Street Kid (7 page)

One of the things my father obsessed about was having a perfectly polished doorstep. Freda had shown me how to use the donkey stone she’d got in exchange for rags from
the rag-and-bone man. It was made of crushed stone, bleach, and cement and was used by all the housewives in our street to scour and colour their doorsteps. ‘Doing the step’ was another of my daily chores.

First, I’d bring out a bucket of warm water and a cloth and wipe down the doorstep. Then I’d wet the donkey stone, taking off a layer of the chalky stuff with my cloth. The paste was then spread on the step and left to dry. It left a smooth caramelly residue and, with a clean cloth and water, I’d wash around it carefully to make a perfect semicircle. My father always insisted on a half-moon shape. Everyone else in the street had their step coloured in a square, but he wanted to show he was better than them. It was very hard marking out the semicircle, but I knew Dad would beat me if I didn’t do it perfectly.

On my first Saturday in Hulme, I was lying on my bed when I heard the rag-and-bone man outside shouting, ‘Any old rags!’

‘Judy, get down here now!’ Freda’s voice made me jump.

I ran downstairs. Freda shoved an old white shirt of my father’s, and a few other bits of clothing and rags, into my arms and told me to get a donkey stone.

I went outside into the winter sunshine. A group of kids from the neighbouring houses had collected on the street with their armfuls of rags, twittering with excitement.

The rag-and-bone-man had longish, grizzled hair and was unshaven. His trousers were kept up with string, but his big shire horse didn’t look badly fed. He probably wasn’t that hard up as he was paid good money for a ton of rags across town at the paper factory.

One by one, the children gave the man their bags of old clothes and he held up a selection of toys they could choose from. One girl with an especially big bundle of rags
was allowed to take a bat with a ball attached by a piece of elastic. I looked longingly at the bazooka, which I’d seen the other children blowing into and which made a really funny buzzy sound. ‘So what do you want, love?’ the rag-and-bone man asked me.

I knew what I had to say.

‘A donkey stone.’

‘Here you are then.’ He handed the chalky cream block to me. I went back indoors, not wanting to stick around watching the other kids playing with their new toys; but I could hear the buzzing from their bazookas and the loud clacks as they flicked their wooden clappers as I walked back over the cobblestones.

Another chore Freda gave me was humping our tin bath, full of dirty laundry, down to the wash house. Doing the washing, when no one in our street had hot water or a tub, was something that took the women most of the day. The wash house was only a short walk from our terrace, and a crowd of women would set out in the early morning, dressed in flowery overalls, hair tidied away in brightly coloured scarves tied in a knot at the top. In front of them, they’d be pushing old prams piled up with the week’s washing.

Freda used to do the laundry at the wash house, but it was my responsibility to get it there in the morning before school. I used to look longingly at the women’s prams as I staggered along the street carrying our huge tin bath. Freda didn’t bother to wonder how I’d be able to make it the three hundred yards to the washhouse; she’d just load up the bath and boot me out the door. I knew I would get into trouble if I dragged the bath, so I had to hold it out in front of me. It was back-breaking work, and every few steps I had to stop and put it down.

When I got to the wash house, I’d hand my shilling over and take the yellow ticket the lady behind the counter held out to me. Inside the building, on the ground floor, there were huge sinks with big copper taps along one wall. I’d put my tin bath down next to one of them, thus bagging it for Freda, who would be along later.

Doing the laundry would take Freda a good part of the day. First she’d use the plunger and scrubbing board to wash our clothes and sheets. After each load, she’d use the mangle to wring as much water as she could from them; then she’d dump them in one of the big steel spinners in the middle of the room. Along the side wall were wooden drying racks in heated compartments. Freda would pull one of them out, hang her clothes on it, and leave them drying there until the next load was ready. Lastly, she did some of the ironing, bringing the rest home for me to do.

Upstairs at the wash house were the public baths, and once a month I was allowed to go there. I’d run along our street with my towel, relishing the thought of a long soak. I paid my money and walked up the stairs to where there were several green-painted cubicles. The lady attendant was small and fat, with a big booming voice, and her curls tucked away in a hairnet.

Once in my cubicle, it was quite a task for me to get into the high bath; but, once in, I’d call to the lady attendant to put in the water.

