Mia Gregory is a former counsellor who lives in South Wales with her

daughter and three dogs. She worked for a number of years for the

NHS and the Probation Service.

Clouds got in my way is her first novel and she has completed a follow

up.

To Doctor Michael Bowman who ‘saved me’.

Copyright © Mia Gregory

The right of Mia Gregory to be identified as author of this work has

been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for

damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 978 184963 718 3

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2014)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

“So many things I would have done but clouds got in my way.”

Both Sides Now

Joni Mitchell

Chapter 1

I fell in love on the underground. I did my courting on the underground or most

of it. What a funny word that is, courting, sounds so old fashioned, but I can’t

think of another that describes the process. It was a descent into madness, falling

in love and one I hope never to repeat. I don’t want to give control over my

emotions to another person ever, to be so besotted with them that whatever they

do impacts on me to such a great extent, that if things went wrong I wanted to

die. But that was how it was, or at least how it seemed for those eight years from

when I was eighteen until I was twenty six.

It was the nineteen sixties, the summer of love, the birth of the Age of

Aquarius. Ironic that, because Aquarius was also my birth sign. Flower power

and hippies and people loving each other were everywhere it seemed,

everywhere except in the North London suburb where I grew up. Middle class

girls with solicitors for fathers and librarians for mothers didn’t embrace free

love, flower power or the hippie movement, especially not convent educated

middle class girls. Well, that’s what my cousin said. My cousin who at two

years older than me knew everything, or at least thought she did. But that’s

another story. I had left school at sixteen, much to my father’s disgust, on the

condition that I take a secretarial course. I had agreed as I had been desperate to

escape the confines of school, where I had never fitted in. I didn’t like sports, I

didn’t own a pony and I thought the Beatles were a group of ordinary,

unexciting and unimaginative singer/songwriters. For me music meant the sound

of Motown with its insistent beat and its throaty, hoarse sounding singers

proclaiming unrequited love or inviting everyone to dance in the street.

It was the music that saved me. It made me feel alive, it spoke to my soul.

So, when I had completed the secretarial course I did something wild, well, wild

for me, I applied for a Christmas Job at the HMV record store in Oxford Street. I

never dreamt I would get it, not in a million years, but it was a kind of rebelling

against my family, spur of the moment decision. I can remember when I

received the letter inviting me in for an interview. I just stared at it, wondering

what I could possibly bring to interview that others couldn’t. My one experience

in the working world had been in a dreary architects’ office, where the managing

partner, a forty something South African man, had fondled and groped me every

time I had to enter his office with a letter I had inexpertly typed. As I had been

brought up to always be polite and not make a fuss, I had endured his

manhandling of me for about three months, before walking out one Friday

evening and never returning. I told my parents that the office was closing down

and of course they believed me. After that unsavoury experience I had lazed

around at home with the highlight of my day being to telephone my best friend,

who manned the reception and switchboard at her job, and play endless Motown

and soul tunes to her until she was forced, by her boss, to hang up.

This went on for about three months until the phone bill landed on the mat

and my father went ballistic. “You have to find yourself a job young lady,” was

his response to the outlandish size of the bill. So find myself a job I did. And so

I found myself boarding the bus and then the underground to Bond Street station

on a cheerless November morning. This in itself was an adventure. I was going

up to London, alone, not having told my parents that I was even leaving the

house, let alone applying for work in a shop!!! God, I shivered imagining their

reaction; their precious, spoilt, only daughter working in a shop. But of course I

wasn’t going to get the job, just show up at the interview and the interviewer

would see how utterly unsuitable I would be for any work they had to offer.

I approached the front of the biggest record store in London with some

trepidation. Suddenly it didn’t seem such a laugh anymore. I entered and

approached the first person I saw. “I’ve come to see Mr Howson for an

interview,” I managed to stutter out to the coolest young man I had seen outside

of TV.

“Sure thing,” he replied with a broad Australian twang. “I’ll let them know

you’re here.” So far, so good.

I sort of hovered around until a middle-aged lady got out of the lift,

approached me and asked, “Freya Beaumont?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Come with me,” she barely looked over her shoulder to see if I was

following. We entered the lift and she pressed a button saying 3rd

floor. When

we reached our destination she pointed distractedly to a seat in a small office

and said, “Wait there please, someone will call you shortly.” So I did what I was

told, I waited there, and sure enough, after about ten minutes, a small middle-

aged man with brown twinkling eyes and greying dark hair entered the office.

He held out his hand and I inwardly grimaced wondering if my own was as

sweaty as it felt. He clasped it firmly however and took me through to a larger

office just off the one where I had been waiting. I watched him scrutinise my

application form for a few minutes before looking up at me.

“So, you don’t appear to have any sales experience,” he finally said and with

that I found myself rising to leave. “Where are you going?” he asked with a look

of astonishment on his face. “This must be the shortest interview on record, no

pun intended.”

I realised I liked this little man, so I sat down again feeling and no doubt

looking bemused. “Well,” I stammered, “you said I don’t have any sales

experience and that’s true so I thought that was it and I should probably leave.”

‘God,’ I thought, ‘he must think I’m an idiot.’

“Well you don’t and I was just wondering what makes you want to work

here for the Christmas period, when you could be working in a nice comfortable

office. The sales floor here gets jam packed with people all thrusting and

pushing to get served; you only get two fifteen minute tea breaks and an hour for

lunch and believe me when I say it is non-stop from the moment you arrive until

the shop closes. You will be asked to work from nine to five but on Thursdays it

might sometimes be from twelve to eight as we have late night shopping. You

will be harassed by staff and customers, your feet will ache from all the walking

you will have to do to, and from the sales till. Your arms will ache from carrying

the records and your ears will split and your mind will disintegrate from the

mindless repetition of the Christmas number one, which is always some ghastly

novelty number. Have I put you off yet?” His eyes seemed to sparkle even more

with the fun I felt he was probably having at my expense.

“No, it sounds great,” I replied.

“Ok, so which label does Frank Sinatra sing for?”

