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I didn’t explain anything about the terror regime, or that Barbara would pick up a dog and throw it and break its back if she was so inclined. I had no idea how I could explain such crazy behaviour to people who were so friendly and normal and kind. I also feared it becoming known by my other friends, and then the bullying at school would get worse. I was trying to escape all that, and finally recreate myself, so I withheld the mess from nice, innocent people for as long as I could. I didn’t want to be a victim or someone people felt sorry for. I didn’t want to be a charity case.
No one usually went round to our house – for good reason. I did feel hugely embarrassed about Barbara’s behaviour towards Petula’s mum, though. She had gone out of her way to plead for me to be allowed to go to art school and was met with typical short shrift: ‘No, that’s not for the likes of Louise. I know best, I’m her mother.’
However, things were about to come to a head in an unexpectedly dramatic way.
Now fourteen, I had finally been to the hairdresser and got a punky Toyah hairstyle. It was a shocking-pink Mohican, standing right up on top, with sea-green shaved tramlines at the sides. I was proud of my confection; it was wonderful. I put on fairly heavy make-up and black punk clothes. Around this time at school I had a careers chat, which was useless. I said I wanted to go to art school – it was my only desire. I was told I had not a chance; my grades were too bad overall.
I was livid. No one spoke to me about what my options were; I was just left hanging with the idea that I would just have to go and work in a shop or factory. Or worse, just get married (like Barbara’s fantasy of me marrying Kevin, and looking after her in her old age – no thank you!). The careers teacher just shrugged and moved onto the next girl; I wasn’t worth bothering about. I was furious, but kept it all inside, as usual.
I was beginning to get a bit of a hard, rock ’n’ roll reputation at school. The other girls could clearly see I didn’t fit in and had had enough. I was on a collision course. It all came to a head in one of the poxy home economics lessons. I felt genuinely insulted by these lessons and I couldn’t stand them. I had spent my entire life being cheap domestic labour at home, so it seemed crazy to me to teach us to be housewives at school.
Mrs Deacon was a plump woman in a brown Crimplene suit, with glasses and ratty hair. We all had to stand behind our tables while she taught us how to bathe a baby in a plastic tub. Mrs Deacon reminded me of Barbara. She had a sharp nose and beady eyes and I didn’t like her. She always spoke in a crisp, condescending way, especially to me.
‘Girls, first you have to make the casserole for your husband when he is coming home after a hard day’s work. You put it in the oven, and t
hen you have time to bathe the baby.’
I couldn’t believe my ears and eyes. I thought about the words of Mr Papadopoulous, and the fact that there were loads of women questioning these traditional roles now. Is this all I was good for? I thought about my so-called home, where the evening meal was doll food, and the rest of the family ate proper meals, minus me. My blood was boiling. What was this rubbish for teaching? So I spoke up.
‘I don’t want a husband, miss,’ I said, with as much attitude as I could muster. ‘I don’t want to do this.’
Mrs Deacon focused her beady eye on me. ‘Louise, you will do this task along with everyone else.’
We stared each other out. For ages.
Eventually Mrs Deacon moved on round the class. For protest, while her back was turned, I put the baby in the bath, put in some water, and splashed about, making a huge mess. Then I drowned it. The other girls round me tittered. I was mucking about and they loved it. I was now playing a rebellious clown. What a stupid exercise. How ludicrous. I could feel my blood simmering away, ready to explode.
In my house, babies were drooled over for five minutes and then battered. Hubbies hid in the garage while children were tied up and beaten or raped. Was this the happy family life Mrs Deacon had in mind for us all – or just me? Mrs Deacon turned her back, and we were supposed to put our babies in a cot with neat nappies on, while putting the perfectly prepared casserole in the oven for the master’s tea. Yeah, right!
Something came over me, something snapped, and I put the baby in a baking tray and shoved it in the hot oven. I then put the casserole in the baby bath and it sploshed, smelly, steaming and brown, all over the place. Then I put my hand up provocatively and said, ‘dunnit, miss,’ to loads of giggles and titters from the girls around me. I was killing myself laughing. All the girls were falling apart. The class was in chaos, as smoke started billowing out of my oven. Thick, black, acrid smoke.
