All of Me Read online

  Every so often I would get found out for some mischief or other. Whereas at school I’d have received the ruler or perhaps even the slipper on the backside, Dad preferred to turn a blind eye whenever possible. Mum too. With her it was an all-or-nothing response. Sometimes she’d barely acknowledge my naughtiness. On other occasions she would fly at me with a rolling pin or rolled-up newspaper so I’d dart upstairs. She’d begin following, then stop, with me skulking inside my room safe in the knowledge Mum would already be turned around and wandering back down. She never made it to the top. You knew you were safe up there.

  Mum was happy enough pulling us into line but she refused to get involved in any outside quarrels. You know what kids are like. One minute you’re best friends with someone, then they’ve said something or borrowed something and you’ve fallen out like it’s World War Three and you’re on different sides. I remember being hit by a little girl on our street and went flying in to tell Mum – who couldn’t have been less interested.

  ‘You’ll have to sort it out yourselves,’ she said, barely looking up from her newspaper.

  ‘But she hit me!’

  Mum sighed. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘Tell her off!’ It was all I could think of. That’s what she’d do if it were me or Lorraine.

  ‘I’m not telling anyone off,’ she said flatly. ‘There’s no point. You’ll have made up in two minutes.’

  She was always like that. Never wanted to get involved with kids’ business. Nan, on the other hand, was my champion. She must have been out this day, otherwise I would have gone straight to her. Nan didn’t think twice about tearing up the path and grabbing the first child she met by the scruff of their neck. It didn’t matter if it was the right one or not, they were getting a piece of her mind. No one messed with Nan’s little girls.

  There was only one occasion I can think of where Mum really got herself involved in something I’d done. It was cold weather so we were allowed to wear tights at school and somehow I must have snagged the top of them on the underside of my desk. The head of a nail was sticking out from the woodwork and that must have done it. I was lucky it only ripped my tights and not my skin. Mum didn’t see it that way.

  ‘You can’t be trusted with anything!’

  She looked particularly threatening at the time. A few days earlier Lorraine had been too ill to finish her newspaper delivery round so Mum had gone out instead. I don’t know the last time Mum had ever ridden a bike but she only managed a few houses before falling off and spraining her wrist. So now, as she gesticulated angrily at me, all I could think was how much it would hurt if her wrist plaster cast connected with me.

  I explained what had happened and waited for her to say she didn’t believe me, as usual. Weirdly, she just listened, then said, ‘Right, get our coats.’

  Half an hour later we were back at the school and Mum was shouting at my teacher for endangering her daughter’s health by leaving sharp nails sticking out of the furniture. I was so embarrassed. I thought, Nothing good will come of this. I’ll have to pay somehow.

  That’s how it seemed to work with teachers. They didn’t let you get away with anything.

  It wasn’t the only time Mum’s behaviour had consequences. As a result of all the antibiotics pumped into me to combat the double pneumonia when I was born, my teeth had become seriously discoloured. At first Mum told me not to worry because as soon as my baby teeth dropped out, my adult ones would be as white as new. Then she spoke to a dentist and suddenly there was a change of plan. Without immediate action, she was told, there was a good chance that my baby teeth could actually infect the new teeth as they formed. In the 1960s this could be treated in one of two ways. Generally, the dentist would paint the affected teeth with a protective black coating to stop the rot spreading. To me that sounded vile. Who wants to have black teeth?

  I had no idea that the other option available was even worse – but Mum did.

  ‘That’s the coward’s way out,’ she explained. ‘But we’re brave, aren’t we?’

  I nodded, not realising the consequences.

  The alternative to having your teeth blacked out was having them extracted. One by one. That was Mum’s plan. She was going to get to the root of the problem – and have them all out.

  I was fine about it up to the point that my name was called. Then I stepped into the dentist’s room and saw his assistant preparing the tray of gleaming, silver tools. That’s when it dawned on me what was about to happen.

  ‘Mum, I don’t want to do it,’ I said quietly.

  But she wasn’t interested in what I wanted. And she certainly didn’t want to be questioned in front of someone as important as a dentist. That’s not how people behaved then.

  ‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she hissed firmly and gave me a shove towards the chair.

  Five minutes later I was absolutely sick with panic, screaming to escape.

  ‘Don’t let them! Mum, help!’

  But she didn’t help. She smiled apologetically at the dentist as he held me firmly in place, then she left the room.

  I despised her that day. While I suffered unspeakable operations, she just sat in the waiting room like she was expecting a bus. When I emerged, shaken and in tears, she said proudly, ‘You’ve no idea how hard it was to make that decision.’

  Mouth distorted by empty, swollen gums, I thought, No, I really haven’t.

  Nan’s sister, Kate, had followed her GI boyfriend back to America after the war and every so often Nan would disappear for a few weeks to visit her. That meant I got the full run of our large room. That was never as much fun as I hoped. I hated sleeping alone. I was convinced people were snoring under the bed or hiding in the wardrobe or behind the curtains. I always got nightmares when I was on my own, which Mum blamed on watching too many children’s puppet shows on television. I knew it wasn’t that, though.