I thought for a minute, and then remembered my mother’s large collection

of Sinatra records. “Reprise,” I replied without hesitation.

“And the Beach Boys?”

This really had to be my lucky day; one of my friends was Beach Boys mad,

“EMI,” again no hesitation.

“Ok so how about Engelbert Humperdinck?”

My luck had just run out, I had no idea whatsoever, I couldn’t stand him. I

gazed at Mr Howson and then took a wild guess, “Parlaphone?” Now where had

that come from I wondered?

“Close, but I’m afraid no cigar,” he was still smiling. “Actually it’s Decca,

but never mind, tell me what kind of music you like?”

At that I launched into a long eulogy about Motown and Soul. I aired my

knowledge of the entire Motown stable and then went onto Atlantic and was just

about to launch into Stax, when he held his hand up, stopping me.

“Well you certainly know your stuff, despite the lack of knowledge of

Englebert Humperdinck, but then it doesn’t sound as if his music is your thing.

Have you anything you want to ask me?”

“No, not really.” I thought I sounded a bit pathetic.

“You know it’s just a temporary Christmas post don’t you?” I nodded a

reply. “Well, just one more thing, when can you start?”

I was struck dumb with surprise. I managed a squeaky “Whenever you like.”

“Ok, how about we say next Monday at 9am. You’ll get a letter in the post

and you can come in to get an overall when you start. You will also have to wear

black court shoes, so if you don’t have any you’ll have to buy a pair. The salary

is three pounds a week and the contract will last until the 31st December.” With

that he got to his feet and shook my hand again. “We’ll see you next Monday

then.”

I followed him out, back to the lift and he pushed the button, bade me

goodbye and walked off. I was so shocked. Not only had I committed myself to

a job, I also had to tell my parents what kind of job I had landed. I shivered

imagining the frosty look on my father’s face.

Maybe I should say a little about my parents. Basically they should never

have had any children as they did not have a clue about parenting. My father

was very aloof and distant in his manner. He thought that being loving was

showering me with money and giving me everything I wanted as long as he

didn’t have to give me any of his attention, time, or become involved in my life

in any way. He knew what was best for me, at least he thought he did, and if I

didn’t agree he would withdraw behind a wall of silence that could last for

months on end. My mother on the other hand was a nightmare that no teenage

girl should have to endure. In fact no-one should have to endure my mother.

What was wrong with her? Well where do I start? For one thing she wanted to

be a permanent teenager. For all of my father’s non-involvement in my life she

made up for it tenfold and in spades. She opened our home to my friends, she

made dates with them for lunch and things without my being there, and she

chatted to them on the phone for hours before handing the calls on to me. She

always, always joined us in the lounge, drinking and smoking and sitting on the

floor, laughing at jokes, giving her opinions and listening to music alongside us,

just as if she were our peer. I absolutely hated it. All my friends thought she was

so cool. They used to go on and on about how they wished she was their mother,

whilst I wanted to scream: “Have her, take her, please.” I didn’t, I just went

along with it all as the line of least resistance. I allowed her to come to the pub

with us on Friday nights, come to the cinema with us, to concerts, shopping and

every other activity teenagers take part in. Having my mother engaging in all my

social activities was, to say the least, highly embarrassing. I would prefer to use

the term mortifying. The other mortifying thing being that she also wanted to

have long, prurient discussions with me about sex, not just about whether or not

I was engaged in any sexual activity, but she would go into endless details about

affairs she had had during the war, whilst my father was a prisoner of the

Japanese. Now I don’t believe parents should talk to their children about their

sex life. Okay, so maybe they have to give the proverbial “chat” about the birds

and the bees, but it should most certainly end there. I did not want to hear about

my mother becoming “wet down there” every time she saw the RAF pilot she

fancied. I wanted to scream and put my fingers in my ears and dance around the

room shouting “no no no no”, but I didn’t. I simply used to go to “another place”

in my mind and think about my second passion to soul music, that being history.

I could recite all the Kings and Queens of England from William the Conqueror

to the present day. In fact I had a chart on my wall depicting their lineage. So

when my mother started I would simply recite in my head, ‘William the first,

William the second, Henry the first, Stephen and Mathilda’ etc until I felt she

must have stopped talking. If she went into one of her long eulogies I could

recite the French lineage as well, right up to the revolution and beyond to

Napoleon the first and the third. Of course this didn’t work if I wasn’t on my

own. She didn’t limit these revelations just to me, but liked to regale my friends,

both female and male with her stories of being in the land army which inevitably

led onto sexual exploits during this time. Whilst I had taught myself to tune my

mother out when we were alone, I somehow couldn’t do the same with other

people around me, so would have to just sit there and endure.

The other issue was quite simply the relationship between my mother and

my father. They understandably couldn’t stand each other. My father would

come home from his office and eat a solitary dinner, my mother and I always

used to eat much earlier, deliberately on her part I’m sure, then he would sit in

the dining room watching television until getting up and informing the room in

general, “Just going for cigarettes.” What he actually meant was that he was

going round the corner to the so called “club for gentlemen and their sons”

where he would drink, smoke and indulge in the occasional game of snooker.

This hallowed establishment was men only, apart from Friday nights when for

some unknown reason, ladies were allowed in accompanied by their spouses. In

fact it had sometimes been a “treat” for me if my father had asked me to, “come

round to the club for a drink.” Naturally I thought it to be more of a punishment

as we would stand or sit at the bar in total silence, unless one of his

acquaintances joined us. Then he would become overly hearty and jolly and

refer to me as “young shaver.” Nevertheless I actually loved my father, but sadly

could never tell him so, and even more sadly he could never tell me.

Right, so now we have the picture of my home life, well a part of the

picture. So far I haven’t really mentioned my cousin, but, more importantly, my

very best friend in all the world. She was Cassie, and she had come to live in our

private square, where her father worked as the gardener and caretaker. My

mother, who liked to know everything that went on in the square, came home in

some excitement one day talking about Mr Trent and his teenage daughter.

