say anything and for a moment I wondered if she later regretted complaining so much. But if she did she never said anything about it after that, and I was just left to get on with my life without him.

Dad started doing his usual ‘lost child routine’. He looked at Mum and moped about. Finally, irritated, she slung him half a crown, and he sloped off down to the pub. I didn’t see him return, but I noticed another vomit-stained burn mark in the arm of his chair.

Some time later Les went to live with the Rolling Stones at 102 Edith Grove and wrote a book about the experiences of living with Keith Richards and Brian Jones, called Phelge’s Stones. They called him ‘Nanker Phelge’ on their record labels because of his nankering ways. Why he called himself James Phelge I never knew. But he described his early life saying that he escaped his unhappy childhood, begging and beaten, at the age of fifteen. ( Phelge’s Stones. ISBN 0-9664338-0-7)

After Les left it was just my Mum and Dad—apart from me, of course. I was really grateful at first and the house was strangely quiet. But I was puzzled when I began to realise there was only baby food in the house—there was nothing for me. And I worried I would be slung out next.

 

 

My Wooden Leg

 

I really wanted a little sister to play with, and I thought it would be great, as all young girls did. What I didn’t realise was how the family dynamics would place the burden on me.

Born in February 1957, my sister Jane tripped helplessly into my world, to share with me the pain of screaming, glue-trap-poverty. I could see no other advantage. Except, perhaps now the fighting between my parents was punctuated by the tormented hunger of a baby. The little crumbs of comfort afforded by an increase in state benefit hardly compensated for the misery that came with her.

Most days Mum would sit in her apron, puffing a fag, her slippered feet resting on the old black enamel oven door, the distinctive smell of burning town gas wafting up her open skirt.

This day was different.

As I came in from school the stench of tobacco smoke choked the air. I found her upstairs muttering to herself, staring out through the old yellow stained net curtains that clung to the back bedroom window.

“What’s for dinner, Mum?”

Silence

I thought it a little strange, although as a child, I did not take too much notice. I was more preoccupied with my hunger because I hadn’t eaten anything, apart from the free school milk at morning break. If I qualified for free school dinners (as I did from time to time), I would be called up to the desk at the front of the class and the teacher would shout out: “Those for free school dinners!” I would have to traipse out to the front, the only one, singled out, and the teacher would tick off my name in the register.  Sometimes I would rather go hungry. I know I should have suffered the humiliation of it all, but I thought I would get a hot meal at home, even though it might only have been potato and cheese mash.

“Him again, all his fault—fucking sod.”

“What is, Mummy?”

Silence,

“Are you coming down to do dinner?” I tried again.

“I don’t know—there isn’t any food to eat!” she shouted back. “It’s your father’s fault—we haven’t got any fucking money—I don’t know.”

Her voice trailed off in a series of mutterings I didn’t hear. I wandered downstairs, keeping my coat on.

“Why isn’t the fire lit?”

“There’s no fucking coal.”

“Why isn’t there any coal, Mummy?”

“It’s all yer father’s fault—now stop asking fucking stupid questions.”

“Can I have something to eat?”

“There isn’t anything, all right? Now fucking shut up about it—you’ll have to wait until yer father gets home.”

I skulked off into the kitchen, opened the tall larder cupboard and peered into the musty darkness. I waited impatiently for my eyes to adjust in the vain hope there would be something.

A few currants lay scattered on the middle shelf. I dragged the nearby kitchen chair across to the cupboard, and careful not to wake the baby, I stepped up.

High up by the window, I spotted a tall round packet of Farleys Rusks, some malt, and powdered baby milk. The rusks were free from the baby clinic, but for some reason Mum still didn’t like me taking them. Perhaps that was why they were high up!

I didn’t like malt, but what else could I do? I was hungry.

My little hands struggled to open the big jar of malt, and despite several attempts, it proved a puzzle. In the end I found if I wrapped the top in a tea towel, and wedged it close against my body, one determined effort would see it open.

Listening out for Mum all the time, I sat down at the table, and scraped out a spoonful of malt, spread it thinly on the rusk, and scoffed it before mother had a chance to find out. Afterwards, I sat silently cleaning the spoon by the old butler sink, before clambering back up on the chair to return the jar.

Scampering back to my room I snuggled, cocooned on my bed, losing myself in an old copy of the Beano I had scrounged from a kid at school.

Slam!

The house rocked. Dad didn’t usually slam the door so hard. He burst in and disappeared straight into the kitchen. Mum raced down the stairs. I heard loud voices.

I rushed to the landing and, straining to listen, I wondered if it signalled the start of another row. I heard only the last part of their conversation.

