My Secret Diary (13 page)

That shouldn't have been too much of a problem.
I was used to playing three versions of myself: I
was the dippy boy-mad teenager; the giggly
schoolgirl; and the real me, reading and writing in
my own secret world.

In Youth Fellowship on Sunday 13 March:

Johnny told us about the hike next Sat. It sounds
wonderful fun; Chris says I can have lunch at her
house and then – off we go. I hope it will be as fun
as the Tramps Party. Ken and Robin were
discussing an 'all night' hike. I heard them say
'Two tents?' and give dirty little chuckles.

Saturday 19 March

!!!!! THE HIKE !!!!!

Oh the hike was SMASHING. I went over to Chris
in the morning, bought a navy duffel bag and did
homework. After dinner Chris and I packed our
duffel bags and met Viv. We were a bit nervous, but
Viv was as matter of fact as usual. Everyone arrived
at Worcester Park Station, and then – we set off!
We got out at Box Hill and walked the opposite way
towards Ranmore Common. We got lost, and ended
up at Abinger in the evening! It was very warm and
not muddy, except for one place where it was just a
sea of mud. I took a huge step, and all at once my
shoe fell off, and I was standing in the mud in my
socks. John Reynolds got it for me, and got his
trousers all muddy! I bet his mother cursed me! We
went up this hill as steep as a mountain, covered
with all brambles like a jungle, and as I scrabbled
and grovelled in the earth I felt a hearty push from
behind and John's voice, 'Up we go, Jacqueline!'
We climbed over barbed wire, ate, and walked and
walked until long past dark. Afterwards John
Wilkins invited all 23 of us back to his house for
coffee and biscuits. When we got there there weren't
any empty chairs left, and Ken and Robin invited
us to sit on their laps! I don't know which I like
best now: Ken, John R or John W.

I think John R sounds a sweetie, wading into
the mud to rescue my shoe! We might have stayed
out after dark, but we certainly didn't stay out all
night. We were all extremely well-behaved. I was
rather prim and priggish at fourteen:

Monday 4 April

At dinner Janice B told us that Mr Gander
[one of
the French teachers]
had suddenly said to them,
'Let's have a debate.' The girls in her group were
approving as they were naturally willing to have a
break from French. One bright spark suggested they
should have a debate on 'Should boys be allowed
to do what they like with girls?' Mr Gander was
extremely willing. He told them that he thought
virginity is an important factor in marriage, and
that although he and his wife had intercourse a few
times before they were married, he didn't think we
ought to. He went on in this way, and then asked
if there were any questions. One girl asked 'Why
does a woman not have a baby every time she does
it?' He told them that if you do it a certain time
after a girl's period nothing would probably happen.
Honestly, isn't he awful. Janice said that towards
the end he got awfully het up and excited. Ugh! I'm
glad I don't have him for French. Give me Mrs
Coffin every day, you bet. Angela and Irene said
that they'd already done it with a boy once or twice,
and seemed extremely proud of the fact. They'd have
laughed the other sides of their faces if anything
had happened.

I saw Craig again on 19 April:

In Kingston I saw Craig who was going into
Maxwells. He somehow reminded me very much
of a sailor in his blue jeans and shirt, and his
fair hair.

Thursday 21 April

I caught the bus home and I saw Craig. Before this
week when I saw him I just thought of him like –
well, an ordinary boy, but today! Wham! Now
PLEASE don't think how awful I am, because I
keep on saying I'm crazy about different boys. I'll
explain. I like Jeremy H and John R and John W
but that is all, I don't particularly like them. At the
time I did like Ken a lot, but now I realise it was
only to keep Chris company. I always knew I could
never like him as much as she likes Peter. Now I
can understand her because I keep on thinking of
Craig and wanting to talk about him every minute
of the day. But don't be mistaken, Alan is still first
with me, and always will be, but it's no use thinking
about him as I'll probably never see him again,
whereas I see Craig every day.

