Street Kid (8 page)

One evening, we visited the house of the brother of Freda’s friend Madge. We were ushered into the parlour where a few guests had already gathered. This was a key moment for my dad, and I watched him ease himself around the room gleaning as much information from the guests about their loves and losses, money troubles, and future plans as he possibly could. They seemed so eager to unload their stories.

I stood apart from the guests, feeling self-conscious in my frilled party dress, hair pulled back from my face with a Kirby grip. I found it hard to take my eyes off my father,
partly through habitual fear, but also because he was the kind of man people did tend look at. Now, as I watched his elegant six-foot frame bending caringly over a dark-haired young woman, I thought he could have been Gregory Peck. He was acting the priestly role so well. I could tell from the woman’s haunted-looking eyes, and the quiet way she was talking to him, that she’d lost someone dear to her and was telling my dad about it. He’d scented her grief and longing a mile off, and I knew he’d move in on her later once the seance was in full swing.

When everyone had gathered at last, we were taken by our hosts into the living room, where there was a large table, big enough to seat the twelve people present. I was told to sit on a stool at the other end of the room. I knew I couldn’t move a muscle, as the slightest creak might earn me a beating later. It was perishing at my end of the room, and my dress wasn’t at all warm, being made of sober blue cotton with a frill around the bottom and having a high-necked white bodice. All very demure and proper. Just the ticket for the daughter of a minister.

By now the group were all seated at the table, my father at the head, and Freda the dutiful at his right hand. The session began with my father’s introduction, delivered in the rich tones he saved for these occasions. He could have been a bishop.

‘We are gathered here this evening …’ he intoned, and the faces of his little flock were instantly glued to his.
Let the show begin.

After my Dad’s address, the group recited the seven principles of Spiritualism.
‘The fatherhood of God; the brotherhood of man; communion of spirits and the ministry of angels; the continuous existence of the human soul; personal responsibility; compensation and retribution hereafter for all good and evil deeds done on earth; eternal progress open to every soul.’ They had the fingers of both hands linked in a special grip, not in the way you’d usually pray.

After the recitation of the seven principles came Freda’s opening prayer. While she spoke, my father slowly began to change as the spirit entered his body. As he pretended to go into a trance, he squashed himself down in his chair and started snorting through his nose. His hands were on his thighs, palms up, eyes half closed. Then his head lolled backwards.

‘Good evening everyone, I’m Imaki. Thank you all for coming.’ I could sense a shiver of pleasure run through the circle of people as they heard the eskimo’s squeaky little voice. They were usually given Dr X, and I knew that Imaki was a rare treat for them. My dad must have judged that they were due for a change, or perhaps he thought that someone in the group that evening might give him a bigger donation than usual. The only time we ever got Chief Running Water was at the Rippons, a rich couple who lived in a large Victorian villa at the posh end of town. They were the most prized members of my dad’s circle, and he always made sure they were kept happy.

Now it was time for Imaki’s message for the day. At this point, my father started talking in riddles and parables.

‘The end of the world is coming, my friends, and the sound will be like rain falling on a hot tin roof.’ I thought this sounded pretty ridiculous, particularly as it was delivered in Imaki’s high-pitched voice; but the assembled company wagged their heads and whispered, ‘Thank you, Imaki.’

There was a pause, and everyone sat still, waiting. Then my father started speaking again.

‘I can see somebody … a man … an old man. He has a message for you.’ He was staring now at a plump woman
sitting opposite. ‘He had a problem, here.’ My father cupped his hands over his chest, a favourite ruse for it could mean heart, lungs, or quite a lot of other things.

‘That’s my dad, George,’ the woman said. ‘Died last year. It was his second heart attack.’

‘George has a message for you,’ my father said. ‘What’s that? What’s that?’ He cupped his hand to his ear, acting as if George wasn’t delivering it clearly enough. Then a pause. ‘You are going to move to a new place and that’s the right thing to do.’