“Yeah okay, all right then, I’ll go and get her.”

“Get down here now, come on, get yer bloody shoes an yer coat, we’re going out!” Mum snapped.

I wondered what was going on. I hastily clambered down the stairs, grabbing my shoes and grubby little coat on the way.

“Where we going?”

Turning away from me, she looked at the floor, said nothing, then took my shoes.

“You’ll see—now don’t ask questions, and get yer shoes on.”

“Awe,” I groaned.

“Come on, lift yer bloody feet.” She dug her nails into my flesh.

Tugging my foot roughly, she caught my toe, sending a spike of pain up my leg. I didn’t dare say anything, and for once, I just did as I was told. I lifted my foot up, shoved my other shoe on, and left her to tie the laces.

“You’ve done ’em too tight.”

“Don’t fuss—they’ll be all right once you get moving—now shut up—get on the step!”

My coat had come from a mail order catalogue and it wasn’t too warm; the sleeves were too short, leaving my hands frozen in the cold night air. As the door slammed behind me I was jostled down the short path.

Mum wore a dark woollen coat that rendered her almost invisible, and I remember thinking how funny it looked, as if the pram was pushing itself. She grabbed my hand tightly, dragging me down Langhedge Lane, and along to the High Road.

It was cold, dark, and I could feel myself panic.

“Where we going? My feet are hurting. I don’t want to go—I don’t want to go! I want to go home.” I stamped my feet on the pavement and pulled my hand away.

“Be quiet, it’s not far now.” She dragged me back, squeezing my hands so tightly I couldn’t break free. Dad snatched the pram and left Mum to keep hold of me.  Frightened and confused, I clenched my little fists in my pocket as my mind started to worry. Were they going to dump me like Les? They had got rid of Les. Were they going to get rid of me? Dump me at the hospital or something?

“Mummy, I want to go home—I’m hungry,” I wailed, kicking the pram with my shoe so hard it almost tipped over.

Whack!

I fell back, my face stinging. I suddenly realised I had been given a message.

Between streams of warm tears, I desperately tugged at her hand, but it was no use—she was too strong for me and she wrenched me back time and time again.

“I want my dinner! Mummy, I’m hungry—I wanna go home!”

Thwack!

I could no longer feel my face; instead, it was replaced by an intense, numb tingling, as the full force of her rings bit into my flesh. For the first time I felt the taste of fresh blood. It trickled down the back of my throat, leaving a bitter raw taste.

I understood the message.

My lip, torn open, was now zipped shut. I backed off. This was new. Was it my turn now Les had left? But I was only a little girl—I hadn’t expected this.

As we approached Bruce Grove, Dad stopped by a high street shop, its bright lights glowing through the plethora of advertising posters pasted to the windows. I stood there, watching at the shop door as each customer came and went, flashing, like a lighthouse beacon in the mist.

Dad grabbed both my arms and raised his hand as if to hit me. I flinched. He knelt down to me and I could smell the drink on his breath. He wiped away my tears and, lifting my chin, he used his hanky to clean the blood from my lip. For a moment I felt his gentle touch, his caring side as if he was feeling guilty, although I couldn’t be sure.

He spoke softly.

“We need you to go into the shop and give the man a note for us.” He crooked round to Mum. “Ave yer got the note?”

She left the pram and sidled up.

“Yeah.” She retrieved a crumpled note from her coat pocket and quietly shoved Dad out of the way.

Held like a prisoner before the gallows, I gazed up at them as they both plotted and schemed. It was like they were on a secret mission, planning each move like some spy spoof movie, with one exception: I was the only one who wasn’t in on it. I wanted to escape, but Mum’s steely grip dissolved any thoughts of making a run for it.

“Here,” she muttered, thrusting the paper into my hand.

“Now look here.” She bent down to my face, holding my arms tightly. “I need you to go into the shop now and hand the man this note. Now you must make sure that yer give him this note, do yer understand?” She shook me as she spoke. “Have yer got it?”

“Yes!” I glanced back at her, sniffing through my tears.

“Are yer sure you know what to do?”

“Yes,” I said, still snivelling and trying to nod at the same time.

“Now don’t forget to wait for him to read it, yeah—that’s very important, have you got that?”

“Yes”

“And then—you’ve got to say that you haven’t had anything to eat—yeah—and please can you have it on tick? Now that’s important you say that right!” She lifted my head roughly, forcing me to look at her.

“Yes.” I lowered my head in nervous silence, and then, shuffling my feet from side to side, I attempted to kick a stone across the pavement, pretending to make out I wasn’t really with them.

