Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [64]
My new home was a top-floor flat in Lansdowne Terrace, Hove, which I shared with Simon, my boyfriend of ten months. We’d planned my escape from Tremola Avenue together. What could be more romantic? Two lovers loading a van and driving off into the distance. It was like a Hollywood chick flick. The reality turned out to be a bit different.
You think it’s going to be amazing to live together, but what young teen ever imagines the drudgery of domestic life? He’d never had to wash up or cook or clean or shop for himself, and my experiences were long in the past. We’d certainly never had to worry about bills. We truly imagined just spending our days and nights making love and partying. How many young people have fallen for that?
It would have been easier with a bit more money. As an apprentice scaffolder, Simon was not bringing home much. I managed to get a job at the Prudential, which was courting school-leavers at the time, but that only paid about £60 a week. Our rent was £52, so that didn’t leave much for heating, food or luxuries. Candles became our light, kettles of hot water filled our sinks. We lived off tins of beans and dry bread. It was an eye-opener for Simon, but of course I’d experienced it all before.
There wasn’t a shortcut to cost-cutting that I didn’t know. The electricity meter ran off 50p pieces, but after all our other costs these were few and far between. Fortunately I had the next best thing. One of my acquaintances from the Hungry Years tipped me off about the money mould and even lent me his. Essentially it was an ice-cube tray, except instead of cubes, the ice came out in the shape of currency! I couldn’t believe it would work, but the second I pressed the icy coin into the meter I heard the electricity fire up. The only problem was that you were soon left with a rusting coin box. Some people drilled a hole in the bottom to bleed the melted water out, but as soon as the meter inspector saw that, you were rumbled. For a while, though, it worked just fine.
Our only luxuries were our bikes. Mine was only a 50cc – the maximum engine size for a sixteen-year-old – but Simon had a 125. After insurance and tax, we didn’t have a huge amount for fuel, but we made it pay. Gone were my weekends of cycling and fresh air and packed lunches with health freaks. Now everything was about leather and sweat and petrol fumes. And, God, I loved it.
By now I was practically part of the furniture at the Hungry Years. I knew everyone and everyone knew me. That’s how it felt, anyway. In practice, there was a large crowd of bikers – the Rising Sun gang they called themselves – all dressed the same in tasselled or studded leather over denim, and I didn’t know much more about them than their names and their engine sizes. Different people came and went all the time, but there was always a face or two I recognized, someone who would look after me if Simon wasn’t around. As the only sixteen-year-old, and certainly the only young girl, I never had to buy a drink – it was wonderful!
I looked the part too. I was still spending hours getting ready to go out, striving for the same effect which as an adult now takes two minutes. But at that age you’re absolutely convinced that every eyelash has to be just so. Every item of clothing, especially my beloved stilettos, had to be spot on. That attention to detail really appealed to me. And when I saw that everyone had patches on their denim jackets I leapt onto that bandwagon with gusto. Pictures of skulls, semi-naked women, rats and poisons – the darker the image, the better – all went onto my jacket. I didn’t give a monkey’s about the pictures, I just loved sewing