In Chapter 2 of this exciting novel Harv introduced us to most of the remaining main characters (the “good guys” anyway) and her friend Philip asked her if she could get her hands on any old photos for an art exhibition. In Chapter 3, Harv visits her parents and while rooting around in their attic for the photos finds a diary kept by her mother as a teenager. When she realizes that it must have been written around the time of her own conception, Harv cannot keep herself from reading, and is ineluctably drawn down a path of no return… In this post we publish the first half of this chapter. Enjoy!
CHAPTER 3
Home in Scarborough three weeks later I asked Ken about the photographs in the attic, explaining that Philip might be interested in using some of them for an exhibition.
Ken looked pleased, they had belonged to his father, Norman, collected over a lifetime of working as a patternmaker, crafting wood with clinical accuracy for metal casting. Patternmakers wore bowler hats to set them apart from, and above, the other shop floor workers and when I was a small child and he called at our house on his way home smelling of oil and pine shavings he would put his hat onto my tiny head and flick it so it spun round and round, whipping my hair into a dark tornado, and I would laugh. He had two gruesomely fascinating stump fingers on his left hand by which I was both mesmerised and repulsed. He had died on a bus going to Whitby just three years into his retirement.
It was a drizzly Saturday morning and Angie was going into town for what she called a ‘beautification’ which was about sleek hair and long nails and designed to coincide, with precision, the arrival of Ken’s pigeon buddies coming to swap magazines and discuss the merits of the various breeds; Jannsens, Dragoon, Smerle and carrier pigeon. Bricoux, Delbar and Catrysse; names which slipped off the tongues of these northern men like foreign jewels; names which I had heard a thousand times but was no wiser about now than I had been twenty years ago when they had first entered my life lexicon.
I waited for Angie to leave, having made an uneasy peace, then made myself a big mug of coffee, found a packet of biscuits and climbed the ladder into the attic. I hadn’t been up there for years.
Fumbling for the light switch, I pulled myself up into the gloomy atmosphere of the roof space, illuminated by a single tired bulb dangling from a roof timber.
Immediately around the hatch was cluttered with boxes and stuffed bin liners. Laziness had obviously dictated that, when stowing anything, you simply opened the loft and pushed for position, slowly moving the other, older junk further back.
Almost instantly, I found the box of photographs and was glad to see that they were exactly how I remembered them and just what Philip had described.
I pushed a few cartons away from the area round the hatch and put the photo box at the top of the ladder, then went back to investigate some other boxes brimming with childhood books and familiar toys which had caught my eye. My foot jammed against a polythene bag of exercise books from school with faded, regulation red, green and blue covers; half my life had been stashed up here; all these memories relegated to the cold and dark. It was exciting; these things were so old, that they were new to me again, enough nostalgia to fill my whole morning. I tipped out the bag of exercise books with eager anticipation.
I opened an English essay book marked with aggressive strata’s of screeching of red pen and no marks higher than a B+. There was a ‘See Me’ on one page. I had been worse than I remembered. It was astonishing that I had gone on to read English at university.
Underneath the bag was a cardboard sleeve containing some GCSE artwork, some of which wasn’t bad, and an autograph book with a bubblegum pink cover. Nearly the whole class I remembered, including the boys, had handed one round on their last day. All the girls had cried, hugging each other and writing sentimental promises of friendship forever. The boys had limbered up slippy lips, using our leaving as an excuse to give and get nasty, wet, experimental schoolboy kisses.
On the inside cover in pole position, the dull and friendless Jennifer Day had written, in a contrived and loopy script, ‘To one of my best friends. I will miss you’. Desperate Jennifer without an original thought in her head. ‘I hope you will still talk to us when you are a famous artist. Luv ‘n’ stuff, Jennifer Day’. I flicked on through, finding nothing which was any more evolved, just pages of practised and sadly extravagant signatures, ‘autographs’ in pathetic handwriting, underscored with even more pathetic flourishes. I still saw some of these people around in town and we barely had the will to acknowledge each other. Indeed we often didn’t.
Embarrassed and fascinated in equal measure by this trove of history, I pulled out a musty chair cushion which had been pushed into the dark eves, shaking it for spiders, and settled cross-legged, shuffling to get comfortable in the dim light. I opened the box of toys and books and discovered Proper Teddy and wondered why he was in the loft. I launched him toward the hatch and heard him hit the landing carpet with a strawy thump.
Underneath a jumble of knitted dolls clothes were some Enid Blyton books and a Barbie doll with biro on its face and red nipples unevenly marked with indelible felt tip.
Another box revealed a pile of Ken’s old pigeon magazines and photographs of him holding some of his best birds. Underneath, a stack of board games; Buckaroo, Mousetrap and a Twister mat with no instructions.
My grandparents’ wedding album captured my attention for ten minutes or so; the clothes were interesting but the bleak, black and white faces and formal poses belied the celebration and were somehow joyless and miserable. I slid it back into the carton.
