Forged with Flames (7 page)

It wasn't long into the movie that I realised David wasn't really interested in Tarzan at all. He was more concerned with kissing. I was sure David was a nice boy—he
was
a prefect—but he was moving way too fast. I tried to turn him away, concentrating steadfastly on the film. David, however, perhaps spurred on by the machismo of the ape-man in loincloth, was
persistent. It was hard work dodging his advances and averting my face to avoid his lips while pinned to the seat. When Tarzan took his last swing through the jungle, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, jumping up too eagerly in my haste to exit the cinema. David offered to walk me home, but I'd had enough by this stage and said I was quite happy to take the bus. It was wonderful to finally arrive home and close the door on the whole episode. My family was, of course, keen to hear how my first date had turned out.

‘How was it? What was he like?' they asked excitedly.

They laughed uproariously when I replied, ‘Never, ever will I go out with a boy again—all they want to do is kiss!'

It would be a long time before I met someone I actually
wanted
to kiss.

6

SPRINGFIELD HOUSE

B
ecause I had such a natural talent for athletics, people around me presumed I'd become a Physical Education teacher. The idea did appeal, but by 1966 when I turned sixteen, school had become such an emotional minefield that I just wanted to flee it as quickly as possible. I needed to find another career to follow. As I approached Sixth Form and A Levels, I knew, too, that I'd be the sports prefect and I couldn't bear the thought of that if I stayed on. Far too much public exposure.

A few years earlier, two movies starring Julie Andrews had become popular:
Mary Poppins
and
The Sound of Music
. My father was rather taken by the latter and we saw it at a large cinema in Manchester at least half a dozen times, sometimes with other relatives. Julie Andrews seemed to be having such fun being a nanny with her horde of adoring children that I decided I'd become a nanny, too. I loved little children—especially the way they just accepted you. After taking my O Levels, I left school at the end of Fifth Form to enrol in child-care training, knowing at the time I was really looking for an alternative to becoming a PE teacher. I had chosen out of fear.

Springfield House, where I was to spend the next two-and-a-half years, was an exclusive college that took only twenty-four students each year. It was located in Burnley, in a three-storey building that had once been a private residence and still had a homely air about it. The rooms were large and airy with high ceilings, and included an attic where we'd spend the rest of lunch hour after we'd eaten, relaxing on cushions on the floor. The college was run by three women who'd never married—‘spinsters', in those days—who were completely dedicated to ensuring that our training was thorough and of the highest standard.

The other students, all female, were from towns around Burnley and mostly travelled to college by bus as I did. On our first day we were separated into two groups of twelve. One group was to attend college and learn theory, while the other group went to a nursery school for practical experience for a week, then we'd swap. We all stood around, eager to start the year, excited at the newness of it all, glancing around to check out the girls we'd spend the next two years with. The classes were mainly about child care though we did have an outside teacher who taught us drama and another one who taught us cookery. I was delighted that my best friend from school, Brenda, got into the college too, only to be dismayed when she was allocated to the other group. I met another girl called Julia, though, and we teamed up as chums pretty quickly. Julia was extremely outgoing. She had a mop of short, thick curly black hair and sparkling blue eyes, an infectious smile and a puckish sense of humour. She was heavier set than me, had an accent straight out of Yorkshire and always wore slip-on Dr Scholl sandals, popular as a comfortable alternative to conventional
shoes at the time. She stood out, too, because she had a little motorbike that she rode to college—a pretty daring form of transport then for a girl. One afternoon after college, she came home with me and I had the thrill of riding on the back of her bike, a wonderfully scary and liberating experience.

If I thought I was going to leave my problems behind when I went to college, though, I was sadly mistaken. With such a small number of us, there was even less chance of ‘hiding' than there had been at school. I kept hoping that everything would change, that one day I'd just walk in and mingle normally with the others, but it just kept getting harder. Lunchtime was particularly trying because we'd all have to sit down together to a prepared main meal, as we had done at school. Our teachers ate with us and I would invariably lose the power of speech if one of them happened to be on our table. The dining-room was small, with only one means of escape—a little annex where there was one table for the overflow, just enough room to sit quietly with a couple of friends. My stress levels would start to climb if we came in and I'd see that another group of friends had claimed it.

Most of the other students had boyfriends which sidelined me from the discussion at the dinner table. This suited me fine; I could just sit and listen without needing to make conversation myself. One of the older students who used to catch the same bus confided that she was in love with an African man which was not considered acceptable then by many families. Her parents had forbidden her to see the man, worrying about what the rest of the family and the neighbours would think.

Life at home was pretty much the same as it had been during my final years at school. My parents bought a caravan and
I'd sometimes spend a weekend away with them. Of course, being in a confined space with Dad meant we all had to be sensible and well-behaved at all times as he didn't tolerate any messing around. The caravan was kept in a caravan park near Grassington, a gorgeous little village with a cobbled main street, in the Yorkshire Dales. Mum, Jill and I would often walk into Grassington, letting off steam and being silly. On rainy days, the whole family played cards games together, which Dad nearly always won. Despite my competitive streak, I didn't mind because I was so pleased that he actually played with us.

During this first year of college, I kept fit by joining a local badminton team, competing at nights and on Saturdays, while finding time to still enjoy my solitary wanders with Tammy. My childhood friend, Glenys, asked me to be one of her bridesmaids when she became engaged, even though we'd moved in different directions and didn't see as much of each other as we used to. I spent a number of Saturday mornings on dress fittings and doing all the other things required of a good bridesmaid. Unfortunately, I became anxious on the big day and fainted twice while the photographs were being taken, which was totally mortifying.