‘Amazing. That’s right!’ the woman announced, eyes sparkling. ‘We’re thinking of moving house.’

‘I can see the sea, and smell salt in the air,’ said my father, elaborating on his theme. (He’d already heard that she was thinking of moving house to Southport.)

‘Oh, that’s right; we’re planning to retire to the seaside,’ she said, ‘I’m glad that George approves.’

My father moved on from one person to the next, making sure that each had a little something to go home with: messages from aunties, grannies, sons lost in the war, dogs and cats. At times, he interrupted the proceedings with a little piece of extra theatre, allowing the nosy character of his Eskimo spirit guide full rein.

‘What have you got over there? What’s that? What’s behind there?’ His darting eyes looked around the room impishly. It occurred to me that if Imaki really was an all-knowing spirit, then he wouldn’t have to ask.

Dad’s eyes were now fixed on the settee and he acted as if he could see something there. Then they moved to the dark-haired young woman I’d seen him talking to earlier.

‘I can see two little children. They’re playing behind the settee and keep peeping out.’

At my father’s words the woman broke down. ‘My babies! My little ones!’ she whispered in a sob. ‘I lost them at five months.’

‘Well, they’ve come to tell you they’re happy now. They’re in Summerland,’ said my father. (Summerland was where children’s spirits went to when they died.) ‘They want you to know they’re safe and that their nurses are looking after them very well.’

‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! My babies …’ At this, the woman’s voice faded to nothing and she put her hand over her eyes for a few moments.

I sat there on my stool, disgusted. I felt almost dirty listening to my dad, knowing what a con it all was.

After the readings were finished, the group were handed tea in china cups and corned-beef sandwiches. There was a happy glow in the room, and the chatter was now very relaxed. Behind the kitchen door our host was quietly collecting envelopes of money from the guests; as my father and Freda said their goodbyes, the collection was pressed into Dad’s hand with a murmured, ‘For your sanctuary.’

Chapter Eight

M
y father didn’t allow me to make any friends in our neighbourhood, and I was desperately lonely. I’d spend hours whispering into my teddy bear’s ear, pretending she was my best friend. Dad didn’t want Mum knowing where we were and he’d had enough of people poking their nose in his business, so I was told to keep my trap shut at all times. He didn’t want it getting out that Freda and he weren’t married, or that she wasn’t my mother.

The other reason he didn’t want me mixing with anyone was pure snobbery. Dad lorded it over the others in Wood Street and, as we had the end of terrace house, bigger than the rest and with a yard of its own, he could look down on everybody else.

Dad didn’t let me go to the same school as the other kids in our street. Instead I had to walk quite a way, across three main roads, to Duke Street Primary, where the other children all knew each other. They’d played together after school since they were little and already had their gangs. I was just an outsider.

Sometimes, after I’d finished my chores in the evening, I’d stand on the dustbin in our yard and look over the wall at the kids playing in the alley. I’d watch them playing
Jerries and Tommies, brandishing pieces of wood, and making the sound of rattling bullets – ‘ta-ta-ta-ta’ – their voices ringing out in the alley. I longed with all my heart to join in.

The Wood Street kids thought I was odd for not playing out in the street. They thought I didn’t go to Lloyd Street School with them because I was a snob, and it only made things worse that I wasn’t allowed to talk to them. When they taunted me on the way to school, I just gritted my teeth and walked on. I really wanted to go over and ask if I could play with them later, but was too scared my dad might find out.

I used to stand against the railings of the enormous playground of Duke Street School every breaktime, watching the other kids. The girls would be playing skipping or clapping games or sitting hunched over their marbles, cross-legged in a circle. Many of the boys would be playing a game with their cigarette cards, a bit like bowls except they flicked the cards. Others would be playing tiddlywinks with bottle tops. After weeks of standing and watching, longing with all my heart to join in, I thought of a plan.