I rifled through a few more boxes filled with ugly, newspaper-wrapped crockery and then found a sturdy sealed carton, with the name Angie written in biro on one of the flaps. All the stick had gone out of the tape and it came away, crackling like a yellowy, transparent scab.
In the top of the box was a folded T Shirt, with a message scrawled across the front and an autograph which I couldn’t make out; ‘To Angie, thanks for a great time, with love…’ I would have to ask her. Underneath were two cheap belts and a silk head square printed garishly with a Spanish Flamenco dancer. There were two T. Rex singles still in their paper sleeves, a folded poster of Marc Bolan in leopard skin, pouting like a coquette into camera and a pair of 1970’s nylons in their original package.
I was beaming, thrilled by this concentrated glimpse of the teenage Angie. I rummaged deeper and unearthed a piece of striped fabric folded tightly around what felt like a small hardback book. The unravelled cloth revealed a shiny orange diary, its contents protected by a security band with a small brass lock. On the cover was printed, ‘This Diary belongs to’ and underneath, a series of dots where Angie had filled in her own name in bold, red letters: Angela Pollard. I pushed the catch to the side, but it was secured.
I tipped the box toward me and heard the remaining scrappy contents slide to one edge then eagerly scraped through the gritty detritus and quickly found the tiny, uncomplicated key; a hairpin would have probably done the job. It turned loosely in the cheap lock, allowing the cardboard band to flip open. A glow of sneaking anticipation warmed my ears; the flush of a peeping tom. Feeling ashamed as I did this, I justified what I was about to do, salving my guilt by telling myself that Angie would do exactly the same if presented with my teenage diary. I would take it down with me and we would laugh about it together when she got home; re-bond our friendship.
Inside the front cover was written in official looking capitals with a lot of exclamation marks and a skull and crossbones, ‘Angie’s diary. Private and Confidential!!!!!’ I smiled and despite the warning, flicked open the first page.
January 1.
‘Really hung over. Brilliant night at the Crown, got to kiss Gary, it was fantastic. Janice was sick at nine o’clock but kept on drinking. Had loads of drinks bought and did loads of snogging at midnight. Wore my new pink dress. Ripped tights on way home. Sal had sex in car park with Ron, Janice and me caught them. Really funny.
This is my new diary that Auntie Betty bought me for Christmas and this year I’m going to write in it every day. Think I might be in love with Gary’.
I almost stopped reading at this point, embarrassed by her first gauche entry. I started to put it back in the fabric but now I had started, I somehow couldn’t stop myself; it was too compelling and too available. If I hadn’t read it then, I would have been back up there the following morning after a sleepless night of raging curiosity. I knew it was wrong – it was private, but it was old news. I shifted position, rested my back against the box of pigeon magazines and hunkered down to read some more.
January 2.
‘Go back to work tomorrow, so got clothes ready and talked to Sal on the phone. She wouldn’t tell me about the Ron thing, but said she didn’t really fancy him and he wasn’t that good. Mum made ham salad for tea and dad fell asleep in the chair. Read Marc Bolan annual. He is gorgeous and fantastic and my perfect boyfriend. Goodnight diary.’
‘Goodnight diary,’ I huffed a small laugh.
January 3.
‘I hate work, it’s boring and the customers are shit’.
This was all she’d managed for that day and then there were a few days with nothing at all. Typically of Angie, it had taken just three days for the novelty to wear off. I remembered that she had worked in a shoe shop between leaving school and getting pregnant, which had been just short of two years. I assumed that once she had started to look pregnant, Brian and Della would have made her leave, not wanting her to be fodder for Scarborough gossip. Even now, when either of my grandmothers mentioned anything to do with sex or pregnancy they mouthed it Les Dawson fashion, forearms jumbling. Back then, Angie’s ‘predicament’ or ‘condition’ would have been viewed by them as little short of The Devil’s work.
Not quite two years had been the extent of my mother’s career; any prospects in that department cut short by unmarried motherhood and her bloody lucky marriage.
January 6
‘Saw Julie Rawden in town, she’s knocked up!!!! Says she and Dave Pearson are getting married. Dave Pearson!!! UUUUGH he’s disgusting. Friday tomorrow. Hurray!’
January 7.
‘It’s midnight. Fantastic night!!!, Went to The Crown and then The Ship with Sal and Janice. Gary was in The Crown and then he followed us to The Fleece, he’s really, really good-looking. Went out to the car park and had a snog. He pinned me against the wall and put his hand up my blouse and rubbed up against me. IT FELT HUGE!!!
He wants to take me out tomorrow night; I’m definitely going to do it with him.
He was wearing these amazing jeans. He’s so gorgeous. Don’t know what to wear. Can’t wait till tomorrow’.
A red asterisk highlighted the top of the next entry.
January 8.