Sue next door used to go to the same school as
Craig: 'She told me he likes Art and History best.
I know he must like swimming for I often see him
go out with a towel tucked under his arm.'

I was like a Mickey Mouse detective, observing,
questioning, following a boy who was serenely
unaware of my existence. I was still interested in
a handful of Youth Fellowship boys. We went for
another hike:

Saturday 30 April

I met Chris at 10 a.m., and we wandered around
the shops and went to the park. After dinner we met
Carol and went to Worcester Park station. Mr and
Mrs Golden and their son and their dog Rory came
on the hike. We went to Box Hill station again, and
climbed up Box Hill. Then we walked, ditto, ditto,
ditto. Luckily it was not muddy this time, in fact it
was very dry. This time we had to make our way
down a chalk cliff on a neighbouring hill. Rory kept
on breaking loose, and J.W. in relation to Rory's
lead said 'Grab his whatsit,' and K.W. said 'I beg
your pardon!' Everyone swapped jokes, and on the
train back there was a paper fight between one
compartment and the next. Afterwards we went back
to J.W.'s house and watched T.V. and had coffee.
Chris and I talked a bit to B.T., J.R. and Pyjamas.
J.R. called us both by our names.

Sunday 1 May

I stayed in bed this morning, and after a good
read, quickly skimmed through my Latin book.
It's amazing the amount I've forgotten. Still,
not to worry. In the afternoon I went to Y.F. and
Mr Golden talked about 'Tough Guys'. As I sat
there while Mr G talked on and on I imagined Mr
G in Heaven, with a little golden halo perched on
his head. It got very hot in that stuffy little room,
and the atmosphere seemed to press down on me.
The hard little chairs are very uncomfortable
and I couldn't help fidgeting; first with my
handbag, crossing my legs, rocking my chair,
looking at Chris and J.R., at the ceiling, at
the wall. The blue of the cloth on the table, the
pink of the wall, the white of the ceiling, and the
grey of the boys' clothes all swam together, and I
felt dizzy. Then my eyes began to water and I had
to rub them. My throat was dry and parched,
and I couldn't swallow, my lips felt as if they
would never open again and I had to keep wetting
them. Oh the blessed relief when we began
the hymn!

Sunday 8 May

In the morning Mum and I stayed in bed for a while
and Daddy went to tennis. It was very, very hot and
in the afternoon I only wore my green shirtwaister.
It was the Sunday School's anniversary and instead
of the usual Y.F. service we all went down into the
church and listened to the children's service in
which the Juniors took part. Geraldine Webb, Ken's
sister, sang a solo. (She has a nice clear little voice.)
I was sitting sandwiched between Carol and John
Reynolds. Carol wore her new black and white
checked dress again. After the service I said goodbye
to Carol and Viv and went to tea at Chris's.
We decided to go for a walk and took little-girl-next-door
Margaret's dog Bluey. She is a lovely, very
energetic, cocker spaniel. We took her to Beverly
Brook which was crowded with New Maldenites.
We went past all these boys who made noises after
us, and immediately almost bumped into Ken Webb
and Robin Marriot! After tea we re-met Carol and
Viv and returned to church. Mr Golden is getting
quite pally with us and called me 'Jac' and was
very concerned about Carol's cold. We all wore lily
of the valley posies on our dresses as they are our
church's special flower. In the evening service it was
the Seniors' turn to perform and they acted the part
of nurses, beggars, school children, etc. Dangling
from the roof of the church was a painted sun, moon
and some clouds and stars to represent the universe,
and every time Mr Kelly or anyone got up to preach
they got hit on the head by the sun.

I still didn't seem to be making proper friends
with any of these boys.

Monday 20 June

I must admit it would be nice to have a boyfriend
to boast about, but boys of my own age are so stupid,
and boys of about 16 or 17 who are interested in
girls want girls their own age. Oh well, if I'm just
patient I expect one will come along some day.