“They’ve just moved in,” she enthused, “and the daughter is missing all her

friends, so I’ve told him to bring her round here this evening, so she can meet

you and anyone else who might be here.” Another person, I thought, to whom

my mother can hold court. As it happened it wasn’t like that at all. Cassie and I

bonded immediately. We then became inseparable in the way that only fifteen

year old girls can. We liked the same music, the same clothes, she introduced

me to such great books as “Gone with the wind, Dr. Zhivago and Exodus.” We

both loved cats and dogs, and taking long bike rides in the evening, she on her

bike, and me on the second-hand one that my mother had bought and never

ridden. We biked and sang along Green Lanes in Winchmore Hill right up to the

triangle at Palmers Green, and around Broomfield Park. We freewheeled down

hills singing ‘Monday Monday’ by the Mamas and Papas. The miracle was that

we didn’t have an accident. So over that first summer our friendship was sealed.

So that really was my life as it stood. And now I had got a temporary job. I

couldn’t face going straight home, so I decided to go round the corner to a café I

had spotted as I came past. I had a coffee and a roll and then took myself off to

Foyles bookshop, where I indulged my passion for historical romances by

buying three novels by Jean Plaidy about the Kings and Queens of Spain. Then I

had to find somewhere to have a cup of tea as I was thirsty, so by that time it

was nearly five o’clock. I thought about finding a phone box and ringing Cassie

to see if she wanted to meet to come home, she worked in London, but then

thought better of it. She certainly didn’t need to be exposed to the wrath of my

parents when I told them my news. She always called in to my house before

going home for her dinner, so it would be better if I wasn’t there rather than

have her subjected to the tirade I knew would ensue once I had told them.

I wandered around London for a bit and thought about Christmas shopping.

As I have said I always had plenty of money courtesy of my father so really

money was no object. I loved to buy presents for friends as I thoroughly enjoyed

seeing their reaction when they opened them. This led me back to thinking about

my cousin. My cousin was two years older as I have said and for some strange

reason both our parents thought that it would be better if we spent all our time

together rather than just live as only children. This idea came about when I was

nine and Camilla was eleven. We were so unlike each other that at first I was

quite intimidated by her fierce attitude to life. Gradually, as we got used to each

other, that changed. We used to indulge in endless games of ‘Sue Barton Senior

Nurse’ ‘Mallory Towers’ and ‘St. Claires’. We never got tired. We both had

very lively imaginations and everything was good until we reached our teenage

years. In fact the only time I can ever remember us getting into trouble was

when we found a bundle of candles and lit them in our bedroom. Of course all

the wax melted into the carpet and my mother went mental. Camilla remained

fierce with everyone except me. What had brought her to mind was the fact that

we always spent Christmas together with our grandparents, who were my

mother and her father’s parents. One year we were really excited about our

prospective gifts. I would have been about ten and Camilla twelve. We managed

to fall asleep eventually and woke again at five thirty. Sure enough on the end of

each of our beds was a pillow case bulging with bits and pieces. The tradition

was that we always had one really good present and then the rest were novelties,

sweets and of course “School Friend Annual” an absolute must every year. I

drew out my “big” present which was a transistor radio, something I had longed

for as I wanted to listen to Radio Luxembourg in my room every night with the

lights out and the curtains drawn, I thought that would be so exciting. I was

about to dive in to get the next item when I heard a long string of invectives

coming from my cousin’s bed, one of which being the “f” word.

“What’s the matter?” I enquired tentatively.

“Look,” shouted my cousin, “My present’s a fucking tennis racquet press.”

She was obviously expecting something less utilitarian. “Why the fuck would

my father think I wanted a tennis racquet press.”

“Well you do have a tennis racquet,” I offered in amelioration.

“Yes and I hate fucking tennis.” When Camilla got angry she lapsed into

pseudo cockney, knowing that this above all would infuriate her parents. “Just

wait til I see me farver.” Oh no, today was not going to be a good day.

I looked longingly at my coveted radio and me being me, said quietly, “You

can swap with my present if you want to.” I held my breath dreading an

affirmative response.

Camilla leapt out of her bed and bounced onto mine. “Let’s have a butcher’s

then.” She eagerly grabbed hold of the radio and turned it on. She started

running the tuning button up and down until she found Cliff Richard singing

‘Gee whiz it’s you.’ “Cor, one of me favourites,” she enthused and I felt the

radio slipping further and further out of my grasp. “You haven’t got a tennis

racquet tho, so how can we swap? Me farver won’t let me.” I relaxed thinking

that maybe I wouldn’t have to relinquish my radio after all. We both delved

further into our sacks and I found my beloved annual and also “Bunty” annual as

well. There were the usual bits and pieces and two more books “A Dream of

Sadler’s Wells” and “Veronica joins the Wells”. I was so excited, as reading was

my greatest passion, I just wished Christmas was over and I was back in my own

home, in my own room, reading. However, that was some time off and I was

determined to enjoy Christmas, so after just glancing into the books I resolutely

put them aside.

I gradually came out of my reverie back to the present. I couldn’t remember

how the tennis racquet press incident got resolved all I remembered was that I

didn’t have to relinquish my coveted radio and that it stayed by my bed all

through my early teens. I looked around the glittering shops at various things

and found myself at a “Disci” record store in Piccadilly where I was able to

purchase a soul LP for Cassie, one I knew she didn’t have. I would have to tell

her father in case he bought it for her. Looking at my watch I knew that I could

no longer postpone the inevitable and that I had to go home. So I went down

into the underground once again and managed to elbow my way onto a seat back

to Wood Green. On the bus ride home, I rehearsed what I was going to say to

my parents. I was going to emphasise first of all that this was just a temporary

job until the end of December. I would then go on to remind my father that he

was the one who had told me to get a job, and that he hadn’t been explicit about

what kind of job I had to get. I knew this was being a bit devious as the

underlying message I knew full well had been to get an office job. Looking out

of the window I realised that we were rounding the corner to my stop, so I

jumped up, telling myself to be calm, and not panic, that all would be well.