Mrs Deacon’s eyes popped out of her head. ‘Louise!’ Then the sprinkler system started and girls began shrieking at the tops of their voices. It was raining in home economics, all over everyone. The girls were beside themselves – all their neat plaits and ponytails were getting wet. We were drowning in class. It was hilarious. At the same time, sprinklers were also going off all round the school, which I didn’t realise then, and girls doing mock exams had ink running down the page.
It was utter mayhem. The school bell was ringing at the wrong time of day, girls were being ushered out of classrooms, giggling and delighted to be let out early. Mrs Deacon pulled open my oven and out gushed black smoke and everyone started coughing. My ‘baby’ was a molten mass of plastic. Mrs Deacon switched off my oven, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me past all the girls, who were looking at me with shining eyes full of admiration, trying to stop laughing. Everyone was spluttering, gasping, giggling. I didn’t care, as she shouted at me, ‘You are going to the Head. Right now!’
This was the best fun I’d had at school for a very long time. Did I care? No! I smiled. Bring it on.
19
The Worm Turns
The next day the traffic light outside the headmistress’s office turned green. Barbara and I went in and sat on our usual chairs facing Mrs Drayton with her tight grey perm and crisp navy suit. I crossed my arms and stared at her.
‘Well, Louise,’ she began stiffly. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
I said nothing, and just stared back. Mrs Drayton pushed a big box of men’s Kleenex across the desk towards me, and I leant forward and pushed it back. She looked totally outraged. Playing Mrs Drayton for all she was worth, Barbara chipped in: ‘I don’t know what to do with her. I’ve done all I can. You can see what she’s like…’ Barbara dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. Mrs Drayton looked pointedly at Barbara and then at me.
‘Louise, you know full well that you are not allowed to wear that hair and make-up at school.’ I glared at her, not giving an inch. ‘And you know that you have done a terrible thing in home economics – not only did you disrupt the exams, but the entire school.’ I continued to stare at her. ‘Do you realise how serious this is?’
I wanted to smile, but barely repressed it. Of course I did. In a way. But I didn’t care. I knew how serious everything was all the time. I’d simply had enough. I didn’t say anything; I just continued to stare at her, eyeball to eyeball.
‘Very well,’ she said, looking down and shuffling papers on her very tidy, wooden desk. ‘You will be suspended for the next two weeks. You need to think very hard about what you have done.’ She was scribbling notes. ‘Oh, and I want that hairstyle gone when you come back.’
Yeah, right. I was thinking very hard. I was thinking about what a bad girl I had become and I was amazed by myself. I was bored, bored, bored. I was fed up with everything. I knew what would happen the minute we got out of that office: I would be sworn at, berated, put down, and then, at home, I would be punched, slapped and kicked. I was absolutely sick and tired of it. I was bad here, and bad there. But I didn’t care if I was suspended: good riddance. In terms of my life, it just meant more of the same: more of being kept home to do the housework, as always. And more wandering around looking at lovely things, escaping into the healing calm of beauty when I could, drawing all the time and preparing myself for the great day when I would finally be free.
At this time I tended to go to a couple of local cafes: I loved the Nosebag, and there was also the Omni. Both were vegetarian and attracted young people in hordes. I hung out most the time with the pupils who were at the ‘comp’, the school I had wanted to go to in the first place. They didn’t wear uniforms; they were creative and artistic, musical and fun, real individuals, and a lot of them came from the ‘nice’ families who had professional parents. But they were interested – like I was now – in talking about things going on in the world: politics, art, music and animal rights. We played music all the time in the cafes: Sex Pistols, Eurythmics, Blondie and Siouxsie Sioux. I felt at home there, and although I was poor I was able to disguise myself with my art and be punky and funky. I could hang out over one herbal tea bag for hours on end. It was great.
However, on the school front, there were now endless meetings with social workers, the local authority, and even educational psychologists. Things were hotting up. When I went back to school, after the two-week suspension, I still had my Toyah Wilcox-inspired shocking-pink and sea-green, crazy-colour hairstyle. I was also sporting dramatic black eyeliner. So I was called in again to the headmistress and told in no uncertain terms to get rid of it. I crossed my arms and said no, defiantly. We were on a collision course all right. Mrs Drayton was clearly beside herself (which I secretly enjoyed watching), and then I was sent to talk to an educational psychologist in another room.