Then came the fun bit: ‘More hot, please! … That’s enough! … More cold!’

When the bath was nice and full, and steaming hot, I’d lie back in the water. The tub was so big that I could swim in it. Once or twice I got into trouble for splashing the floor as I used to sit on the end of the bath and then slide down it in a whoosh of water.

I loved bathtime so much that I’d have liked to have stayed there all day, but our time was sharply monitored.

‘Time’s up, number three!’ bawled the small lady with the big voice. And then the fun was over for another month.

Chapter Seven

F
reda, we’ve got a meeting at the house on Thursday.’

My father was sitting in his armchair, newspaper on his knees, relaxing after work.

‘You’d better get Judy trained up so that she doesn’t let us down. I don’t want her misbehaving.’

It was my third week in Wood Street and, although my dad and Freda had been out to a couple of Spiritualist meetings at other people’s houses, I had yet to be introduced to the whole pantomime. With his slick-backed hair, trimmed goatee, herringbone-tweed jacket, and shoes as shiny as conkers, my dad certainly looked the part of preacher-showman. And now it was Freda’s job to make sure I played my part perfectly too.

‘Right, Missy,’ said Freda. ‘You’ll do exactly as I say. If you botch it on Thursday, I’ll give you a hiding you’ll never forget.’

She told me to go to the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll want you in your nighty, hair brushed and ready for when I give the word. Right, let’s start.’

‘Judy, sweetie, it’s time for bed now. Come and say goodnight.’ I stood at the top of the stairs in amazement. Freda was using a saccharine, smarmy voice I’d never heard before.

Then it was back to her usual rough tone. ‘Come on, don’t just stand there gawping. Get a move on. Come down.’

I walked down the stairs and followed her to the living-room door. Freda went over and sat on the arm of a chair. ‘Now, I want you to say goodnight to our visitors. Go on, say it.’

I mumbled goodnight. My eyes were lowered to the floor as usual. I wasn’t used to having to talk, and didn’t like it one bit.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake! Look me in the eyes and say it nicer than that. And for goodness sake, smile!’

I had another go. This time I managed to make a better show of it.

I came back from school on Thursday to find a flowery flannel nightdress lying on my bed. I stayed upstairs in my room and when I heard the first guest arrive, got changed into it, and brushed my hair. At seven-thirty on the dot, I heard Freda’s voice, sweet and loving, calling from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Judy darling, time for bed, my love,’ my pantomime mother trilled. ‘Come and say goodnight.’

I walked down the stairs and entered the front room. There were four people sitting around the table on wooden chairs. My father was at the head, looking like he was acting the part of Christ at the Last Supper.

Can’t they see this is all fake?
I thought to myself as I delivered my lines.

‘Night-night … night-night.’

Freda handed me a cup of warm milk and kissed me on the cheek. It was all I could do not to flinch or wipe my face where she’d touched it.

One of the ladies sitting at the table was obviously charmed. ‘What a lovely daughter you have,’ she said to Freda. ‘What beautiful manners!’

I’m not her daughter!
I thought savagely to myself as I went back upstairs. How I hated having to pretend that I was!

After that evening, I used to go regularly with Dad and Freda to their seances. They wanted me there to help them act the perfect close-knit family–after the Cheshire circle had kicked him out, my father was determined not to botch things up in Hulme. Freda and I were both under his tyrannical scrutiny, and if I so much as creaked my chair whilst the spirit was coming through, or if Freda got a word wrong in her opening prayer, we’d be snarled at in the bus on the way home.

My dad had been brought up to believe he had special gifts. His mother was a staunch Spiritualist and had doted on her youngest son to such an extent that he grew up thinking he really was the Messiah. Dad’s initials were J.C.R., and he often used to swagger about it, saying it stood for Jesus Christ Reigns. Occasionally, in an argument with Freda, he’d tower over her, bellowing, ‘Do you know
who
you’re talking to?’ Then I’d see the spittle on his beard and realise he really was mad.