I had lots of attention from the wrong sort of
boy. Whenever Carol and I went to the pictures,
older boys usually started whistling or messing
around or trying out some corny chat-up line. Carol
looked older than me and had a dark, pouty,
smouldering look they found very attractive. But
we both found these approaches embarrassing and
we were under no illusions – they just wanted girls
to sit in the back row with them. We knew what
was likely to happen.

Tuesday 9 August

In the afternoon Carol and I went to the Granada
to see 'Make Mine Mink'. It was very very funny,
but half the time we weren't watching the screen,
but watching the couple in front of us. A girl was
sitting in the middle of the row and a boy at the
end. The girl got up to go, and as she passed him
the boy looked at her. A few minutes later the girl
returned, only this time she sat next to him. They
started talking, and he gave her a cigarette. Then
he casually put his arm along the back of her seat,
and then onto her shoulder. Then he leant over and
kissed her, then again. She leant back and he leant
over her and they kissed and kissed passionately.
Then he slowly slid his hand up her skirt but I
don't think she liked that because she tried to push
it away. Anyway, when the film ended the boy
whispered to the girl, and then went out and didn't
come back. The girl sat placidly in front of us and
watched the second film. Two perfect strangers!

Boys tried to pick girls up everywhere.

Friday 22 April

I met Carol at half past two and we went to the
baths, but they were packed, and there was a very
long queue. We resolutely joined the end of it. A
Teddy boy ran his hand up my back and I said 'Do
you mind?' and dragged Carol away as I hate that
sort of boy.

Teddy boys wore their hair in greasy quiffs, they
had long fancy jackets down to their knees, bootlace
ties, drainpipe trousers and suede shoes with
enormous soles. They were nearly all harmless
suburban lads, but the very name 'teddy boy' made
Biddy think of flick-knives and drinking and sex
and doing a ton on motorbikes. She wanted me to
find a boyfriend but she'd have fainted if I'd
brought home a teddy boy.

Sunday 17 July

Went to Burnham Beeches with Carol. At the
swimming pool a boy squirted water from a soda
siphon all over us. Then we went round the fair
together. I turned round, and noticed that four teds
were following. Cas and I walked on to the
Rollapenny and the teds followed and stood very
close behind us. One of them said, 'I dunno how to
play Rollapenny, perhaps one of these young ladies
will show us how' so I said, 'Okay, if you provide
the pennies.' And believe it or not the ted fished in
his pocket and brought out a handful of coppers. I
felt awful (I don't know why) so I didn't take any.

This was all pretty tame, but sometimes girls
felt very vulnerable back in 1960, when mild sexual
harassment was commonplace:

Thursday 4 August

Went to Lagoon with Carol. Four boys kept throwing
matches at us and kept on talking for hours. I didn't
like them and neither did Carol but we stayed until
one of them mentioned undoing my swimming
costume zip, and then we hastily departed.

Monday 8 August

Carol and I went to the Lagoon, but the changing
rooms were being sluiced out all day so we had to
change in the open. It was horrible. When I had
nothing on but a towel on my top some men came
along and stared and commented.

I was starting to despair. There were a good
handful of boys I liked, but none of them seemed
to want to get to know me properly. All the boys
who showed an interest in me were too old or too
scary or too crude. But at the end of August Biddy
and Harry and I went on holiday to Cornwall – and
I had my first real romance.

We went on a fortnight's holiday, one week in
St Ives and one week in Newquay, with Uncle
Ron and Aunty Grace. I wonder whose idea it was.
Biddy worked with Ron at Prince Machines and
they were very close. I'm sure they'd have loved to
go off on holiday, just the two of them. It seemed
so strange for us all to go in this awkward fivesome.
Why didn't Harry or Grace object? I didn't mind
for myself. I'd been to Cornwall before on an odd
holiday with Harry and had thought it beautiful.
(He and Biddy had separate holidays the year I was
eleven – I had to accompany both of them in turn.)

