Look Back in Hunger Page 13

  Suffice it to say, we had words.

  I chugged along at Barnardo’s for a while, occasionally seeing Dave, although it wasn’t going well. I suppose after everything we had been through, the curse of familiarity was setting in. We’d known each other for three years by now, so the initial flush of excitement had worn off ages ago.

  I enjoyed the job, even though it was hard work and the hours were long. It was important to party hard too, I told myself, because I was only nineteen. And party we did. There was a group of about ten of us who would meet at the weekends and find something to do. We would drive out to country pubs, go back to someone’s flat and put loud music on and dance, or go to Tunbridge Wells’ premier nightclub, the Tropicana. At this time, my gay friend Andy was working in a wine bar, so often we would stay late there, just talking rubbish and having a laugh.

  One woman in our group, Sarah, was a bit older than the rest of us and could have worked as a model, she was so beautiful. Her drinking caused her to behave in a rather mad and uncontrolled way, however. One weekend in the summer, she and I decided to do a bit of raspberry-picking. We soon got bored with it and repaired to the pub. In the pub we met two posh blokes, one of whom had recently taken over a National Trust stately home, and they invited us back for a drink. They cracked open several bottles of champagne and Sarah and I got completely slaughtered. Sarah was supposed to be working in the wine bar that night, so at about six o’ clock we staggered out and fell into her butterscotch-coloured MG. Of course, she shouldn’t have been driving. Neither of us were wearing seatbelts and we went haring round the narrow country lanes in a highly dangerous fashion. After we’d gone a couple of miles, a car overtook us and flagged us down. We stopped and a rather officious middle-aged man got out and walked over. He told Sarah he had been following us and she was obviously drunk and should pull over until she sobered up. We tried to look serious but we were giggling like five-year-olds. As soon as he disappeared round the corner, we roared off again and as we came up to some red lights at Pembury, Sarah wasn’t paying attention and shunted right into the car of the man who had told us off.

  Sarah, fearful of being caught, as she was already banned from driving, got out of the car and legged it down the road. I had hit the dashboard and was bleeding copiously from the face, but I was still giggling hysterically. About a hundred yards down the road, Sarah’s escape was curtailed by two policemen who had clocked her car at the lights, knowing it well, and they arrested her. I was driven as far as the police station with her and then shoved out to make my own way home. Some years later, Sarah died in mysterious circumstances in a South American jail, her whole life seemingly a long and tragic but very exciting novel.

  One night I had been to a fancy-dress party and arrived home very, very, very drunk. I somehow convinced myself that I didn’t want to go straight to sleep, despite the fact that I was virtually unconscious, so, having run out of change for the electric meter, I lit a candle next to my bed and switched on the telly. But within seconds I fell into the deep sleep of inebriation.

  I’m not sure whether it was smoke or heat that woke me, but I sat up with a start and realised that my bed seemed to be on fire. I had knocked a blanket on to the candle and it was smouldering. So, as one does in these situations (like they happen all the time), I staggered to my delightfully minuscule kitchenette/evil-smelling cupboard, filled a jug with water and poured it over the smoulder. Sorted.

  I got back into bed and went to sleep again. I’m not sure how much later I woke up, but it still seemed really hot and there appeared to be a glow coming from under my mattress. At this point, I did an extremely stupid thing that I wouldn’t have done if I’d listened in physics lessons or not been pissed out of my head: I lifted up the mattress to inspect it. As soon as the oxygen hit it, the whole bloody thing went out of control. The curtains caught fire, the telly exploded and suddenly I was Miss Havisham in my own version of Great Expectations.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BED-SIT BLOW-UP

  At the point the curtains burst into flames, immediate sobering-up occurred and I thought that I’d better do something. I knocked on my next-door neighbour’s bed-sit door and he opened it in his pyjamas—a sweet, rather unassuming man. I tried to play things down somewhat and said something like ‘I’ve got a small fire in my room.’ Wearily, and somewhat pissed off about being woken up, he walked the few steps across the hall with me and opened the door to my grimy little bed-sit to be presented with a raging inferno which had really taken hold. For a mild-mannered guy, he managed some impressive swear words and ran to the phone box in the hall and dialled 999.