“Now don’t forget to say you haven’t had anything to eat.” She shook me violently and I braced myself for another smack, but it didn’t come. Perhaps they didn’t want my face marked anymore.

Shivering from cold or fear, I don’t recall which, I stood on the pavement outside the shop door. I glanced back with a mixture of outright trepidation and sheer fear.

Spinning round, I faced the door. The shopkeeper stood in his white overalls, a big man, ruddy face, and it might have been fancy, but I swear he was angry as soon as he clapped eyes on me. It was like he knew what I was about to say.

Mum came up behind me and held me by the shoulders, then pointed me at the entrance to the shop once more.

THUMP.

I felt the blow of a hammer thrust me forward, as the light from the shop exploded full in my face like a stun grenade. Blinded and confused, I found myself half in and half out, in some sort of no man’s land.

Mother recoiled like a chameleon’s tongue, shooting back like some horrible vampire, gobbled up by the night.

Frantically I glanced back, but she had abandoned me. I was alone in the bright lights.

I wiped away my tears with the back of my cuff and took a deep breath.  But it was no use—I could feel the panic rising in my tummy. I refused to enter.

THUMP.

I felt another hammer blow between my shoulder blades, and suddenly I was staring into the abyss.

Spinning round, the shopkeeper spotted me clinging to the counter, a rather grubby note clutched tightly in my right hand. I sheepishly spat it across and stood back.

His sharp tongue cut the silence, bellowing so loudly the windows rattled.

“Can’t yer read?”

The customers turned to see his fat fingers pointing at the sign on the wall.

I swallowed hard. I shrivelled down.  I hadn’t noticed the sign, and I didn’t think Mum had either, but it said, “No credit.”

“I don’t want the likes of you here, so get out of my shop and don’t come back. Do yer see that, there on the wall?” His fat finger wagged at the notice once more. “Now what does it say?”

“Ner…n…no credit,” I stuttered.

“So bloody get out and stay out!” He grabbed the nearby broom as if to chase me out of the shop, although I thought it was more for effect than anything else.

I bolted out of the shop like a wounded whippet, anywhere, nowhere, blindly into the darkness of the High Street; fighting my way through the gathered crowd until I felt the cover of the darkness envelop me like a huge sheet of smog.

Finally I came to rest in a crumpled heap, surrounded by the familiar smell of beer, wafting like smoke signals, out onto the steps of the Red Lion pub. If beer were as volatile as petrol I wouldn’t have lit a match.

I looked back through my tears searching for Mum, but she wasn’t there, or the pram for that matter. I so wanted to run away and be like Les—to disappear silently into the night; yet I was too hungry. Instead, I sat there watching people come and go. I just didn’t know what to do.

A bunch of lads stumbled out through the pub door. I noticed that the tall skinny one, with his greasy hair and long sideburns, carried a packet of Smiths Crisps. I could taste them in the air from where I stood, just a few feet away.  At first, the lads didn’t seem to take much notice of me as they wandered over and lounged by the corner of the road. They were all laughing and joking with each other, and I could see they were in a boisterous mood. Then, without warning, the tall one turned round and clocked me as I sat, on the step of the pub, all alone.

My scruffy hair prickled as I shrunk back into the shadows, sliding slowly over against the side wall, its rough surface, like the night, cold and damp. I ruffled the collar of my coat, straightened my dress and tried to make myself invisible, although it didn’t seem to be working.

The tall one walked over to me, his knuckles clustered with rings, a chunky gold bracelet dangling from his wrist.  Looking directly into his face was like staring into the dark eyes of a Panther. The friendly banter was now choked into silence, as I felt a pervading sense of menace. Were they going to play some trick on me?

For the first time I wished Mum and Dad were close.

“Oh, no,” I muttered under my breath.

I got up and backed off, now terrified they were going to do something nasty. I half shuffled, half clawed myself away awkwardly, keeping my back against the wall, and trying to stay close to the pub door in case I needed to get help. Luck didn’t appear to be on my side and I was praying he would go away.

He didn’t.  He crept towards me, holding out a bag of crisps, as if trying to entice me closer.

I wasn’t convinced. After losing Les I didn’t trust anyone, not even my own Mum and Dad, let alone him.

I jumped back, my heart bursting in my chest, trapped up against the wall of the alley!

They all herded round like towering cattle ready to trample me, fencing me in with their intimidating wisecracks. I didn’t understand exactly what they were saying to me, but I began to realise from the tone of their voices, it didn’t sound good.