Cornwall was considered
exotic
in 1960, before
there were cheap package tours abroad. Chris was
going on holiday to Eastbourne as usual with Fred,
Hetty and Jan. I think Carol and her family were
just having day trips here and there.

I met up with Carol the Friday before we went
on holiday and we went to the Boys and Girls
Exhibition at Olympia. I'd been there before when
I was younger, with Biddy. I'd shyly whispered a
few words to the children's author Pamela Brown
and been traumatized by George Cansdale
wrapping a large snake round my neck. I kept well
away from any animal stand this time.

I looked hopefully for Pamela Brown, or indeed
any other authors. I have a feeling Noel Streatfeild
might have been there. I'd loved all Noel
Streatfeild's books when I was younger and longed
to see her, even if I wasn't sure I'd have enough
gump to talk to her – not without Biddy prodding
me into action. But we couldn't find Noel
Streatfeild. It was hard finding any of the stands
it was so jam-packed. We simply shuffled here,
stumbled there, eating hot dogs for our lunch,
giggling and blushing when any boys spoke to us.

When I got home Biddy had done all my packing
for me. She spent hours ironing and folding and
arranging every item in perfect patterns until each
suitcase looked like a work of art. My white canvas
beach shoes and my new pointy black heels touched
toes beside my blue and white floral swimming
costume and my best baby-doll pyjamas; my
underwear was prinked into shape like elaborate
table napkins; my two white T-shirts and my
startlingly short shorts were carefully folded, still
serenely spotless. My pale lilac cardigan was curled
round them like a little furry creature, and all my
frocks were puffed out and folded over tissue paper:
my green shirtwaister and a deep blue floral frock
and a new white puff-sleeved dress sprigged with
tiny apricot flowers. My favourite lilac skirt floated
on top, freshly laundered and immaculately ironed.

'Oh thanks, Mum, but what about my
stuff
?
My journal and my notebook and my black folder
and—'

'You're not going to be huddled in a corner
writing all day long. You're on
holiday
,' said Biddy.

'But what about my books?'

'You can take a paperback for the train,' said
Biddy. 'We'll get you some magazines too.'

I didn't argue, knowing it was a waste of breath.
I waited until she'd gone to tackle Harry's packing
– he wasn't trusted to do it himself either – and
then carefully shoved my diary down in the depths
of the case, together with
The Greengage Summer
,
a Monica Dickens paperback, a little Collins copy
of
Jane Eyre
because it was very long.
Gone with
the Wind
because it was even longer, and my
current favourite book for the train,
Billy Liar
by
Keith Waterhouse.

I found
Billy Liar
riveting reading. It's a story
about a young Yorkshire lad called Billy Fisher who
worked in an undertaker's, had three simultaneous
girlfriends and told compulsive lies. I was a
suburban schoolgirl who didn't even have one
boyfriend and didn't tell
actual
lies, though I was
frequently economical with the truth. I identified
totally with Billy because he was a helpless
daydreamer, forever seeking refuge in his own
imaginary world of Ambrosia, he didn't feel he
fitted in with his family, and he badly wanted to
be a writer. It was a revelation to me that someone
else felt exactly the same way I did. I laughed at
his jokes, I bit my lip when he got into endless
trouble, I learned all his catch phrases, I lived every
minute of his life.

Biddy sniffed when she saw me clutching
Billy Liar
the next morning and Harry cursed
when he picked up my suitcase (
Gone with the Wind
alone was like a couple of bricks), but I couldn't
bear the thought of running out of reading
matter. I had two long weeks sitting on a beach
with four adults who would be talking amongst
themselves. It's a wonder I didn't try to stuff our
collected hardback edition of Jane Austen into my
suitcase too.

I read my way through
Billy Liar
twice on the
train journey down to St Ives. It was always an
incredible palaver for the three of us travelling
anywhere. Ron and Grace must have travelled
separately by car. We certainly had the use of a car
on holiday and it wasn't ours. It would probably
have been too much of a squash for all of us to
travel down to Cornwall in Ron's car, especially as
we three Aitkens travelled with four large
cumbersome cases and several bags and carriers as
well. Biddy had to have
two
large battered
Revelation suitcases to spread her frocks out
properly, fluttering brightly in between layers of
tissue paper like giant butterflies.