  Sometimes Nan’s sister would visit us instead, which was always fun – for me, anyway. She always brought such brilliant gifts and took me and Lorraine out to eat at nice places. But twenty years in the USA had taken its toll. She spoke so loudly in public that Mum hated going out with her.

  ‘Honey, how much is this?’ she’d bellow across a crowded shop while Mum died with embarrassment.

  I always looked forward to my great-aunt’s visits but other relatives and guests failed to make so much of an impression. My mum grew up on our road so we always had people popping in and out, from any of her dozens of friends to the numerous extended family members who also lived locally. She was extremely popular, well liked and welcoming, and everyone knew the key was always left in the door for you to stroll in. So it was no surprise when Mum announced one day that my dad’s brothers were coming over.

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked.

  ‘You know very well who they are,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve seen them plenty of times.’

  I thought, I haven’t. I’ve never even heard of them.

  Maybe I’d just forgotten their names, I decided, and everything would fall into place when they arrived. My memory wasn’t the greatest, after all. When I heard a car pull up outside I rushed to the window expectantly – and watched as two complete strangers climbed out.

  False alarm, I thought. They must be visiting someone else.

  Then our front door bell rang and they came in.

  Dad’s brothers must be coming later, I decided.

  Even as Lorraine and I were ushered into the lounge for Mum’s traditional formal welcome I was still adamant Dad’s brothers must be arriving later. I didn’t know this pair from Adam.

  But they seemed to know me.

  ‘Hello, Kim,’ one of the men said. ‘How’s school?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ I replied, searching for any sign of familiarity in his face. But there was nothing. No clues at all. Who are you?

  My sister was gabbing away with the other one. Either Lorraine knew them or else she was bluffing well. I didn’t understand. But it wasn’t
the first time I’d met strangers who seemed to know me. I never let on that I couldn’t remember them. That would be terrible manners. So I always went along with it until I could work out who people were. When your memory’s as bad as mine you learn to do these things.

  When Nan was off in America or just out and about, and with Mum and Dad both working, they had to look elsewhere for help with us. Childcare options in south London in the 1960s weren’t as formal as they are today. You used whoever offered. To my young eyes some babysitters on our street seemed barely a year older than the little ones they were minding, although they must have been.

  Before I started school I was passed around all sorts of sitters. With Mum and Dad so busy, I kept going to them on and off for years, in holidays, after school or at weekends. Sometimes it was other families. One more to look after didn’t make a difference. Other times it was just neighbours. I remember one. There was a bloke who lived near us who used to sit on his front step dipping bread in milk and whisky. Looking back, nothing about him makes you think ‘perfect childminder material’. Even then I remember being disappointed whenever I was dragged round there. People without their own kids don’t have any toys for you to play with. Most likely you’re just going to mess up their place. ‘Don’t touch that’, ‘Put that down’ – that’s all I ever heard. You wonder what’s in it for them. My only real memory of being at this bloke’s is waking up in his bed in the afternoons. I don’t recall being put down for a nap or any of the build-up. I don’t recall anything apart from his cups of bread and whisky and then waking up in his smelly bed every time I stayed.

  I never went to America but Nan and I did go down to Bognor to stay for a week during the holidays. This was when Mum and Dad were working. Then once a year, in summer, we’d all go down to the Butlin’s holiday camp nearby as well. Dad, Mum, Lorraine and me. I always had fun but the days used to whizz by. A week felt like a day. I loved the amusement arcade but Lorraine preferred the swimming pool. I often used to go along with her but never made it in. I’d pack my costume, grab my towel and go along to the baths but never get in. Not once. I remember wandering back to the chalet the first time and Mum asking if we’d enjoyed it.

  I said, ‘I didn’t go in in the end.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Lorraine piped up. ‘She was in there longer than me.’

  ‘You liar! I wasn’t.’

  ‘Were so.’

  And so it went on. I thought, Why on earth would my sister make up something like that?

  It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. My life was full of stupid arguments like that. For me it was normal.

  Like so many things.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Where am I now?

  Katie skipped into the room, her head full of possibilities for adventure. With so many people around, the potential for games was endless. Any three-year-old knew that. She bashed around the adults’ legs for a while, ignoring the random hands tousling her hair absent-mindedly as they carried on their conversations above her head. On the other side of the room she saw her older sister, Lorraine. Lorraine was usually nice to her. Apart from the times she told her to go away. Katie decided to run over and say, ‘Hi.’

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ a voice said.

  Katie felt herself being scooped up and lifted aloft. Like a trophy on display.

  All eyes in the room were on her. People were cooing, family, friends and neighbours equally impressed by her pretty dress and neat hair. She didn’t know the occasion but everyone seemed so happy. Just as she had been until a few seconds ago.

  A camera flash went off. She felt like she was flying. Any other time she would be whooping for joy. What toddler didn’t enjoy that sensation?