  The situation continued to progress surreally and, as I hadn’t fully sobered up, I watched the resulting chaos through the protective gauze of inebriation, which was a big help, as the full force of it didn’t hit me until sometime during the following days.

  The fire brigade and the police arrived within minutes. I don’t think they really had much excitement in Tunbridge Wells, so when they got there it felt a bit like being assailed by a combination of the SAS and some overgrown schoolboys. Enthusiastic to a fault and armed with big, grown-up equipment, they set to work. I was taken off at this point, a slightly gooey, sobbing heap, wearing my nightie and a coat with the arm burned off. A very sweet policewoman shoved me in the back of a police car and put a packet containing ten fags and a lighter in my hand, and I sat in the car and chain-smoked the lot.

  Meanwhile, the boy scouts with hoses had run rampant in the flat and by the end of their ministrations, what hadn’t been burned was soaked in water and ruined. They had broken the big bay window and charged in, all hoses blazing, and the fire was out in a matter of minutes, I suppose.

  I suspect my sobbing had reached a slightly worrying/unmanageable stage because I was then taken to the local hospital’s casualty department and given some sort of pill to calm me down. Then they agreed to deliver me to a friend’s house for the night. They tried to call in advance but no one answered, so we ended up on the doorstep at about three thirty in the morning, while a policeman holding what probably looked like a bedraggled bundle of damp, burned rags rang the doorbell. As soon as the door was answered by the boyfriend of my friend, it became apparent why they hadn’t answered the phone—they were having a bit of a ‘sesh’, as we used to call it. So much highly pungent smoke of the illegal variety escaped out of the door while we stood there, I’m surprised the policeman didn’t faint, but he stalwartly stood his ground, refusing to acknowledge that criminal activity was taking place, and I thank him for that. The boyfriend was handed the bundle of rags (me) and I was escorted knackered, weeping and pissed into the house, where his girlfriend and my friend Andy were. Andy was staying there temporarily, and I climbed into his sofabed with him and dropped off.

  The next morning, it has to be said, my life looked pretty bleak. I had lost everything, including my guitar, which I would tunelessly strum occasionally, trying to sing Dylan and Neil Young songs, all my clothes and my big (to me) collection of about two hundred records. I hadn’t really ever been a dedicated materialist but from that day onwards I’ve never allowed myself to get too attached to things, because I suppose I have assumed that at some point they will disappear in a puff of smoke (literally).

  What I’d grab in a fire these days:

  1. Husband and children, obviously.

  2. Cats.

  3. Computer. One exploded recently and, as I am not a nerd, I hadn’t backed anything up.

  4. My little orange book of jokes. Unlike Bob Monkhouse’s book, which was a big, leather-bound jobbie, mine is a series of small red memo books stuck together with Sellotape.

  5. The telly. I love watching telly so much. I think this is probably because it was rigorously limited when I was a child, so I tend to see it as a forbidden delight and will watch any old crap on it, apart from the Budget, which is so dull that not even I, Telly Addict, can stomach it.

  Back to the story. I didn’t go to work the nex
t day. A friend called in to say that I wasn’t in a fit state and, besides, had nothing to wear, and she reported back to me that the house parents I worked for didn’t seem too happy about the fact that I had taken a day off for a mere fire, in which all my belongings and my accommodation had been consumed.

  My friends had a whip-round and I managed to get a few items of clothing together and set off for work the following day, only to be greeted with a slightly cold attitude and obvious dissatisfaction that I had not been there the day before. To say I was in a hypersensitive state doesn’t really describe it adequately and, of course, a row developed, the end result of which was me advising the two of them that they could stuff their job ‘up their arses ‘and walking out of the place in the most dignified way I could manage.

  The complex was quite a way from the centre of town and, as I strode angrily along, it suddenly hit me that I had no home, no belongings and no job. The future didn’t look bright or orange; it looked pretty black.