We would normally have taken the hourly Green
Line bus all the way up to London but we couldn't
possibly manhandle so much luggage ourselves so
we hired a car up to Paddington. This was such an
extraordinary step that Biddy and Harry were extra
tense on the journey, and I sat bolt upright, eyes
closed, breathing shallowly, praying that I wasn't
going to be sick over the hired upholstery.

We felt triumphant when we eventually flopped
down on the scratchily upholstered seats in the
train. Poor Harry struggled to stow all the cases
in the roof racks while Biddy fussed because we
weren't facing the engine and pulled hard on the
leather strap to make sure the window was tightly
closed. It was stifling in the carriage before we'd
even started the journey, but she was anxious about
smuts flying in and speckling our virgin-white
shirts and cardigans with soot. This was the age
of steam trains. They let fly a plume of white smoke
as they chugged through the countryside, the
wheels turning to a comforting tune:
diddle-de-der,
diddle-de-der, diddle-de-der
, on and on. And on and
on and
on
, all the way to St Ives.

It took all day long then. By the time we
eventually arrived and checked into our modest
hotel we were exhausted. We met up with Ron and
Grace and ate our dinner of brown Windsor soup,
boiled beef and carrots, and vanilla ice cream
with tinned peaches, and then went straight to
our bedroom.

We had to unpack everything there and then
and hang it up carefully under Biddy's strict
supervision. I quickly hid my extra books in the
drawer she'd designated for my T-shirts and
underwear. I had my journal and was all set to
write up the day while Biddy and Harry were
making their treks to the bathroom and back. The
hotel was quite posh in our eyes but certainly didn't
run to en suite bathrooms. I was so tired I just
wrote in pencil: 'Long long long train journey', and
then I fell asleep.

We met up with Ron and Grace again at
breakfast, Biddy and Ron chatting animatedly,
Harry and Grace chewing silently, me spooning up
my tinned grapefruit and surreptitiously peering
round at all the other guests in the dining room.
There didn't seem to be any girls my age. There
were
a few boys, but surprisingly none particularly
took my eye.

I was keen to get to the beach. We sunbathed
most of Sunday. I wore my minuscule short shorts
and white top and later changed into my blue and
white swimsuit. Biddy wore her very similar
costume on the beach. There are snapshot photos
of us looking alarmingly alike, our brown hair
blown back by the breeze, showing our high
foreheads, our big noses and determined chins.
Biddy is small and slim and looks years younger
than her age. It must have been galling for Grace,
who was older and stockier and much more staid
looking. There are no photos of her in her
swimming costume.

There are lots of photos of Ron, who is older
and overweight and very homely looking, with eyes
too close together and flat Brylcreemed hair – and
yet he's always got a cheery grin on his face and
the only time he's bothered to try to suck in his
stomach is when he's standing in the sea with
Harry and me.

Harry is the best looking of all of us, his tennis
playing keeping him trim and muscular. He tanned
easily, going an impressive golden brown within a
couple of days. He's smiling in every photo too,
which seems astonishing.

On the Monday we had a trip out in Ron's car
to Mullion and the Lizard. I was particularly
enthusiastic about going to Mullion because I'd once
enjoyed reading a book by Mabel Esther Allan about
a bunch of children with bizarre names: there was
one girl with green eyes called Pussy, and the
narrator was called Mullion after the Cornish cove.
The Lizard sounded interesting too. I was mad
enough to hope for real large lizards lurking on the
rocks like a fantasy Jurassic age. Both Mullion and
the Lizard were doubtless beautiful but a little
disappointing in reality. I'm not sure which is which
in the little black and white snapshots. There's one
of a vast cliff with Ron straddling a large rock, flabby
chest and big belly making him look like a Buddha.