I walked down the slope to the square where my house was situated, past the

shrubberies and turned into the drive. I got my key out and just as I was about to

turn it I heard a voice shouting my name. As I turned I saw a friend of mine,

Penny, coming across the lawn. “I’ve been round once,” she informed me, “but

you weren’t in, so I just hung about. I’ve been to the bungalow too but Cassie

isn’t home either.”

“Hi Penny,” I replied, “Nice to see you, but actually tonight isn’t really a

good time, I need to talk to my parents about something.” One look at Penny’s

crestfallen face, and I knew I would have to relent. “Oh, ok come on in, have

you had dinner?” One thing about my mother was that I knew she would always

provide enough food for any of my friends who turned up.

“No, not yet, do you think your mum will feed me?” I smiled to myself.

Penny knew as well as I did that my mother never turned anyone away. Just at

that moment, my father opened the front door.

“Tebbits’ night, got to dash.” I had forgotten all about that. Every Thursday

my father played snooker with an elderly club member called “Alf Tebbit”. He

was probably one of the unlikeliest people you would ever imagine my father

even giving the time of day to, but they had managed somehow to establish this

Thursday night routine and come hell or high water they both stuck to it rigidly.

“Ok, but I need to…” I realised I was talking to empty air as my father,

brandishing his snooker cue had got almost to the top of the slope leading to the

main road. “Oh ok I’ll see you later then.” I tailed off, and turning to Penny I

opened the front door that my father had closed behind him and ushered her in

in front of me.

My mother was sitting in the lounge with David a young neighbour of ours

from two houses down. Now why she would want to entertain him I have no

idea. He was a really nice boy of fourteen, whose sole passions were football

and Monty Python’s Flying Circus” in that order, neither of which interested my

mother in the least.

“Hello girls,” she smiled warmly. “David’s here.”

“Yes I see.” I could feel my resolve to let someone, anyone know about my

job melting away. “Penny and I haven’t eaten.”

“There’s cauliflower cheese in the oven and baked potatoes, I’ll just get it

for you.”

“Hello Freya, Hi Penny have you heard the one about the Randy young

monk?” Oh yes, David’s other passion - filthy rhymes and jokes.

“No,” I said firmly, “we haven’t and we don’t want to.” I knew this would

only stop him temporarily and that somehow before the time came for him to go

home he would have told it to us. “Penny and I are having something to eat and

we don’t need to hear any disgusting jokes, it’ll put us off our food.”

“Ok I’ll save it for later then.” I pushed Penny towards the dining room

where my mother was placing two plates of dinner onto the table.

“Are you hungry David?” she called into the lounge.

“Wouldn’t say no, Dorothy,” came his quick reply.

“Ok now here’s the deal,” I warned “No stories about monks randy or

otherwise, no jokes about queers or sex, at least until we’ve finished eating.” I

tried to pull a stern face. “And absolutely no quotes from Monty Python.” David

grinned; I could see his mind working overtime, wondering how he could slip

something into the conversation. “I mean it,” I warned. “One thing, and Penny

and I will take our dinner upstairs.”

He managed to get right to the end of the meal, before launching into a joke

about a parrot, which Penny told him was disgusting, but which I knew she

would repeat at work the following morning. Just as the meal and the joke were

finished I heard the back door opening and Cassie’s voice calling “Anyone

here?”

“Come on in Cass,” trilled my mother. “There’s cauliflower cheese if you

want some.”

“It’s ok, Dorothy, I’ve just had one of Misery’s dogs’ dinners.” Cassie’s

father, who was one of the most easy-going, cheerful people I had ever come

across, was called Dick. Cassie always referred to him as “Misery Dick”, or

usually just “Misery”, and the ongoing joke, since her mother had left home,

was the food her father cooked which she referred to as “dogs’ dinners”. Now,

as my understanding of dog food was Pal out of a tin, I couldn’t quite see the

connection, but I always laughed along with the rest, whilst secretly envying the

fact that Dick loved his daughter enough to cook for her every evening. I was

sure that if my father were in his place we would have lived on sandwiches and

crisps.

I registered the sound of the back door opening again and a smiling ginger

head came round the dining room door. “Hello there.”

“Hello Patrick,” we all chorused. Whenever was I going to get my parents

alone I thought vaguely and then let the thought go right to the back of my mind.

It was obviously going to be one of “those” evenings whereby everyone would

just turn up. They had obviously remembered it was “Tebbit’s night” and that

they would have free rein of the house without the somewhat disapproving

presence of my father watching TV in the dining room before going to “get

some cigarettes”. Patrick was Irish and he worked in a TV rental shop. I can’t

remember quite how he became one of our regular visitors. I do remember that

he and I had had a rather disastrous date one night and that to avoid having to

kiss him I had brought him home for coffee. That was about two years ago and

he had just sort of amalgamated into the crowd of visitors that frequented my

house. “Will I play some records, will I?” Patrick loved to choose the music and

his current favourite was ‘Massachusetts’ by the Bee Gees. Once he latched onto

a song he did it to death. We had gone through ‘Kites’, ‘Waterloo Sunset’ and

‘Rudy’s in Court’ before he went onto his current passion. I watched him go into

the lounge and take the record off the shelf before turning on the record player

that lived on a lop-sided shelf that my father had put up one snowy day when

there was no chance of a game of golf. Within seconds the plaintive sound of the

Bee Gees filled the room. “This is great isn’t it?” beamed Patrick. Now someone

had told me that Patrick suffered from schizophrenia but I hadn’t seen any signs

of his having a mental health problem. He was a bit vague but I had always put

that down to the fact that he was Irish, David had a whole collection of jokes

about how thick the Irish were. He was also well into his thirties and I had often

wondered why he liked spending so much time with a bunch of teenagers and

my mother. But he was good natured and had some interesting stories to tell

about when he had been in the Merchant Navy so we put up with some of his

somewhat odd behaviour - especially that of playing the same record over and

over again.