  The flying stopped. She was being brought closer for a hug.

  Don’t touch me, she thought. Don’t touch me.

  But what could she do? She was a child. She was three. And she always did what she was asked. Those were the rules. Obey, obey, obey. However much it hurt.

  The strong arms holding Katie aloft wrapped around her and various ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ peppered the friendly hubbub of the room. Katie didn’t care. Her hands remained rigidly at her side until she was able to fold her arms. That would put a barrier between them. Her face stayed turned away. There was no way she was hugging back. Too many memories of that other person. She wouldn’t kiss. Not again. Not after last time.

  Life was getting more confusing by the day. Did I tell anyone? Of course not. You assume everyone else is going through the same things as you. No one thinks they’re different from the rest, do they? I’m as normal as you. I still believe that. But I couldn’t deny that odd things were happening more and more often.

  Schoolwork wasn’t breaking any records but I had friends there and Mum let me enrol at Brownies and Girls Brigade. I was even allowed to go on a camping trip. The tents were already in place when we arrived but we still had to cook, wash up and generally get by in the great outdoors. I only remember staying two nights but it was probably longer. It seemed too far to go if not.

  Christian Endeavour was another group I was allowed to join although this one didn’t have the happiest ending. Maybe it was because their standards were higher, but we were in the church hall one night and there was a noise from the window. Twenty pairs of eyes swung over to look. A group of boys were jumping up to see in, all calling, ‘Give us a wave!’

  We all started giggling at the sight.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ the CE leader asked.

  ‘Me?’ I was shocked. ‘No, I’ve never seen them before.’

  It was the truth. They were wearing our school uniform so I suppose I’d seen them around, but I certainly wouldn’t say I ‘knew’ them.

  ‘Well they seem to know you,’ she said.

  The group leader went outside and chased the lads away. The giggling in the hall took longer to quell. Afterwards she pulled me aside.

  ‘We don’t encourage that sort of behaviour with boys,’ she said. ‘And we don’t welcome liars either. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if you spent your Friday nights elsewhere.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I think it would be best for everyone.’

  Thrown out – by Christians! And I had no idea what for.

  Our road and the surrounding area were comfortable places in the 1970s for kids to play. No one worried about strangers or traffic. The only rule was being back for mealtimes. You went out after school and came in for your tea. At weekends you’d disappear after breakfast and pop back for lunch and dinner.

  Ding-dong ditch was a popular game, although it was rarely risked on your own street. The last thing we needed was some old bag complaining to Mum and Dad. Sometimes men would come haring out of their front doors and try to get you with a bucket of water or lads would chase you round the block waving a belt. One day a woman flung the door open before I’d even left her porch. She must have been waiting for us. I turned on my heels as quick as lightning and I was in such a panic I convinced myself she yelled, ‘I’ll be telling your mother! I know where you live, Kim Noble!’

  I must have misheard. I’d never seen her before in my life. People were always bluffing like that.

  Bad eggs was another favourite, or there was hopscotch, or just sitting on walls eating sweets and talking. Boys had one area and girls another. We were very segregated at that age.

  Being a kid on the streets, especially in summer, was a bit like working shifts in a factory. As the smells of cooking began to waft from each house, we all knew playtime was nearly over. When the first mum stood on the front step and summoned her little one that was the cue for the rest of us to traipse home. That was our whistle telling us to clock out and clear off for another day.

  The streets emptied as quickly as they filled and as usual it was just me, last girl standing again. Home since Dad had returned was not the haven it had once been. Individually my parents were exactly the same towards me and
Lorraine. No change in their behaviour there at all. Towards each other, though, they could be evil.

  Mum’s heart had been broken when Dad walked out. That was his fault. That was damage he caused. She had been over the moon when he’d come back, beaten and bruised, tail between his legs, begging for one more chance.

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, Doll,’ he said. ‘She led me on and I was weak.’

  It was the wrong decision for everyone. They were forever at each other’s throat. Arguments replaced all conversation. Mum loved Dad but I don’t think she ever got over his betrayal. Despite Dad’s best efforts, she couldn’t find it in herself to wipe the slate clean. He couldn’t leave the house without being accused of having another affair.

  ‘I know where you’re going, Jim Noble!’

  Of course he always denied it. ‘Look, I won’t go out if that’s how you feel.’ But by then it was too late. The seed was sown, a row was brewing, and ten minutes later he’d be storming out again. We’d hear his car start up, heavy on the accelerator, then screech off up the road. And, in his defence, the more Mum accused him of everything under the sun, the more Dad started to go out to escape her nagging, which of course just gave her more ammunition.

  It was a poisonous atmosphere really.

  Mum really struggled to hold it together sometimes. I remember arguing with Lorraine in the lounge – business as usual as far as we were concerned – when there was this crash from the kitchen. Next, Mum flew past us and stomped up the stairs. When I looked in the kitchen I saw she’d been halfway through preparing dinner. Everything was strewn over the worktop. A few minutes later she appeared downstairs again clutching an overnight bag.