One of them suggested taking me back to their place and ‘giving me one’. I didn’t know what that was. I thought they were talking about a packet of crisps, until another said he wanted his turn, and apparently he was going to give me one as well. Either they were very kind, or I was about to be in grave danger. I couldn’t work out which way it was going to go.

“Here love, want a crisp?” the tall one lunged at me with an open packet.

I flinched and shot backwards, cracking my elbow against the wall. But despite the searing pain, I was determined not to let it distract me from my gaze. I started to shake uncontrollably. I tried to stop it. I couldn’t. I looked up at his face, now scared, alone, cold, and hungry.

“Please mister, leave me alone.”

The fat one reached over to claw at me.

“Don’t yer want it?” the others all jeered, egging him on.

I closed my eyes and then, collapsing to the floor like a rag doll, I put my hands over my face to make it all go away. It didn’t!

As I peered out from between my fingers, the tall one came so close I could read the tattoo on his wrist: ‘I Love Polly’.

“Here!” He flung the bag at my feet.

Turning quickly to his mates who were now all laughing, he grabbed the fat one by his jacket, and tried to drag him off and pull him away, but it didn’t work. The fat one snatched back, and grasping me by my coat, he lifted me up and swept me down the side of the pub, his big rough hands muffling my screams.

“Come on!” the tall one shouted, pulling at him once more. “Leave her alone. I’ve got some more beer at the flat.”

“Sounds good to me,” his fat friend grunted.

Dropped like a bundle of elephant dung, bruised and clinging to the floor, I was left there. They staggered off down the side of the pub, their rowdy banter echoing into the night.

 

I was still licking the salt from my lips when Mum arrived. I quickly stuffed the empty packet into my pocket and tried to look pleased to see her. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she grabbed my hand tightly. Dragging me along the High Street, we shot back down Joyce Avenue, across the ramp and over the railway line, until we came to a little corner shop off Somerset Road.

It was full of light spilling onto the pavement like a sheet of golden custard; an oasis in the urban desert, it stood proudly silent.

Without a word, she launched me into the shop and up to the empty counter.

The shopkeeper stopped what he was doing. It wasn’t difficult to spot me because I was the only person there.

He wandered over to me.

“Hello,” he smiled. “What’s this then?” He pointed to the little piece of crumpled paper tucked in my hand.

I looked up at him for what seemed like ages, struggling to contain my fear, and then, without taking my eyes off his face, I hesitatingly pushed the note halfway across the counter, and sprang back.

“Right,” he drew a deep breath, “let’s see what it says, shall we?”  His voice was loud, and his face towered above me as he glanced down. “It’s a note from Mum, is it?”

I didn’t answer, but stood frozen with my mouth open, eyes wide. Somehow I managed a nod whilst he fiddled in his top pocket for his reading glasses.

Everything seemed to be in slow motion as I watched him unfold his round spectacles, bending them over his ears. Picking up the note in his right hand, he began reading the first line.

He stopped, glanced down at me, shook his head, and then looked back at the note.

I just stared, frozen. I didn’t know why, but I guess I was watching for him to tell me off, or worse, chase me out of the shop and—I didn’t know, but I thought if I kept watching him perhaps I could tell what he was going to do.

He strolled over to me and peered down. His glasses slid down like the barrel of a gun, and the beads of his eyes shot me a glance for the first time.

Startled, I cowered down, my heart pounding as his apparently kind eyes turned frosty and cold.

I was ready to spring at the first sign of danger. But it was my turn to say it—to say my bit!

My throat dried. Perhaps it was the salt crisps, I didn’t know. I was struck dumb, as if suffering some frightening seizure. For a moment I thought I heard my mother prompt me, although it could have been the wind.

“Well come on—I haven’t got all night, you know,” his voice echoed around my head.

I sprang back—I looked up at him expectantly and then...

“I haven’t got anything to eat and...er...er... can I have it on tick, please?”

His eyes shot at me and I felt his stare, questioning, knowing, and telling. It was like being in the headmaster’s study, his eyes boring into my very soul. Could he see the truth inside me?
My resolve withered. I shrank back. He looked up.

His face changed, and then I noticed the hardness spreading like some awful rash across his face until he looked positively evil. I avoided his glance. I bowed my head, like my dad did when he went for a pee in the street.

Then he shone his gaze outside like some sort of super searchlight, peering out into the blackness. I watched him, my eyes now fixed on his gaze. Where he looked, I looked.  I followed his every move, his every gesture, and I noticed his every breath.

Would he, or wouldn’t he? I couldn’t tell—I didn’t know.