After about an hour of chatting, smoking and drinking coffee, the bell rang

and on the step stood Giles and Amelia. They were a couple who had met each

other in the library where my mother worked and had only recently started going

out together. Amelia had dumped her long standing boyfriend, who also still

came round to my house post dumping, and begun dating Giles. If Roger was

round and they turned up it could become very tense with Roger making barbed

remarks and Amelia going out of the room to cry in the bathroom. Giles

remained blissfully unaware of any undercurrents as he shared the same passion

for bawdy jokes and Monty Python as David and they would spend the evening

laughing uproariously at each other’s stories. This actually belied the fact that

Giles was very intelligent and gifted, especially at model making. He had

ambitions to join the BBC and was currently getting his portfolio together.

Amelia’s anxious face peered at me from around the door, “Who’s here?”

she whispered.

“It’s ok,” I whispered back. “Roger isn’t here.” I saw her relax visibly.

“We thought we might be a bit late, is it still alright to come in only we had

to spend part of the evening with Giles’ mother?” Amelia grimaced. She had

told me that the one thing not so good about their relationship was that she

couldn’t stand Giles’ widowed mother who was very clingy with, and protective

of her only son. Giles, yet again also blissfully unaware of this, went sailing into

the lounge with cries of “I say I say I say” as he had spotted David and was all

set to embark upon a marathon joke telling session.

“Come into the kitchen,” I whispered to Amelia, “I’ve got something to tell

you.” When we had shut the door I told her about my job. The reason I felt able

to confide in her, was that her father was equally as strict as mine, so I knew she

would understand my trepidation.

“Wow!” she said. “What about your dad?”

“I know, he’s going to have a fit, but I really want to do this. Just imagine

listening to music all day, not to mention the hefty staff discount.”

Amelia’s eyes were as round as saucers, “Do you think you might be able to

get any American imports of the Beach Boys?”

“I don’t know, but I can have a look.”

“Oh wow, that would be great.” Amelia was trying to be a flower child and

her language was beginning to reflect this. “That would be so cool,” she giggled.

“I can just imagine the look on your dad’s face when you tell him.”

I really didn’t think that was very funny. “By the way,” I warned, “David’s

here.” Amelia had a very expressive face, every thought was visible. I could see

her groan inwardly as I knew that she was embarrassed by Giles’ jokes.

“He’ll have to go soon, tho won’t he? Won’t he have to get up for school?”

“I expect so, although he may bunk off and come in here and hide under my

bed.” This was something he had been known to do on several occasions. Just at

that moment there was a knock on the back door. When I opened it I found

Felicity, David’s sister standing on the step.

“I’ve come to drag Dave home, he’s got homework.” Felicity was sullen, I

think it was something to do with the fact that her parents had banned her

boyfriend from the house, deeming him unsuitable. I had never seen Felicity

without a glower on her face.

“I’ll go and tell him,” replied Amelia, “he won’t be a minute.”

“Do you want to come in?” I asked politely, only to receive a frozen look.

“No thanks, I just want Dave to hurry up and come home, I don’t know why

I had to come and get him in the first place.” I then did something I don’t ever

do and I must admit I’m not proud that I did.

“How’s Grant?” I asked innocently. Well, if looks could kill that would have

been it. Felicity is only tiny and quite round, but she just looks so haughty all the

time.

“I expect you know, I’m not supposed to see him any more.” I felt really

sorry now as I had spotted tears in her eyes. “Well anyway, he can’t come to the

house. We…” she stopped abruptly as David entered the kitchen. “Come on,”

she told him crossly, “you’ve got homework apparently.” With that she banged

the back door open and without another word walked out with David trailing

behind her. He managed a cheery “See you tomorrow” over his shoulder as he

left. After that all was fairly calm, Giles, robbed of his joke partner was

earnestly talking music with Patrick, although their tastes were so different I

don’t know why he bothered.

I could hear Patrick’s Irish lilt periodically asking him “Don’t you just love

‘Massachusetts’, don’t you?” I didn’t hear the reply. What I did hear were the

strains of “Rudy’s in court” from the corner of the room and I wondered

fleetingly why he had reverted to one of his older obsessions. I later learned that

David had hidden “Massachusetts” just before he left. He must have thought

enough is enough.

So that evening I didn’t get to tell my parents about my job. When my father

returned from the club he just poked a head around the lounge door, caught sight

of all the people and bid a hasty retreat upstairs to bed. My mother was still

holding court on the floor. Just as she was offering everyone coffee, I told her

and the room in general that I was going to bed. I was so tired after my long day

in the West End and could see that the remaining people were getting ready for a

long session, which I didn’t really want to join.

To good natured choruses of “Night” and “Good Night then” I made my

way to my room and when I had washed and cleaned my teeth I snuggled under

the covers with one of the books I had bought that afternoon. It wasn’t long

before I fell off into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning I was woken up by the sound of my parents arguing. This

did not bode well for the day. My mother’s voice gradually got louder and

louder as it always did when she was cross, while my father’s tones remained

controlled and measured. I thought about just turning over and going back to

sleep, but was hungry and needed the loo, so thought better of it.

I put on my dressing gown and went downstairs. As I entered the dining

room my mother rounded on me, desperate I was sure to get me on side.

“We’re not having Christmas this year Freya, your father won’t give me any

money for Christmas shopping.” I looked at my father who was desperately

trying to eat a piece of toast and drink a cup of tea before leaving for work.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “That’s not what I said Dorothy, I simply said

you receive your salary three days hence, utilise that and I’ll reimburse you.”

Now my father often did sound pedantic and used legalese but we were all used

to this.

“Do you hear that?” bellowed my mother. “Jonathan please do not talk to

me as if I’m one of your clients, I’m your wife.” I could just imagine the

thoughts that were going on in his head in response to this but all he did was

shrug and take his empty plate to the kitchen. “More tea?” my mother shouted to

him as if he were in the next county and not just the next room.

“Please, dear, just over half a cup.”

