Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [62]
At least our joint low opinion of Dad gave us common ground. On so many other topics we were at loggerheads. In fact, the atmosphere at home deteriorated quite rapidly. It was just a clash of wills, really. I wanted to leave and, despite my grandparents secretly craving their own freedom as much as I longed for mine, they didn’t think I should, at least not until I’d finished my education. Then, they reasoned, they could, in all conscience, say they’d done what they’d sworn to do on my mother’s death. But until then we were forced into an occasionally uneasy truce.
I wasn’t really drinking heavily, so they never saw me drunk, and because Grandpa was a heavy smoker, they never detected smoke on my clothes. Arguments tended to be over stupid things – like the time I was helping with the Sunday roast.
It had all been going so well. Granny was carving the meat and I was next to her, trying to tease the hot baking tray of vegetables from its shelf. It was my fifth attempt and yet again the tray was refusing to budge. The heat was pouring out and I was getting flustered. I gave it another go and – same result.
‘Bugger this stupid thing!’ I said and slammed the oven door shut.
‘What did you say?’ Granny’s voice screamed into my ear.
I was so angry at the oven I couldn’t even remember what I’d said.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
There must have been something else bothering her because Granny overreacted. She shouted, ‘Liar!’ then spun me round. The next thing I knew, the tip of her great big carving knife was an inch from my face and she was shaking uncontrollably.
‘How dare you use language like that in my house!’
I was no longer listening. Whatever Granny’s problem was, I didn’t care. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glinting blade. I knew she wasn’t going to hurt me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the Stanley knife I’d faced years before. I lashed out. I couldn’t help it.
‘I’m not scared of you, you old bag!’
‘What did you call me?’
‘You heard.’
That was the one moment when I thought she was going to lose it. She shook violently for a few seconds, then spat the following words into my face:
‘I wish I’d let your father put you into care!’
I couldn’t bite my tongue at that.
‘You vicious old cow!’
But she was already storming off. I can’t remember what happened to the vegetables that day, but we never spoke of it again.
Although I couldn’t have my freedom by leaving Tremola Avenue on my sixteenth birthday, I could do the next best thing. I bought a motorbike.
It was a lovely Honda MB 50, with a top box and – best of all – matching wheels! I couldn’t have been happier. Now the whole world – or at least the south-east part of the UK – was my oyster. Eighteen years after my mother had fled to the Isle of Wight for an illicit weekend, I had taken my first innocent steps towards joining the same mods and rockers crowd. It wouldn’t be the last time our paths crossed . . .
Of course, you can’t buy a bike without the accessories. All the bikers at the time were wearing leather jackets with tassels, so I thought, I’ll have one of those. I really thought I looked the business. Unfortunately, not everyone agreed.
Longhill School didn’t care how you travelled there, but they did care what clothing was worn on the school premises. The headmaster – the very same headmaster who had had to deal with my mother, I learnt later – said my jacket did not conform to school policy.
‘You’ll have to leave it at home or not come in yourself.’
True, I was wearing it mostly because it was cool, but all bikers wear leather for protection. Underneath was my uniform. I couldn’t see what the problem was. And neither, miraculously, could Grandpa.
‘What are you doing home?’ he asked when I arrived back early that day.
‘I was sent home to change,’ and I explained.
‘We’re not going to stand for this. I’m phoning the head.’
To my amazement, Grandpa rang the headmaster there and then and told him in no uncertain