Looking up and down, I started to notice the stiffness in his back, and a slight change of the shape of the muscles on his shoulders. They were barely detectable as the hunch changed; yet I noticed a subtle shifting.

His eyes flicked down at the note once more. I followed his gaze as he stared out through the door. He shook his head, drew a deep breath and sighed like a dying man.

My tummy was gnawing inside. I asked myself why I chose to miss my dinner.

His shoulders dropped as he turned away from me. I watched the tension slowly disappear, almost as fast as it had begun, and then, his back straightened as he swung round to face me once more. I detected a softening, but I couldn’t be sure.

It was like watching someone blow up a balloon, puffing into it and then, with each additional breath, wondering if it would burst. What would he do?  I couldn’t stand it anymore—the not knowing. Something inside of me snapped. I knew I had to get out.

I could feel a sickening knot in my tummy, writhing and twisting like some awful snake. Trapped between the shopkeeper and Mother, I retched with bile. I was going to throw up. I turned my head and was just about to run out. I froze. An intense fear ripped into me.

I felt the warm comforting wet trickling down the inside of my leg.

Finally he picked up the note in his left hand! No one else knew what it meant, but it told me a great deal. It signalled the preparation to fetch things with his right hand. I had watched him through the window when I first arrived and I knew he was right handed.  Was he, I wondered, about to select items from the list?

He glanced down at me and his mood appeared to change, as if I was not the first little girl he had seen. In silence he turned back toward the shelves. I watched. I held my breath.

“Okay, now let’s see what we can do for you then, shall we, young lady?” He started to run through the list.

The air was tense as he began to lift cans from the shelf. Then, walking past me, he fetched the potatoes from a big Hessian sack by the door. Carefully, he weighed them on the old scales before tipping them into a paper bag.  He continued gathering things until, finally, he took a small packet of chocolate biscuits from the shelf beneath the counter and popped them into the bag. He left them on top for me to see.

“That’s about all I can manage for you today, love. Now tell your Mum she needs to settle up at the end of the week—Friday.” He pushed the bag across the counter.

“Thanks mister.”

I grabbed the bag and carried it outside into the darkness.

“Okay, I’ll take that.” Mum snatched the bag out of my hands.

Then, dragging me away as fast as she could, we slipped out into the blackness of the night.

 

Once over the ramp of the railway tracks, she bundled the shopping onto the bottom shelf of the pram. Dad came over and lifted me up on his back and gave me a piggyback home.

I was so pleased with myself—I felt the Hero! I had managed to get all the food for the family. I felt elated and happy, happier than I can remember. There I was with Dad giving me a piggyback. He was so proud of me and it felt so good. I really loved my Dad that day.

 

Begging for food from the shopkeepers became a way of life for me. Scouring the streets for a new shop further away in the hope that I wouldn’t be recognised became a challenge and a battle of wits. It didn’t get any easier and each time I was just as terrified.

There was always a sense of luck attached and when it didn’t turn out well, the trauma was horrendous. If I didn’t get it right, then we didn’t eat, or we didn’t have any coal to heat the house; either way, we all suffered.

I found I had to develop an intuitive understanding of body language to improve my chances of success. I learned to watch from the shop window, pick my time and choose my words carefully. It was a good strategy to wait for the wife to be out of the way. Women were the least compassionate, the more spiteful and hurtful. They would send me packing as soon as they saw me enter the shop, and then, turning to their husbands, scold them for not kicking me out sooner.

 

 

***

 

 

It upsets me when people say, “Doesn’t time heal and, besides, surely you must have got over your childhood by now?” Except, perhaps, they hadn’t considered that as a result of my childhood I am forever changed.

A man might lose his leg and people might say “Are you getting over it?” in the sense that, “Have you recovered and the wounded stump healed?” A man might have ‘got over it’—but he will always be a one-legged man.

They don’t understand. It never really goes away. I can’t change it or forget it. It is always there. Perhaps I shall be given a wooden leg one day. But for me it still feels like I am on crutches.

It was as though I had experienced some frightful brain transplant, and suddenly I had the full responsibility of the family. I was now financing my mother’s fags, my father’s drink and bringing up a baby. I was a mule in harness.

My spirit broken, my childhood in tatters—and this was just the beginning.

My childhood stopped the day Les left home. My innocence was lost because of what happened on that day. I told myself I must carry on because I knew nothing else, and what else could a little girl do?

I lived for hope—hope that it would get better. It got worse.

I died of shame—oh, so many times I could not tell. I let the tears fall in silence—I wanted it to stop. It didn’t.

Unlike Peter Pan, I didn’t lose my shadow—I lost my childhood.

And I will never get it back.