“For goodness sake why do you have to say that all the time, just a yes or no

would do.” I really did regret coming downstairs now, so helping myself to a

cup of coffee from the percolator, I bid a hasty retreat back to my bedroom. I

was joined by Dennis my faithful dog. Dennis is a rescue greyhound and he has

the saddest eyes I have ever seen. He was only three when they got rid of him as

he hadn’t won a race. He was obviously far too clever to chase a mechanical

hare round a track. I always begged to have Dennis sleep with me at night but

was never allowed as my mother deemed it to be unhygienic. However he

grabbed the first opportunity to come bounding upstairs and snuggle down under

my bedclothes. For a large dog he was so elegant and could fold himself down

into the smallest of spaces.

“It’s ok Den,” I told him reassuringly. “It’s just those two arguing again.”

Dennis was extremely sensitive to any underlying atmospheres in the home; he

hated fireworks and thunder and raised voices with a passion. I sat in bed

alternately sipping coffee and stroking Dennis until I heard the back door slam

and my mother’s car start. My father had long since taken himself off to the

local station where he caught his city train.

I lay back down for a while and then throwing back the covers, much to

Dennis’ irritation, got out of bed and went to have a bath. After this I went down

to make myself some toast. Dennis, ever hopeful for some food, padded after

me, so we shared a couple of pieces of toast before going out for our morning

walk around the cricket field.

With Dennis walked, I had the rest of the day to do anything with. I

remembered then that I needed some black court shoes for work. What were

court shoes? I wondered. I was sure I didn’t have any. I had black sandals and

lovely suede shoes in all different colours with pointed toes and stiletto heels, I

also had leather ones, but nothing black. My mother would know what

constituted a court shoe, but there again so would a sales assistant. I decided

Enfield would be the best place for this, so making sure Dennis had all his

creature comforts, warm bed by the radiator, chews and water I left the house.

Enfield Town was heaving when I arrived; I guessed this was because we

were getting into the Christmas shopping period. I thought Clark’s would be the

most likely place for court shoes. I had it in my head that these were old-

fashioned and as I deemed Clark’s the most old-fashioned shop I knew, thought

they would be perfect.

The sales assistant was quite haughty when I asked for black court shoes

sized four. “Have you looked in the window?” she asked dismissively. I didn’t

want to own my ignorance of what constituted a court shoe, so I smiled sweetly

and said no. She suppressed a ‘tut’ of annoyance and went out into the back of

the shop. She returned bearing a shoe box and when she took the shoes out I

realised that I had been right in thinking they were old-fashioned. They were just

plain black leather shoes with a kind of heel that I think is called “Louis” after

the fourteenth king of France of that name. I tried them on and they felt ok even

if they looked like something my grandmother would wear.

My, “Thanks, I’ll take them,” actually elicited a smile from the assistant,

who proceeded to put them into a bag whilst taking my money.

With mission accomplished I decided to just have a quick look in the town

library. I loved libraries with a passion and had once spent three days in the

basement of my local library, looking through the stock of old, musty-smelling

books. My mother worked as a librarian in another branch and I usually avoided

visiting her place of work as she was more than likely to embarrass me in front

of her colleagues.

After finding a couple of quite good books, I decided I was going to go

home to have some lunch and then maybe look in my father’s drinks cabinet to

see if there was anything to give me a bit of Dutch courage before my parents

returned home and I told them about my job.

I had opened the door and been greeted by Dennis when I had the feeling

that someone was in the house. Calling out for my mother, I knew it wouldn’t be

my father, I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Turning I saw David grinning at me. “What are you doing here?” I tried to take

advantage of my four years seniority and sound superior, but actually sounded

just what I was, terrified.

He grinned. “Came home early from school, I know where you keep the

spare key so let myself in, don’t want Uncle Pete seeing me.” Now for some

unknown reason David always referred to his parents as “Uncle Pete and Aunty

Jane” whether there was some kind of denial of his origins going on here I

wasn’t too sure. “He comes home early on Fridays.”

“Oh, ok,” I have to admit my heart sank at the thought of having to spend

the afternoon with David. Obviously he didn’t feel the same as he grinned at me.

“Got a great record by George Formby we can listen to.” Things were

definitely going from bad to worse. I know that boys of his age love to indulge

in smutty humour, in fact my father always referred to anything like that as

‘schoolboy humour’. To have to spend hours listening to it was another matter.

“Actually I’m going to have some lunch, have you eaten?” God, I sounded

just like my mother.

“Wouldn’t say no,” this was his usual answer, which used to drive my

mother mad, so I quite encouraged him to keep saying it. Looking in the fridge I

found the ingredients for cheese on toast, which David said would suit him just

fine. When we had filled our faces, I saw him sidling into the lounge in the

direction of the record player. Within minutes and before I could say anything I

heard the excruciating sound of “When I’m cleaning windows”, accompanied by

David’s rather mature sounding dirty laugh. I took the opportunity to pour

myself a large gin and bitter lemon from the drinks cabinet whilst he was so

very obviously occupied. I must say that after two of those I felt able to face

both George Formby and my parents.

My mother arrived home at 4.30pm. She breezed in, greeting David as if he

were her long lost son, before coming over to hug me. I shrank back alarmed.

She knew I didn’t like being touched whatever was the matter with her? “We’re

all going to the Green Dragon tonight,” she was obviously excited. “Roger came

into the library and he’s bringing a group of his rugger friends to meet us.” I

cringed at the ‘us’. “He’s having a party next weekend and he thought it would

be good to get together beforehand.” My mother was forty eight for goodness

sake, sounding like sixteen.

“Does that include me?” piped up David.

“I don’t know whether or not I look eighteen.” To my mind he looked about

twelve, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“No David dear,” said my mother sounding disappointed. “I’m afraid you

are just a bit too young to go into a pub, but I’m sure Roger won’t mind you

going to his party.”

“Cool, will he invite Giles do you think?” I bit my tongue for fear of

laughing. I could just imagine Roger, having been dumped unceremoniously by

Amelia, asking her new boyfriend to his party. It must have dawned on David

too, as he went quite red and mumbled something along the lines of, “No I don’t

suppose he will be there.”

“You’ll have to ask Uncle Pete and Auntie Jane if you can come dear,” my

mother told him. She was calling them that now I realised in some dismay. Was

madness catching I wondered briefly, but seized the moment and, banking on

my mother’s excitement at an evening with a bunch of teenagers in the local pub

putting her in a good mood, I blurted out about my job.