‘Went into Tickles at lunchtime and bought a new top, cap sleeves with a collar and a picture of Marc on the front in white. Met Gaz at the Fleece, he was with his mates but we went off to the Crown.
He said I looked really sexy. Had a snog on the way to The Crown, he’s a really good kisser. Felt me up again. Had two drinks at the Crown, Bacardi and Coke. Saw Sal, she said Janice had stopped in tonight.
Went back to The Fleece, his mates were still there. We all played pool and Gaz won. Talked to his mate Pete, who’s really nice and asked if he could take me out, but I don’t know if I’m going out with Gary so I said no. Quite fancy him though. He’s got really nice hair.
Stupid bitch Jane Hollis came in with Brian Carter, they’re still going out from school!!!! She’s a tart and I hate her.
Had three more drinks, felt a bit pissed then went back to Gary’s. His Mum and Dad were out till late. Gary put Deep Purple ‘Burn’ on really loud, it was really good. He sat on the chair and I sat on the settee. It was really embarrassing at first. Then he came over and kissed me and started feeling me up again.’
I put the diary down in my lap and tried to force myself into making a moral decision. I read on.
‘Took his shirt off, he’s got a really nice body, better than Tony Smith. Then he pulled off my jeans and chucked them in the corner and pushed my T. shirt right up and started kissing me all over. Took his trousers off and it looked huge inside his pants!!! It was really passionate, he kept kissing me, really big snogs and putting his hand inside the leg of my knickers and feeling me. When he took his pants off it was huge and it hurt a bit. He was fantastic and it went on for ages. Had to wipe some stuff off the cushions. Thank God his Mum and Dad didn’t come home. Got dressed and went home at about one o’clock. I LOVE GAZ SMYTHE.’
My hand was covering my mouth; I was genuinely, deeply shocked and didn’t really know why. This was nothing different to what I knew teenagers did every day and I recognised the language of crass, juvenile sex. But Angie, my mother, doing those things, writing them down and thinking she was in love with someone because he had nice trousers and bought her a few drinks while he played pool with his mates and took every opportunity that presented itself to get his hand up her blouse in every dirty shop doorway or car park.
I felt horrified that these things had impressed her enough to let him hump her, it was no more dignified than that. No romance, she just put her clothes on and walked home alone. There was no mention of seeing him again, he had offered nothing and she thought she was in love with him. Worse, I knew Gary Smythe, he still drank in The Crown, flicking his sad Peter Stringfellow hair and, although married and older than my mother, still behaving like a seventeen year old, smarming around girls who were little more than school leavers with a predatory and persuasive air. I would never be able to look at him again.
I was judging my mother’s behaviour like a disgusted parent might and for a few moments I actually felt justified in my tight-lipped and puritanical reaction. Then I realised that this was none of my business, I shouldn’t have read the diary; it was private. In reading it, I had sullied myself, spoiled something and reduced her in some way. I felt ashamed and embarrassed for her, for her sad language and her pathetic belief. I felt like she had let me down. But I read on like I was gathering evidence against her.
January 9, 10, 11 Angie had obviously gone to the pub on her own hoping to see Gary, but he hadn’t been there. There was a desperate edge to the little entries which all said the same. ‘Went to Crown. He wasn’t in. Came home.’ Then on the 12th, ‘I need to see him’ and the 13th, ‘He hasn’t phoned again. Spoke to Sal. She saw him in The Fleece last night with Dave. Will see him tomorrow night. I really miss him’.
All around the page were hearts shot through with arrows and his name in the centre or surrounded with more hearts and flowers. GAZ, GaZ, gaz, stylized, filled in and made fancy. It was like watching her walk into a trap. I wanted to shout like a pantomime audience, warn her that when she walked into that pub tomorrow night vibrating with excitement and love, he would pretend that she didn’t exist. That the blokes he would be standing with would know everything that had happened in detail. That the up and down glances which would be cast in her direction as she stood at the bar before she mustered the nerve to walk over, were not friendly, but asked a direct question.
Unsure of whether or not he was her boyfriend, naive Angie, tomorrow night, in public, would have her stupid, tender heart lacerated to the core and be left in no doubt that she was nothing more than a cheap joke.
The next page revealed what I had known, the scene playing out exactly as I had anticipated. Angie, all dressed up, had gone to the pub where Gary had been playing pool with his grinning mates. Her heart had soared but, not wishing to appear too keen she had given him a small, unacknowledged wave and hung around at the bar.
She had watched him with growing excitement and anticipation each time they cleared the table, waiting for him to come over and claim her but, as the hour wore on, she realised he was blanking her.
At 9 o’clock he had left the pub without a glance in her direction, although he had taken the time to stop and say goodbye to a couple of other people. Angie left straight after him, crying noisily before she had even got to the end of the bar, to run home humiliated and heartbroken.
Stay tuned for the second half of this chapter. And please leave your comments below. We thrive on feedback!
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