‘They used to take me to spend my holidays with an aunt at Southport, so that they could go off for a fortnight’s peace at Bridlington. It was lucky I liked my aunt, who was my mother’s elder sister and therefore a very different person. She managed a hotel, and never lost her temper with other people, not because she held herself in, but because she was altogether more good-natured and easy. She’d been a keen reader all her life, and every time I came home I brought a few books from her library. This annoyed my parents who thought they were losing the control over me that they didn’t know they no longer had. My room acquired these, and other books, because I’d gone by scholarship to the grammar school. They were proud of me for having done this, and when my father told me so in one of his rare bouts of confidence I was filled with happiness. The trouble was, if it can be called trouble since it is so normal, that we were a close group most of the time, and there was enough love floating around to keep us human, but not enough to keep us warm.
‘So you can see how uneventful my childhood was, and you can’t get nearer to perfection than that. This isn’t as sarky as you think, but the certain fact is that, being so perfect, it had to have the right sort of ending. My father accused me of becoming a precocious schoolgirl, though God knows where he picked up the phrase. I think he was the saddest person I’ve ever known. He had no idea how sad and ordinary his life was. He had given everything up to the purpose of rearing me, and that should have soothed him, but as an ideal it had cracked quite early on, and from that point he had nothing else in life — except my mother. And a man who has nothing except a wife can only make everybody’s existence a misery he comes into contact with. I’d never seen a man so trapped, yet I couldn’t feel sorry for him, because I happened to be his daughter.
‘Even now, when I can at least begin to have some respect for his crushed life, there’s nothing I can do for him. Whenever we meet he asks me continually when I’m going to mend my ways and settle down with a suitable husband or job. He says his friends are always asking about me, wondering what I’m up to, but I tell him to drop dead or wrap up because I can’t be bothered to try and break through the knot that ties him to wife-job-house-club. If only he was happy in it, I wouldn’t mind him getting at me. But he’s not. He sees me, only a woman, doing some of the things he’s often dreamed of imagining himself doing, such as lighting off to London and working there, living in my own room, sometimes with men, now and again with another woman, having a child and not caring that I wasn’t married. A life of freedom is no more marvellous than a life of slavery, I sometimes think, but at least I don’t feel that society is forcing me to live in the way it wants me to live.
‘At eighteen I went off to London, already pregnant, and became an unmarried mother. It’s about the easiest status for a girl to acquire in life. I fell in love with a boy I’d known at school, a dark-eyed secretive bastard who wrote poetry, and could talk his head off without giving anything away. But he was so handsome that nothing could keep me from him, and though my dear father shouted and bullied me for staying out late, my hours actually got later and later. I’d started a temporary office job, and was doing a secretarial course in the evening, which my parents wanted me to take in order to get on and become self-supporting. But because of it I was able to stay out late and be much of the time with him. We’d go to the cinema to see French films, or up on the moors so that he could read his poems to me. I tell you, it was a dream life, and I lapped it up because I was not only getting what I wanted but was doing what my parents had forbidden me to do. Something to hurt them with was handed to me on a platter. I could hardly believe it. My mother, in awful and mysterious tones, had warned me never to let boys and men do anything to me. She never really said why, but I don’t think it would have made much difference, anyway. So behind a sheep-wall and in the balmy air of summer, my flooded membranes tingled under Ron Delph. We couldn’t be kept apart, but by the time autumn came (it always does) Ron began to see that I was only one of many.
‘I don’t want to say that I got jilted or let down, because I was cooling off from him as well. His poems were all about me “giving myself” to him, and him “taking me”. They were like apples that went rotten after they’d fallen from the tree — meaning him. After our first big quarrel, full of heartlessness and spite on both sides, I woke up next morning and spewed into the bathtub. A girl at work laughed and said maybe I was preggers. What could I do but search out Ron Delph and tell him? He went almost crazy from fear and rage but I had no idea of getting him to marry me, because I couldn’t think of a worse fate for either of us. I only wanted to talk to him about it and maybe get a bit of advice. But even that was beyond his intellectual capabilities. We were in a pub, and after half a pint of beer he went out to the gents, and didn’t come back. I’m learning fast, I thought.
‘Only anger stopped me from the pouring tears. I wandered around in the rain, stunned that my first love had done such a thing. But after a cup of coffee it no longer had the power to devour me. I actually began to feel happy. A sense of lightness came up in me and pushed all gloom away, and it seemed wonderful to be living. I wished Ron hadn’t run like that from the pub, and then if the evening had been warm and dry we might have gone up on the moors and laid down together, because that’s what this feeling made me want to do. I didn’t hold anything against him, because my love was coming back strong, and I thought that perhaps the same true feeling was happening to him too. But I couldn’t be sure, and wanted to find out. Knowing where he lived, I went there. I suppose it’s crack-handed to talk about the turning points of one’s life, but be that as it damn-well may, this turned out to be one of them. Ron Delph was enough of a poet to know that I might consider going to his house when I got over the shock of his vanishing trick, so his obvious ploy was not to show up there himself. In my mind he’d gone home to his mother as fast as he could, and she’d hidden him in the farthest attic or coal cellar. But no such luck, for by the time I got to the door I felt like rooting him out from wherever he was, and giving him a good scratch across the eyes.
‘His mother stared, and asked what I wanted. The house was a semi-detached villa with three steps leading up to the front door, the sort of place where, if you want to be on a level with the people inside, you have to go round the back, up the entry and through the dustbins. She was a small woman, and pretty at the age of forty so that I had to ask if she was Ron Delph’s mother before I believed her. From all his lies I expected a bleak six-footer dressed in a sugar bag with a face like a rusty frying-pan, because he’d told me terrifying stories about her wild temper, and of nervous breakdowns which she’d had from the age of twenty-six. When he was four she’d throttled a live chicken in front of him — that was one of his tales, but to look at her now I knew she’d never done any such thing. I realized all this in a flash, and saw how things would improve if I went away. But I’d asked for him, and it was too late to back out now. “Whatever do you want,” she said, “with my son?”
‘“We’ve been seeing each other for the last four months,” I told her, “and I wondered if he was at home.”