Look Back in Hunger Page 10

  It seems to be my lot in life to be unlucky at moments of extreme deception, because after I had left, my friend Jane phoned my house to see what I was doing, having forgotten I said I was going to the cinema, and, on being questioned by my mum, let slip where I was and who with. This was in no way malicious. Coming from a liberal family, she had no idea that such a film would be off limits and was probably just being chatty.

  I came out of the cinema, giggling and joking, to find both my mum and dad sitting in the car right in front of us, looking extraordinarily unhappy, to put it mildly. Knowing how scary my dad could be, I felt like legging it up the road and never coming back. But he grabbed me. There were some half-hearted attempts on behalf of my escorts to prevent me being hauled off into the dragon’s den, but they were no match for my dad, who could comfortably have been described as incandescent at that point. His glowering anger was too much for any semi-stoned hippy. They melted away and left me to my fate.

  This incident seems to have been the opportunity for my dad to demonstrate his rage about the way in which my life was going. When we got home, it absolutely poured out of him. He stood very still and shouted as loud as he could. And, bloody hell, was that loud! We covered my appearance, the way I smelled so appallingly of patchouli, my friends, my attitude, my school performance … the lot.

  In his fury, he was obviously punting around for some way to confirm just what a huge disappointment I was to them and how changes were going to be made. I got a sense of my mum’s ambivalence. I’m sure she was equally as angry and upset as my dad, but I think she might have handled the whole thing slightly differently. Especially considering what followed.

  He told me to go upstairs and get all my clothes—the Laura Ashley skirts, jeans and scruffy T-shirts were a huge source of irritation. This I did and, to my amazement, he gathered them all up into a pile, walked out into the garden with them, got some petrol from the shed, poured it over them and set fire to the whole bloody lot. I could not believe it. Absolutely every item of clothing I loved sat in front of me consumed by flames and my identity sailed up to the heavens in plumes of thick, black smoke.

  In among the clothes that were burning were some items I really loved—a white and grey long skirt which fitted perfectly and was admired by all my friends, a scruffy blue jumper, baggy beyond belief, which was almost like a comfort blanket, and a pair of green, very flared loons which had dragged on the ground so much they were straggly at the bottom and almost fringed.

  I felt a mixture of rage, fear and disbelief as I watched all my stuff turning to ashes. I was too frightened to do anything other than stare stony-faced at the inferno, wearing my dressing gown because that was all I had left.

  I slept well that night because emotional traumas don’t keep me awake. If I am tired, which I was, I just go to sleep, whether the rabbit’s just died or we are on the brink of a nuclear war. It’s always been that way and it’s great.

  I can understand why my dad was so angry. After all, seeing one’s only daughter emerge from a filthy film with a load of filthy hippies is enough to make the top of any dad’s head blow off. As for the burning of the clothes, well, one way to see it is as an extreme version of Trinny and Susannah, I suppose.

  The following morning a funereal atmosphere hung over the house. I, clothes-less, had to sit tight until my mum went off down to Marks & Spencer in the town and bought me some ‘suitable’ garments to wear. I don’t really remember what these were, but they were generally of a bland and tweedy nature.

  Things didn’t really get much better. I was on the phone on the upstairs landing one evening, talking to a casual boyfriend, when my dad, again at the end of his tether, this time because Neil Young was playing rather too loudly out of my bedroom, came running up the stairs, told the phone receiver to fuck off, ran into my bedroom and drop-kicked my record player against the wall. I don’t think that Neil Young album ever recovered, and neither did the boy on the end of the phone.

  Once things had started to calm down a bit, I began to take liberties again. Dave and I had started to see each other a bit and one night he invited me to the pub for a friend’s birthday. I told my parents some lie or other about where I was going. It all went swimmingly well until, on the way home, I realised I had lost my purse in the pub. There hadn’t been much in it, so I didn’t worry too much … until the next morning.