“Goodness me, whatever will your father say?” The glee in her voice was

apparent as was the twinkle in her eyes. Anything that disconcerted my father

was great in her book. “He’ll absolutely have a fit and just imagine if they found

out at the golf club.” I could see her mind working overtime to try and come up

with a way to let his fellow members know. “Are you telling him tonight as I

really want to be there to see his face?” I made a mental note to intercept him at

the front door.

Luckily my mother was busy chatting on the phone to the one friend she had

who was actually her own age, when the time of my father’s arrival home came

round. I had sidled out of the back door and was just sort of lurking by the

garage when I heard his footsteps. I reached him before he had a chance to put

his key in the door. “I need to talk to you,” I sounded like someone in a spy film

I thought briefly. My father raised a surprised eyebrow. “I’ve got a temporary

job starting Monday,” I blurted out with emphasis on the temporary.

“That’s good, keep you out of mischief.”

“Well, you might not think it’s so good when you hear what it is but like I

said it really is only temporary.”

“Good Lord, you’re not doing the Christmas post round are you?” He

sounded so alarmed at the thought of my delivering letters to all our neighbours

and making him feel, to coin his usual phrase: “Highly embarrassed.” I realised

he had solved all my problems. A job in far off Oxford Street albeit in a shop

was so much more preferable than my embarrassing him on home ground.

“No, of course not,” I laughed. “But you won’t like that it’s in a shop.”

“A shop, where, not Palmers Green?” too near I knew he was thinking.

“Oxford Street”. “Oh, right, is it something to do with Cassie?” Why he would

think that I had no idea. “She works up there doesn’t she?”

“Not far.”

“That’s good you’ll be able to get together for lunch.” I wondered if he had

visited the golf club on his way home and was in fact drunk he was receiving the

news so well. “Might be a bit of a laugh what? Getting your hands dirty and so

on for a month or so.” I knew I had been right to emphasise the job’s temporary

status. This way he could rationalise it as things youngsters do before they settle

down. “Your mother in is she?”

“Yes, talking to Heather.”

“Well, time for the Flintstones then.” My father had a strange passion for

cartoons on TV, which, considering his intellectual ability and his hatred of

“Making small talk”, I found hard to equate with him. With that he opened the

front door and stood aside to let me enter. I couldn’t really believe I had got

away with things so easily. And later that evening I had even more of a shock

when my father came to my room and told me that some mornings, when he was

taking the car to work I could have a lift in with him. He really was taking this

so well. I thanked him and said that would be good although I quaked inwardly

at the thought of an hour spent in the car in total silence as I knew he wouldn’t

chat to me during the journey.

The weekend passed in its usual way; shopping with Cassie on Saturday,

friends visiting in the evening as usual. Sunday was relatively quiet. As it was

cold but sunny, Cassie and I took Dennis for a long walk to Grovelands Park.

We spent the afternoon and evening deciding what I was going to wear for my

first day at work and then decided that an early night was in order.

I found however, when I got to bed I was too nervous to sleep. A thousand

things went round in my mind, from worrying about being late to wondering

what I would have to do, to what would they think of me and last but not least

my name. My name has always bugged me. In a school full of Theresas, Janes,

Marys, Patricias, Katies, I most certainly had been the odd one out. When I went

to primary school I realised that my name was very different from that of the

other children. When I came home and cried about this my mother told me

Freya was a Norse Goddess and that I had a name to be proud of. Of course this

didn’t wash with my peers in either primary or grammar school. I was the “odd

girl, with the odd name” right up until the day I left. My father had wanted to

call me Christine, and whilst I was not that keen on it, I preferred it to Freya as it

was somewhat more common. I remember once telling some people I met in the

park that I was Elizabeth Green. I couldn’t have been more than about five years

old and my mother looked most surprised when the two kindly elderly ladies she

found me talking to by the duck pond, bade me “Bye bye Elizabeth”.

I wondered whether I would have the nerve to tell people tomorrow at least

that I was called Christine. The other thing was my voice. In the sixties received

pronunciation was on its way out, along with the middle classes. My accent was

pure cut glass home counties, gently honed by my family, Camilla the

exception, and my school teachers. My voice was just too BBC. Cassie and I

had practised Estuary English in the privacy of my bedroom but never had the

courage to use it when we were not alone. Camilla spoke with a combination of

cockney and mid-west twang that she had gleaned from watching cowboy films

on television. I almost envied her this, thinking she would probably fit in with

my prospective working environment.

I tossed and turned and then worried what my hair would be like in the

morning as a result. That was another thing, my hair. It was long and thick as

fashion dictated, but it was not straight. No matter what lengths I went to I was

unable to eliminate the natural waves that fell way past my shoulders. I had even

got Cassie to iron it for me once, with pretty disastrous consequences I might

add. It was dark, but had a strong hint of chestnut which I was very worried

might have something to do with my maternal grandmother being Irish. I didn’t

like the idea of that, thanks to David’s jokes. My Grandmother herself is

absolutely lovely and does not have an Irish accent. I believe the Irish

connection is quite distant but have always been told that the auburn that runs

through our family’s hair is the result of this. So I had lots of things to worry

about, as I tried in vain to get off to sleep.

I looked out of my bedroom window about three o’clock and was amazed to

see some lights on in the flats above the shops which were visible to the side of

us if we craned our necks. Those people weren’t asleep either. I wondered for a

moment what thoughts were keeping them awake. I must have dozed eventually

because the next thing I knew was that my mother was shaking me awake. She

plonked a cup of coffee down on my bedside table and with a - “It’s about half

past six” - flung at me from over her shoulder, left the room. She still hadn’t

really forgiven me for catching my father first and telling him about my job

without her being there. I felt tired, but excited and nervous all at the same time.

My mother insisted that I ate breakfast and just as I was about to leave she

thrust a packet wrapped in tin foil into my hands. “What’s that?” I asked,

puzzled. “Your lunch, I’ve made you some marmite and cucumber sandwiches”.