In second year, a hitchhiking holiday with Julia was the highlight of my time at college; it gave me a sense, for the first time, of life away from the village. Julia and I had become bosom buddies, despite the huge differences in our personalities—or maybe because of them. She eased my way through many socially difficult situations. At least socially, I was the shadow to her sun. Neither of us had much money so we decided to go to the south of England to a place near Taunton in Somerset, where young people from all over Europe earned money fruit picking.
We slept in dormitories and travelled in lorries to pick the fruit each day. It was at the fruit-picking centre that I had my second encounter with a boy. I was seventeen. I liked Claudio, an amorous Italian, but he kissed so much that it was boring. After one interminably long session of kissing as we lay on the grass, I worried that I might become pregnant. Luckily, Julia was able to tell me—and the whole dormitory of guffawing girls—that I wouldn't! I decided then that it was about time I really did find out about the facts of life.

We spent some back-breaking days picking and eating strawberries, and digging out potatoes; and some much easier days harvesting apples and pears before hitchhiking to Scotland, where we were taken in by people we met along the way. We washed little and ate with the appetite of wolves. We slept in bus shelters and church doorways, anywhere that seemed safe and warm, wrapped in the blankets we'd ‘borrowed' from the dormitory. I felt guilty about these blankets every time I looked at them. My conscience was only salved once I got home and dry-cleaned and posted the blanket back to the fruit-picking centre, after receiving a lecture from my angry father.

At the end of our second year of college the worst possible assessment was to take place, a shy teenager's ultimate nightmare. The English teacher decided that all the students in our year should sit an oral exam. Each of us had to pick a well-known novel and read a section of it in front of the other students and staff, and—if that weren't bad enough—give a ten-minute talk on a subject of our own choosing followed by questions from our audience. An external examiner was to assess us. They couldn't have devised a more terrifying scenario for me. I wanted to crawl up in a small ball whenever I contemplated
this awful situation. From the time I found out that it was going to happen, until it was all over, all I could think of was ‘how will I manage?' I was also worried about failing—no amount of preparation or even knowledge could get me through this if I became tongue-tied and paralysed by my own predicament.

The examiner, however, was an approachable middle-aged woman with an obvious sense of humour, who took great pains to put us all at ease—not at all ‘teacherly', as I imagined she would be. Perhaps sensing my dread, she even teased me a little at the beginning of my talk when I stumbled over my words. Although I was panicky, I read beautifully and the talk went quite well, but this in no way ameliorated the overwhelming effect the incident had on me. Every time something like this happened, I hoped the shyness might miraculously go away. It never did. It was my own private agony and I couldn't begin to explain to anyone else the excruciating pain it was causing me.

7

A LONDON NANNY

T
he year before I completed my training, my family had moved to another Lancashire village called Ribchester. I hadn't been at all sad to leave Barrowford for Ribchester—my friends had already left—and departing Lancashire permanently wasn't a wrench either. So, at eighteen, I left home for London without any regrets and my first job as a nanny. I found the position in an upmarket English magazine called
The Lady
. It was wonderful trawling through ads for jobs all over England and selecting one—like shopping for a new life. You applied by letter and if successful, the parents would phone you to sort out the time of arrival and where they'd meet you, then send money to cover the fare.

I dressed carefully that cold January morning, making sure my winter woollies were all nicely matching: woollen skirt and jumper, long tights and polished shoes (buffed twice to make a good first impression), topped off by a beret in the same red as my scarf and gloves.

‘Make sure you behave yourself,' my father said, awkwardly, as he walked out the door to go to work. That was his farewell.

Jill, who'd just finished her breakfast too, gave me a little hug, picked up her bag and left for school. That just left Mum who was trying hard not to become upset. We both wanted to get the goodbye over, making fluffy small talk as we walked to the bus stop, avoiding any mention of what we really felt and leaving much unsaid, as was the way in English families then. ‘Oooh, it's bitterly cold today, isn't it?' or ‘I hope the train down to London won't be too crowded.' It was a relief for both of us when the bus drew into the kerb and I hauled my suitcase onto it, giving Mum a last hug.

As soon as I sat down, I felt a great surge of excitement welling up in me. Exiting a small country village where everyone knew all about me and travelling to a huge unknown city was thrilling, the possibilities endless. I'd never been to London before and thought that if I distanced myself from home life I could be different, able to change. I had become shy even with my family, as if I were keeping this big secret to myself. Other young people left villages to escape the confines and predictability of smalltown life. I left to shed the parts of me that I didn't like and which at times felt almost too unbearable to endure.

Julia, also on her way to her first nannying job, was waiting for me at the station in Preston, the nearest town where the trains to London departed. We looked at each other and smiled at the adventure of it all as we lugged our cases up to the ticket window and bought our one-way tickets. That trip south whizzed past in a blur as the train clunked then clattered over the miles, and we leaned across the seats chatting breathlessly to each other about what we'd do in London; where we'd go out,
how we'd spend our first week's wage, what our new families would be like. It was completely potluck as to what family you found yourself working in because you didn't know until you got there what they'd be like. And you were going to live with these people!

We disembarked from the train amid the clamour of voices and trains at Victoria Station. Men in coats and bowler hats, holding umbrellas, pushed past in a determined way; people waited beside the numbered arches at the end of each line checking their watches as others peered at departure times on the overhead board. A grimy old man with a furrowed face and rheumy eyes stood looking vacantly, barely registering as people brushed past and around him. Overhead, a weak English sun shone wanly through the huge domed roof, a lofty distance from the hubbub below. The children's mother, Mrs Hyman, was waiting on the platform, on the lookout for a girl with a red suitcase. An attractive woman with lustrous dark hair and an assured friendliness stepped forward to greet me, as poised as Jackie Kennedy. Julia was with me when we met her and we exchanged looks that said, Yes!