My father was an ambitious man. He wanted to be as famous as Harry Edwards, a well-known spiritualist in the 1950s, and to retire at 35, having made loads of money opening his own sanctuaries. Dad and Freda were always hatching plans, and squirrelled away every spare penny. And they made a fair bit from the gullible ladies who hung on his every word at the seances and healings. When a session was over, my father would never ask for money directly but would winkle it out of his clients with a
manipulative phrase like, ‘We all help each other. What I do for you, you’ll do for me.’ And, as the blue-rinsed ladies eagerly lifted their handbags to retrieve their purses, I’d catch Dad casting a sly glance at Freda.

Whilst it was obvious to me that Dad’s whole act was a complete fraud, it was strange that he somehow believed his own myth, as, even more oddly, did Freda, who delighted in playing his subservient handmaiden. She loved the whole spiritualist set up and, even though she was often the brunt of my father’s mean-spiritedness and towering rages, she was still enthralled by dad’s showy charisma. I found it hard to believe Freda could still find him attractive in any way. I’d seen the monstrous bully he was at home and couldn’t swallow the sudden switch to loving preacher-man. I simply hated him for it, and cringed when I heard him turn on his fake charm and smarmy, educated voice at the prayer meetings.

‘I’ve got somebody here called George … anyone know someone who’s departed this world called George?’ Silence. ‘Or a Geoff? … Yes, we have!’

His sneaky tricks. and the way he’d turn it when he could see he wasn’t connecting with his audience, seemed so obvious to me; but the audience loved it, and hung on his every word. I used to watch the lonely old ladies, their mouths hanging open slightly as he performed, and detest my father for preying on their weakness.

The first time I went with Dad and Freda to a psychic healing, I witnessed the most extraordinary piece of theatre. This time it was a one-to-one session at the house of an old lady who was in agony with an ulcer on her leg. Barely able to leave her chair, she was lonely and in pain – the perfect prey for my father to pounce on.

‘Come in, come in Mr Richardson,’ Mrs Hardy said, hobbling back to her chair. I looked at her swollen purple ankle below the bandages. ‘Hello, lovey,’ she said kindly to me, and I was ashamed when I realized she’d seen me staring at her leg.

When my father went into a trance, he shuddered a little and his eyes seemed to be looking at a far distant place. His voice changed completely as he came under the control of the ‘spirit guide’. In time, I came to recognize all of the spirits that came through my father, each one from a different realm of the spirit world. This time, Mrs Hardy got ‘Dr X’, the lowest of the spirits.

As Dad took on the persona of Dr X, who, he explained later to Mrs Hardy, was a surgeon from Matabeleland, he started speaking in a very posh voice. Even his gestures changed. He hunkered down in his chair (Dr X being a smaller man than my father) and began to mime the act of cleansing his mouth of tobacco bits, his tongue delicately slipping between his teeth as he removed imaginary strands between thumb and forefinger. Then he got down to work in earnest.

Mrs Hardy watched the psychic surgeon perform his miraculous operation with intense belief. And my dad did put on an amazing show. He moved his hands around her leg as if he really was working with a scalpel. Every now and then, he’d pause to take another instrument from the invisible hand of his psychic nurse.

‘Now, you may feel a twinge in your leg as I move my hands over it,’ my father said in his most educated voice. ‘Ah, there’s the scab now. I just need to clean the wound. Now you’ll feel my hand passing warmth through your body. This is spirit healing you.’

At that, he took some deep breaths and started to sigh
loudly, drawing the air in through his nose and out of his mouth. His hands were shaking and his eyelids fluttered.

Mrs Hardy was tearful with gratitude at the end of the session. ‘Mr Richardson, my leg feels almost right again. You really are a miracle worker!’ And she really did look better when she got up to pay my father and show us to the door, and wasn’t limping half as badly.

As the months went on, I became more familiar with Dr X. He was in the lowest world of the seven heavenly realms and so, being more earthly, came through most often. My father instructed me to call him Uncle Toby. The big shot from the number one realm, Chief Running Water, hardly ever came through. When he did, my father acted as though it was a supremely magical moment which we were all blessed to have witnessed. Other guides were Pedro, a Mexican bandit, who’d been shot; Imaki the Eskimo (he was very nosy); and Dr Samakasan, a highly educated Hindu man. Chief Running Water and Pedro both sounded like something out of a Western. I thought their accents were very over the top, especially when my father overdid it with his ‘Adios amigo’; but it made for a good show.