  I didn’t really regret leaving Barnardo’s. I felt I had ‘done my time’ and, given the circumstances, the fire was probably timely in the sense that it gave me the boot up the arse that I needed to move on. I missed the kids and Julia, but not so much that I wanted to go back.

  I suspect some people in this situation would have sat down at the side of the road and sobbed. For some reason, I didn’t. I’m a fairly pragmatic person who tries to take life as it comes, and unless you are completely alone in the world—and that must be awful—I think you can always find someone who will help you out. I am Mrs Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By and I would hope that I have given enough support to friends and family for them to return the favour. So, as the song goes, it was in my nature to pick myself up, dust myself down and start all over again.

  So I did what I think everyone would do in that situation if they could. It is the natural reaction in times of extreme distress. A little girl’s voice in my head kept repeating ‘I want my mum!’

  I called my mum from a phone box halfway along the road. As ever, she took the news pretty calmly and matter-of-factly and told me to hang on in there and that she would pick me up. Sure enough, forty-five minutes later, she came bowling along in her red MG Midget, with the roof down, scooped me up and ferried me back home.

  ‘Back home’ at that point was an isolated cottage up a long drive in rural Sussex, near the curiously named village of Herstmonceux, which has a castle and a well-known observatory. Once there, I took on a series of unpalatable and dull jobs while I tried to get myself back on my feet.

  I’ve never been a big fan of isolated country cottages and, despite the beauty of the surroundings, I couldn’t really settle there. There were beautiful cornfields in front of the house and verdant woodland behind it, and yet an atmosphere of foreboding seemed to hang over the place. My parents were back together at that point, having separated a few times, and it looked like this recent reconciliation would probably only be temporary too.

  The atmosphere between my parents was not easy to cope with. Even though they tried hard to hide it, it was difficult to ignore the situation and we knew things weren’t right. I think a parental separation inevitably makes children insecure, and it doesn’t matter what age you are. Although I couldn’t have put my finger on the effect it was having, I felt slightly anxious a lot of the time and a bit worried about my dad. I think, on the whole, without wanting to diss dads, in a traditional household, the mum is the centre of it all and if that piece is taken out of the jigsaw, things tend to fall apart. There is an argument for and against separation. It’s ‘for the sake of the children’ versus ‘splitting to create a better atmosphere’. I would always hope that couples who can’t live together would seriously consider separating, because, in the long run, the acute pain of that is easier to cope with as a child than the chronic, long-drawn-out pain caused by a bad marriage. What seem to be the most important elements are that you are as truthful as you can be with children without offloading all the crap on to them, you don’t force them to take sides and use them as allies and you reassure them that it’s not their fault.

  My mum and dad played their cards very close to their chests, so we would only be told that my mum was leaving the day before it happened. My mum did not confide in me and I don’t feel she should have done. I know many mothers have a sort of ‘best friends’ relationship with their daughters, but I’ve always felt this was a bit inappropriate and slightly cringey. It takes away any sense of authority from the parent, which they need in order to be the grown-up in the relationship.

  One incident that occurred while I was at the cottage made me roar with laughter. Knowing my dad loved Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, my brother Bill bought him Derek and Clive Live for his birthday. This was a shocking album at the time because it was so utterly filthy and included tracks with such a degree of swearing and rudeness that the right-wing press had thrown their hands up in despair and alarm.

  My dad didn’t know any of this, so he suggested we put it on and listen to it together. We all sat round and on went the first track, which was a conversation between Pete and Dud about the worst jobs they’d ever had. When we got to ‘pulling lobsters out of Jayne Mansfield’s bum’ off came the record, an embarrassed silence filled the air and it was never mentioned again.

  Not one for filth, my dad, and I’m sure he hasn’t found it easy to listen to the more extreme elements of my comedy but, all power to him, he never mentions it.

  One day, as my dad was wandering round the woods at the back of the house, he discovered a complete set of women’s clothing scattered over a small area, some draped on bushes and some on the ground. My dad had watched enough TV detective series to know you didn’t disturb evidence, so he left the stuff there. A call to the police and an investigation elicited no further information. Well, that finished me off psychologically and I couldn’t wait to leave the place.