“God, Mummy they have a canteen”. I didn’t for once think about hurt feelings,

I just knew I couldn’t go to a new job clutching marmite and cucumber

sandwiches, like some saddo who doesn’t know how to live. I regretted it the

minute it left my mouth as I could see how hurt she was. “But I’d love them for

tea, so can you put them in the fridge til I get home?” I felt I might have

redeemed myself with this and the look on her face told me I was right. My

mother has this strange ability to make me feel guilty for just thinking bad things

about her, let alone ever voicing them. I almost felt she might be able to read my

mind and believe me I did have some very nasty thoughts about her at times.

The sandwich crisis averted I grabbed my coat and handbag and headed out of

the front door towards the bus stop for the first leg of my journey.

I managed to get a seat on the underground; my mother had told me it was

common to refer to it as the ‘tube’. I had brought a book to read and actually

found I became so absorbed that I forgot all about my nerves and almost missed

the stop where I had to change. I navigated the change but couldn’t secure a seat

on the next train so no book meant back with the nerves. I told myself all the

way until I reached the store entrance, that I could leave at the end of the day

and not go back if I didn’t like it. This didn’t really help as I realised I was

actually quite desperate to like it.

When I entered I saw the same Australian by the front door. “Hi”, He

obviously recognised me which I wondered was a good or bad thing. “Get the

lift up to the third floor Mr Dennison’s secretary is waiting for all you newbies”.

Who I wondered was Mr Dennison and what was a “newbee”.

“Ok,” I replied as nonchalantly as I could. There was no way I was going to

let the whole world know that I felt completely, totally and utterly out of my

depth.

On reaching the third floor I found the same middle-aged lady I had seen at

interview. She had a tall gangly young man in tow this time. “Ah Miss

Beaumont isn’t it, this is Mr Maunders, he’s starting with you today along with

two others who aren’t here yet”. I could see she disapproved of the fact that they

weren’t here and felt sorry for what I thought might be their reception when they

did finally arrive. She didn’t look to be the friendly, motherly type at all. She

had handed Mr Maunders, who was about my age, a ghastly grey jacket which

she was trying to brush down whilst he put it on.

“That should be your size,” she gave him an icy glare defying him to argue

with her. The fact that the sleeves came way above his wrists didn’t seem to faze

her. “Miss Beaumont, in the continuing absence of the others I may as well take

you down to get your overall, what size are you? - you’re very thin, but there

again,” I could see she was eyeing the other cause of my perhaps greatest

embarrassment, my overly large and very well developed breasts. I was what

men called a “knockout” when it came to looks; the thing was inside I didn’t

feel that way at all. Yes I wore very short skirts but they were the current

fashion and at eighteen I wanted to look the part. I was quite short, only five foot

three and very slim from the waist down. I had long legs which, ok were quite

shapely for mini skirts. My face was quite round and I had greeny-blue eyes to

go with my dark abundant hair. My bra size however, was thirty six D totally

out of proportion to the rest of my body. Mr Dennison’s secretary, I presumed

that was who she was, continued to stare at me and tut. “We might have to adapt

a couple of overalls for you.” She made me feel that this was the worst possible

scenario by the tone of her voice. “Come with me, no, not you Mr Maunders, we

are going to the ladies’ rest room, you wait in that office there,” with a

dismissive flick of the wrist she indicated the room where I had had my

interview.

I trailed after her along a corridor and down the stairs to the first floor. She

entered an office and bade me to wait where I was. Within minutes she re-

emerged holding two blue nylon overalls. “This way,” she chivvied me along to

another room which I gathered was the women’s changing room. There were

lockers all around, one of which she opened with a key, which she then handed

to me. “You put any valuables in there.” She informed me. “Now, let’s have a

look at these overalls.” The first one she produced was voluminous to say the

least. “You will wear this over your clothes,” she instructed, thrusting it at me. I

put the ugly looking thing on. As I had thought it was huge and way too big for

me she tutted again and proffered the next. This one, much to my surprise and

hers, fitted quite well. “Hm, that’s a size twelve, but it does seem to be alright, at

least it will do. I’ll just pop and get another for you, so that you can have one on

and one in the wash at all times”. I couldn’t help feeling that she would have

been more suited to a career in the armed forces than the music industry. Just as

she was about to leave, the door opened and a girl of about my age looked in.

“Hello Mrs G, I’ve got Jenny Yip here. She starts as a Christmas temp today

on the sales floor.” She was followed by a woman just a little older than me,

who managed to look flustered yet sad at the same time.

“Oh yes, of course, but you do know you were meant to be here at 9am

don’t you?” Jenny looked even more flustered.

“Yes, but I got lost on the tube.” She had a broad northern accent. “I’ve only

ever been on there the one time I came for my interview and I went the wrong

way today and got on the wrong platform and…”

Mrs G held up a restraining hand. “You need to get yourself a tube map

young lady, we don’t tolerate people being late, especially on their first day.” I

shot Jenny a sympathetic look. “What dress size are you?” she barked at her.

“Twelve.”

“Right then I need to get another three twelves. You two wait here for a

minute, oh and Mrs Yip, your shoes are completely unsuitable, you need to

change them.” With that she was gone.

I looked down at the offending shoes which looked to me pretty much like

the ones I had on, the only difference being that hers were brown. “God,” she

grimaced. “Who does that old bat think she is. I only got brown shoes and no

money for any others til I been paid.” I liked her accent. So me being me, told

her so. She grinned at me. “I like yours too, it’s dead posh.” Not what I had

really wanted to hear. “Ain’t London a fab place, I thought Liverpool were

great, but London, well, I can’t wait to go to Carnaby Street.” Now she had

begun to speak it didn’t seem as if she was going to stop. The re-emergence of

Mrs G however, put a halt to her enthusiasm. She handed Jenny her two overalls

and me my spare and then turning round told us to follow her back to the third

floor.

When we reached there we found that Mr Maunders had been joined by

another young man. He had very white skin and black curly hair. His dark