The next morning, after doing my chores, I carefully opened the sock drawer in the living room and took out Freda’s purse, which she kept hidden there. I took sixpence from it. I didn’t stop to reflect that what I’d done was wrong, my desire to find a friend was so great. I had a grand plan which was driving me forward and nothing would get in my way.

On the way to school, I stopped at Allens, the corner shop, and bought a large bag of sweets – mint imperials, toffees, bullseyes, and gobstoppers – and put them in my pocket. At breaktime, I went into the playground as usual
but, instead of standing by the railings on my own, I walked over to a group of girls who were playing marbles.

‘Hey, anyone want a sweet?’ I tried hard to look as though it didn’t matter much to me either way. Inside, though, I felt as if all my future happiness depended on how these girls reacted. At first it seemed as if my plan to find some friends had worked as they all gathered around me. But the attention didn’t last long, and when the bag was empty the girls returned to their game and I was left standing outside their enchanted circle, unsure of what to do. Then I felt even lonelier than ever.

In my mind there was only one thing to do, and that was to buy more sweets. I wanted to feel that warm glow again, to have the girls huddle around me again and say nice things.

The next morning I stole another sixpence from Freda’s purse. She hadn’t noticed the missing money the day before, or perhaps she’d thought my dad had taken it. In the playground that day, I approached a different group of girls, who were playing a ball game. Two girls each had a ball and the others were watching intently while they threw it one to the other. I knew the song off by heart:

Solomon Grundy,
Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday,
This is the end of Solomon Grundy.

One of the girls dropped her ball at that moment and before another girl could take her place, I stepped forward.

‘Anyone want a toffee? I’ve got loads.’ I held out the bag with the confident smile I’d been practising with Susie at home.

Again it happened. The girls gathered round, drenched me with cupboard love for five minutes, then went back to their game.

The next day it was the same story; but on the evening of the fourth day, when I got back from school, Freda was waiting for me. As soon as I saw her face I knew what was coming. My first instinct was to run but I stood rooted to the spot, unable to breathe or speak. Freda looked more livid than I’d ever seen her, her face white as chalk and below it a nasty red rash staining her neck.

‘Mrs Allen told me what you’ve been up to, you little thief!’ Freda was holding her purse in her hand. ‘If you want it so much, you can take the bloody lot!’ At that, she took a handful of change out of it and threw it in my face.

Almost panting with rage, Freda grabbed a wooden coat hanger from the table and came at me. With one hand she held the collar of my coat to stop me getting away; with the other she beat me around the head with the hanger. The force of her blows almost knocked my teeth into the back of my head and I tasted blood. The pain of it was shattering and I desperately tried to protect my head with my arm.

Later on, as I lay on my bed upstairs hugging Susie to my chest, my whole body was throbbing with pain and shock. I felt along the edge of my teeth with my tongue, and it was then that I realized that two of my teeth were broken.
Freda must have decided that a beating wasn’t enough punishment for me. So the next day she came to my school and told the headmaster what I’d done.

If I’d had trouble making friends before, now Freda made it quite impossible. At assembly the next day, the headmaster called for hush in the hall before he spoke:

‘I’ve had a visit from a most distressed mother yesterday and I was very disturbed at what she told me.’ At this, twenty rows of expectant faces all swivelled about, looking to see who the guilty child might be, half revelling in the drama, and half worrying it might be them.

‘Judith Richardson? Where is she?’ The headmaster scanned our row. ‘Will you please stand up?’

The blood was thundering in my ears and I didn’t immediately get to my feet. My form teacher then caught my eye and motioned with her hand for me to get up. I felt a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on me as I stood there, dreading what the headmaster was going to say next.

‘You repeatedly stole money from your mother’s purse so you could buy sweets,’ He paused and a ripple went through the children in the hall. ‘I’m sure we all agree’, he went on, ‘that it was a shocking thing that Judith did – deceiving her mother in this way.’

The headmaster was in his stride now and took us through the Ten Commandments, told a parable about a thief, and generally drummed it in that I was a wicked sinner and not the sort of child he wanted in his school.