  At around ten the doorbell rang. Everyone was around and I answered the door. Standing on the doorstep was a big, unshaven Hell’s Angel in black leather with various skulls and crossbones painted about his person. He was very tall, slightly chubby and had extraordinarily greasy hair. Apart from that, he was very attractive.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Can I help you?’

  In his hand he was holding my purse. ‘Found this,’ he said gruffly, ‘thought you might need it.’

  My first thought was ‘Oh fuck, I’ve been rumbled,’ and I grabbed it, said, ‘Thanks very much,’ and tried to shut the door in his face.

  It was too late. My mum had arrived at the door.

  ‘What is it, dear?’

  Our anti-hero intervened. ‘I was just returning this purse I found.’

  A broad smile spread across my mum’s face. ‘Lovely,’ she said and turned to me. ‘Didn’t even know you’d lost it.’

  My heart was thumping and my brain was trying to will him not to tell her. ‘Yes, I must have dropped it when I was out,’ I said.

  ‘Found it in the Anchor,’ he said (the bastard).

  The smile flitted away to be replaced by stoniness. ‘Well, thank you very much,’ said my mum. ‘We appreciate it. Goodbye.’

  I think Mr Nasty was hoping for a reward. But he was lucky he didn’t get thumped, being the bearer of such ignominious news.

  A three-month curfew ensued. There followed several weeks of sitting in my room, spilling bile into my diary and blowing fag smoke out of the window as my only entertainment.

  If you are a teenager, staying in for three months is like being killed. It was unbearable. I was allowed to see a few friends during the day at weekends and I used to meet a friend, Kate, who lived just round the corner. I wasn’t that close to or particularly friendly with her, but the ease of location was enough to bring us together. She was tall with long hair, John Lennon pebble glasses and white, almost translucent skin. One day we got talking about drug experiences. Someone had told me that you could make tea out of cigarettes for asthmatics and, because they had Benzedrine in them, they gave you quite a buzz. So I sent Kate off to Boots to buy them because she looked older, more studious and therefore more convincing than I did. I waited expectantly at home until she phoned me and said excitedly that she had got them.

  I told my mum I was popping round to hers for a chat and arrived looking forward to trying something a bit spectacular. Kate’s mum was also in, but, under the pretext of making tea, Kate filled a small teapot with boiling water and we took it up to her room. We weren’t sure how many fags to put in the pot, so we plumped for three. They immediately disintegrated and as we didn’t have a tea strainer, we were forced to pour out cups of tea with bits of tobacco floating in them. It didn’t look very inviting. It didn’t taste very inviting either— bitter and tobacco-y—but we forced it down and sat waiting for a result for about twenty minutes. Nothing happened, and I knew I had to be back for tea, so I left. I felt very slightly strange on the way home, but it was nothing particularly mind-altering, so I just forgot about it and the feeling passed.

  After tea, the phone rang and I picked it up. It was a very angry Kate’s mum, demanding to speak to my mother. I mumbled something about her being busy and slammed the phone down. Of course it rang again straight away and my mother, sensing that something was afoot, picked it up. She listened intently for about half a minute and then said something like ‘Yes, I will indeed, yes, thank you.’ She turned to me and I knew it was bad.

  It seemed Kate had been far more affected than me by our ‘tea’ and, in a semi-hysterical
state, had attempted to jump out of her bedroom window and had had to be pulled in by her mother. Obviously, to make herself the innocent in the crime, she had spilled the beans and blamed it all on me. It was my idea, I’d bought the cigarettes, and I’d made the tea and had virtually forced her to drink it. I protested my innocence, but it fell on deaf ears and, once more, I was grounded for a very long time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OUT OF MY MIND

  By the beginning of my second year at Hastings High School, battle had well and truly commenced. Arguments ranged from what I wore—as I had managed to sneak a few items of very unpalatable clothing back into my wardrobe—how little work I did, what my friends were like, where I wanted to go out and what state my bedroom was in. I don’t suppose it was particularly different from any teenager’s bedroom. It wasn’t dirty, it was just a mess, because I am a messy person. There were books piled everywhere, ranging from poetry to Dickens to detective novels, clothes all over the floor and records piled up or just lying around out of their sleeves. I think this is one area where we women differ hugely from men. I am very bad at putting things like CDs and DVDs back in their cases. Yes, I know it ruins them, but for some reason I don’t give a shit—never have and never will.