  I worked for a little while at a local plant nursery, a very demanding job which involved pulling the heads off chrysanthemums, I suppose to encourage the main bloom to grow by discarding the smaller, less attractive ones, although my knowledge of gardening is minuscule. That job lasted the blink of an eye. I also worked briefly in a local French restaurant, with a predictably temperamental chef. I was the kitchen helper, his wife waitressed and he cooked—far too few staff for the size of the restaurant.

  One day he was ordering me around the kitchen in his usual fascistic style. Normally I just got on with it, albeit silently and grumpily. However, that day, whether it was due to hormones or just plain tiredness, I was on edge. He knocked a big bowl of garlic that I had just peeled onto the floor by accident and turned to me with the words ‘Pick it up.’

  I wouldn’t have minded picking it up had there been an apology, a please or both, but I was in no mood to be treated like some Gollum-type slave. So I kept quiet and patiently picked it all up while he stood there and watched, rinsed it in the sink, dried it, put it back into the bowl and then emptied the bowl on the floor and left the kitchen and the job with the words ‘You pick it up.’

  I will work as hard as I can, twenty-four hours a day if I have to, but I cannot abide anyone treating another human being like a piece of dirt, whatever the context. I realise I had the privilege of being able to walk out of that job without incurring any lasting consequences. I’m aware there are many millions of people who can’t, and I feel desperately sorry for them.

  Anyway realising that I missed the town, I decided to return to Hastings, where my brother Matt was living. Matt would have been about seventeen or eighteen at the time. He was a sensitive soul, very into his music and not desperately into school. At the time he had a job as a court clerk and was not that keen on the job either, because it was dull. He just saw it as a means to an end, so he could earn money to entertain himself at the weekend.

  One night he was at a party and someone told him a couple of guys wanted to chat to him outside. He was a bit of a hippie at the time—long hair, flared jeans,
colourful scarf—and very good looking. He went outside and the door slammed behind him. There were two squaddies in front of him who just didn’t like the look of him. They, not to put too fine a point on it, proceeded to kick the shit out of him. He was in a very bad way and despite screaming for help, the music from the party was too loud to bring anyone out until the damage was done. His face was a mess and he was bruised everywhere. I suspect that this incident was responsible for what happened next in his life. He upped and left England and went to work on a kibbutz, and he has never lived here since. In Israel he met a Dutch girl and ended up in Holland for a bit and then met a German girl, Bibi, whom he subsequently married. They have a son, Max, who’s now grown up. My German family has given me intense pleasure. Bibi’s dad, Helmut, was a warm and lovely guy, an ex-soldier who was shot during the Second World War while in Czechoslovakia and marched to Russia, where he remained until five years after the war. He used to tell such colourful tales of his time in Russia and we all loved him. He sadly died a few years ago.

  Matt and I get on very well. He is good fun and takes life at his own pace.

  When I went back to Hastings, I had nowhere to live initially so I moved in with Matt who was existing in one room. He did, however, have a big sliding wardrobe, so we put some bedding in there and at night I would ease myself in and close the sliding door. It wasn’t comfortable in the slightest but it did for a few weeks.

  Eventually Matt and I shared a flat together and had a lovely time. Dave, my beau, had also moved back to Hastings by then, but I was dubious about rekindling a living-together situation. So I occasionally stayed with him, but as this was during the winter and his room seemed colder than an industrial fridge, I wasn’t there often.

  After a few weeks in the new flat, I didn’t feel too well. I had a persistent pain in my abdomen which my GP rather conveniently ignored, advising the usual two paracetamol. One night the pain became so unbearable that my brother called an ambulance. I was taken off to casualty and it turned out to be peritonitis, for which I had to have an emergency operation. Looking back, what I remember most is that the non-smoking patients had a lounge with a colour telly and us lepers only had a black and white. I moaned non-stop at the time, but even a decent hospital room and not some rubbish-strewn fire escape eight miles away would be good these days.