We made another trip out to Land's End. In
those days it was attractively bare and deserted so
it gave you a feeling of being at the very end of
England. The only nod to tourism was a signpost
where you could insert the letters of your own home
town. So there we are, smiling under a sign that
said CHEAM 291 MILES (where Ron and Grace lived)
and KINGSTON 283 MILES.

We all look relaxed and are smiling obediently,
even Harry and Grace. Harry is wearing a
too-tight sweater, baggy tennis shorts and
open-toed sandals,
not
a good look. Grace is sitting
down, wearing a large frock, skirts blowing in the
breeze, a bead necklace round her throat. Biddy is
next to her, her grinning mouth dark with lipstick.
She's wearing a snug sweater and surprising
trousers – she called them trews – in a jazzy zigzag
pattern. Ron is standing above her, one arm leaning
on the signpost, the other arm round me. My shorts
look indecent, I'm showing way too much plump
leg. I was always such an anxious, self-conscious
girl, fussing desperately over my hair, obsessing
about a tiny spot on my nose – how could I have
gone out practically showing my knickers?

Our hotel held a dance on Monday evening. I
wasn't sure I wanted to go, feeling foolish trailing
behind these four ill-assorted adults.

'Can't I just stay in my room and read?' I
begged Biddy.

'No, of course you can't! You can't just lurk in
the bedroom and read. You're here to enjoy yourself
on holiday,' said Biddy.

I
wasn't
enjoying myself. I felt bored and restless
and embarrassed trailing round with four adults
all the time, and I was terribly aware of Grace's
little huffs and Harry's sulks. We were playing this
game that we were all great friends having a
fantastic holiday, but we all knew that wasn't true.

'I don't want to go to this damn daft dance
either,' said Harry. 'I'm going to push off for a walk.'

'You can't! You've
got
to come,' Biddy said,
craning to zip herself into her best low-necked
frock.

'I haven't
got
to do anything. I don't want to
dance with you – and I certainly don't want to
dance with Grace,' said Harry.

'You've got to, to be polite. Look, don't just stand
there, help me with my zip!'

Harry sorted her out so smartly that the skin of
her back got pinched in the zip. Biddy screamed and
accused him of doing it on purpose. There was a
row, conducted in whispers, because all the bedrooms
were in close proximity. Harry stormed off on his
walk. Biddy collapsed in tears. I tried inadequately
to comfort her, longing to escape back into my book.

But disaster was averted. Harry came back
twenty minutes later. He wasn't talking, but he put
on a clean white shirt and changed into his best
grey suit. Biddy held a damp flannel over her eyes
and then patted her powder in place, painting a big
lipstick smile on her face. I stopped lolling on my
bed with my book and shook out my creased skirts.
My white dress set off my tan and I had a new gilt
and mother-of-pearl locket as a holiday present.

We lined up to peer in the big mirror inside the
wardrobe, Biddy and Harry and me, and we all
passed muster. Then we went down the stairs, along
the passageway and into the ballroom to join up
with Ron and Grace, who were already halfway
through their lemonade shandies.

Oh, those long-ago dances! You had a waltz, a
quickstep, a slow foxtrot, and if you were really
dashing, a cha-cha-cha. There were the novelty
dances, the spot waltz where the music stopped
every few minutes and the compère asked a silly
question and the first couple to answer it got a
prize: a bar of chocolate or a tin of talcum powder
or a propelling pencil, nothing exciting at all, but
the couples whooped as if they'd won the football
pools. Then there was the Paul Jones, where all
the ladies joined hands in a circle facing outwards
and all the gentlemen formed an outer circle facing
inwards, holding hands far more awkwardly. When
the music started the ladies danced clockwise, the
men anti-clockwise, until the music stopped and
you had to dance with the man facing you.
Sometimes there were more ladies than men and
you got a gap, so you had to slink back to your seat
until the circles started up again.