  At one point, my mum did that stereotypical thing that mums do: she read my diary. Of course, when are you ever going to find out anything you actually want to know when you do that? I suspect my mum was torn between wanting to allow me to be a private person and being desperate to know what I was up to. I don’t blame her at all for doing it. It must have been an irresistible temptation and, as far as I know, she didn’t actually go looking for it; she was ‘tidying up’ at the time. Still, ‘tidying up’ can be a euphemism for ‘I was examining your belongings with a magnifying glass.’

  I didn’t really feel shocked, I felt embarrassed. Even I, as a teenager myself at the time, knew what a complete load of old cobblers teenagers write in their diaries, how badly written it is and how horrible it is to think of someone, even someone in the family, reading it.

  There was a description of going to a party and taking LSD and the resulting mind chaos. Of course, I realise an icy hand must have gripped her heart when she read it, as the generations that separate us all necessarily dictate that our knowledge of the following generation’s drug of choice is beyond our grasp. Thus my ingestion of ‘acid’ caused a combination of huge panic and anger.

  From my point of view at the time, they knew nothing about drugs and were being completely histrionic. They drew a natural line through from smoking dope to heroin addiction via cocaine and speed. Inside, I knew drugs would never be my vice of choice, but it was impossible to convince them that I knew what I was talking about because their own young lives had been so relentlessly drug-free.

  The experience itself had been amazing. I was at a party in a farmhouse with lots of people I knew, we were having a real laugh, someone had got some acid and so, with much giggling laced with pure fear, we all swallowed some.

  I suppose I put any fears to one side in pursuit of a new and exciting experience. We’d all heard things about acid, people thinking they could fly and that kind of thing, but I think with the benefit of a bit of alcohol my confidence increased and I tried to feel positive and self-contained because someone had told me that if you are fearful in any way you will have a really bad trip.

  It was a tiny little pink pill, very innocuous-looking. I didn’t do any staring at it or any introspective internal arguing with myself, the room didn’t start to spin as I considered the possibilities of what it could do, I just whacked it down my throat.

  What a brilliant experience. Visually, everything became so much clearer and more colourful, as if lit from behind. Trees, particularly, took on huge significance for me and I stood staring at them for ages. Anything I examined closely seemed to take on a face. I remember staring at a plate of ham sandwiches which all had the face of the easy-listening American crooner Andy Williams and I began singing ‘Can’t Get Used To Losing You’. I also chatted with a Bob Dylan poster for some considerable time.

  Yes, I know, bloody boring to watch. That’s why people who take drugs are so dull. They just stand or sit staring blankly into the middle distance with a kind of goofy grin on their faces and they have nothing to say to you.

  I realise that I was one of the lucky ones, and that I took a real chance by ingesting a mind-altering substance such as acid. The fact is that most people who take it survive emotionally intact, although some don’t and become well acquainted with the inside of psychiatric wards. Because, in a basic way, it could be said that taking LSD is a bit like being psychotic. You certainly lose your grip on reality for a short period of time and your behaviour can be out of control. And there are some people who have some sort of congenital instability who take something like acid and it does seem to tip them over the edge into permanent mental illness. So this is not a manifesto for drugs. It was an amazing experience but I never willingly repeated it because, even then, I realised that something that was so powerful in terms of altering my mind had the potential to do enormous damage, and I didn’t want to take the risk again.

  However, this mind-altering experience drove another nail into the coffin of my good relations with my parents, and things began to speed towards the final countdown.

  I feel sorry for my parents in hindsight. I don’t think I was easy to deal with. For a start, I was so resentful, but, worse, I was self-righteous about it and that was quite a hard nut for them to crack. I was also stubborn and on a mission to make them feel bad and not give an inch. I suspect that because they were not of a generation in which teenagers rebelled by being sulky, hormonal and not very grateful for what they were given, they were really up against it. In their book, things were going from bad to worse. For my part, I felt in control and safe. Both of us were partly wrong.

  The other thing I did as a teenager was a lot of hitchhiking, being short of cash and without a car. When I look back on this now, I am seized by fear, as the random nature of attacks on women in vulnerable situations like this means anything could have happened to me at any time. Perhaps the most memorable trip was from Hastings to Bexhill, a journey of about two miles, one Friday evening on my way to a party. A scruffy lorry stopped containing about four men, all sitting on the front bench seat. They were Irish, ranging in age from early twenties to about mid-sixties.

  ‘Where are you going, love?’ one shouted out of the cab.

  Seeing there were a few of them, an instinct made me say, ‘Oh, it’s all right, I’m nearly there, I can walk.’

  They rejected this and two of them jumped out of the cab, making encouraging noises, and invited me to climb up and sit in the middle of them.

  Note to Teenage Girls

  a) Don’t hitchhike; it’s not worth the risk.

  b) If you’ve ignored a) and you have any instinct that something is wrong, don’t get in out of politeness, because you are probably right.

  c) If you have ignored a) and b) and you get in, at least give yourself an emergency exit, so if necessary you can dive out and leg it.

  I, of course, had not followed any of these guidelines and found myself in a four-Irishmen sandwich. Initially they were playful and reasonably unthreatening, but slowly the atmosphere changed and comments began to be made about my looks, an arm went round me and I began to wish I was a black-belt in karate.

  I don’t really know what made me say it, but I introduced into the conversation that I was at a convent and when I left I was going to become a nun. I must be a better actor than I think, because the atmosphere changed again. The arm disappeared from round my shoulder and an almost respectful mood emerged. They dropped me off some two minutes later and I stood by the side of the road feeling I had escaped something grim.

  This enormous risk I had taken was so that I could go to a party with Dave. Our relationship had moved through various stages, from eyeing each other across pubs, to tentatively chatting, to meetin
g in the pub, to me being invited to stay at his house.

  I’d managed to convince my parents that I was staying at Helen’s house. Very occasionally this deception worked and I managed to get out for a whole glorious night. I met Dave at a nearby pub and we went on to the party, in some anonymous flat where several people were just lying around on cushions, a few were dancing and quite a lot were entwined, snogging. Lots of joints were being passed around and endless new ones were being rolled. I remember that being able to roll a joint was a bit of a badge of honour in those days, and it was frowned upon if you produced a loosely put together one that disintegrated in your hands or one that was so tightly rolled that nothing happened when you sucked it. Unfortunately, I was crap at it, having all the dexterity of someone wearing woolly gloves. Nothing was ever said, but disdainful eyebrows were definitely raised.

  After the party, the story was concocted that if Helen’s parents asked where I was the following morning, she would say I had stayed with someone else, and off I went back to Dave’s house for our first night together. In the garden was a big shed, which was apparently called a summerhouse. It was very nice inside, with a bed, a table and chairs and cushions thrown about everywhere. I intended to leave early in the morning, as we had agreed that it wasn’t the right time to ‘meet the parents’. Having discovered they were up and about at seven thirty-ish, the alarm was set for seven and we drifted into an alcohol-fuelled coma. Of course, the alarm went off without either of us hearing it. I woke up and, when my brain had engaged and my eyes had focused, realised that it was more like eight o’clock. I was in a huge state of panic. My beau suggested that if all was quiet, the only place I needed to worry about being seen from was the dining-room window.