Not that Kinda Girl. Lisa Maxwell

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      Nan and Grandad adored me in a more straightforward way, but even that caused problems. Their other kids had children, too, and Mum remembers a bit of resentment. Nothing was ever said openly to me about my father, but I heard things. At family gatherings people would say: ‘She’s a chip off the old block. She looks just like her dad.’ And ‘She favours her father, not her mother.’

      From an early age there was clearly a short gene in my mix but Mum always tried to pass it off by saying it was to do with an infection after I was born. I’m the only one with a little button nose, too. When Mum introduced me for the first time people would often say, probably just out of politeness, I looked like her. She’d reply, ‘No, she’s not like me, but she’s the spitting image of her father.’ This was in my hearing, but not to me.

      All I knew about him was his name – John Murphy – and I didn’t like it. It made me think I was half-Irish and I didn’t want to be a different nationality from everyone else in my family. The kids on the Rockingham Estate made fun of Irish people. Sometimes Mum would say, ‘You could have been a Murphy,’ and I hated it because I liked being a Maxwell.

      I never asked direct questions about my father; somehow I knew not to; but she’d sometimes say things, like he looked like Paul Newman and that he looked fantastic and wore a Frank Sinatra hat. From these snippets I built up my own image: for me, Paul Newman was the definition of a good-looking man and I’ve always loved the music of Frank Sinatra. Maybe that’s just coincidence or perhaps some deep-rooted influence from those days but don’t imagine I spent hours thinking about my ‘Father Unknown’ – I didn’t. I did a really good job of putting him out of my mind. Somehow it seemed an insult to Mum to harp after a father figure when I could see she was doing everything she could to make sure I didn’t feel abandoned.

      Grandad was like a real dad to me although he wasn’t cuddly and warm and he didn’t seem to be part of my world as much as Nan. But he did the fatherly things: he took the stabilisers off my bike, taught me to ride it, and he made a game for me – a bit like jacks only with wooden cubes. Like lots of men of his generation, he always wore suits (usually brown) and stripy shirts. He got them on Club Row market, next to Petticoat Lane, and whenever he needed a new one he’d take me with him on a Sunday morning. To a child this was a magical place, full of colourful stalls and great characters. My favourite stall was the one where they sold puppies, and Grandad would take me there and let me play with them – we loved our trips together. Afterwards we’d go and see his brother (Uncle Dick) and his son Richard (Little Dick) and I’d get a cup of tea and biscuits, then he’d drop me home before going down the pub.

      It was Grandad who reluctantly put up the money when Mum saw an advert for child models (I was seven or eight at the time). She took me along and the people running the ‘agency’ said we would need to buy a portfolio. This was a scam because they never found me any work, but the photos were great and Mum used them later on when she got me into the Italia Conti.

      It was Grandad who brought home one of my closest childhood friends: Pierre the poodle. He was a French poodle, hence the name, who had belonged to Grandad’s sister Sarah (famous in the family because she once lived next door to Cliff Richard) but she could no longer keep him. I was thrilled to adopt him and apparently when I was very young I said that when I grew up I was going to marry him. I have to say, the name was a bit of an embarrassment – shouting ‘Pierre’ off the balcony really wasn’t acceptable on the Rockingham Estate – so Uncle Alan quickly renamed him Pete the Poodle.

      Grandad was the boss in the house: if the news was on the telly and we were talking, he only had to say ‘Shush’ and we’d all go quiet. After two or three drinks he was more sociable and he’d have a soppy grin on his face. That’s when he would say ‘yes’ to buying any toys or clothes I wanted and, boy, did I know it.

      Mum and me shared our room until I was about 10: I think this contributed to the impression I had from early on that Nan and Grandad were in the role of parents. Mum never grew out of being their child because she always lived with them and it’s only recently she’s had a double bed, not till after Nan died in 2009.

      Running through those years was my ongoing fear of Mum having a life outside our family: I dreaded her going on dates, I felt she was going to do all the things that had given her a ‘reputation’ in the first place – shocking, horrible things associated with my birth. I remember with horror once walking in when I was about eight and finding Mum in Nan and Grandad’s bed with a man: it was terrible. I called her a ‘slut’ and other things, words I must have picked up from what other people said about her. As far as I was concerned, she wasn’t supposed to have a boyfriend or male company. The man had a beard and no one in our family had a beard. To me, he looked debauched, but then any man in a compromising position with Mum would seem that way. Much later, when I was about 14, she had another boyfriend (Bernie). I wasn’t going to cut her any slack and used to sit between them on the sofa. As Mum says, she had dates, not relationships.

      I’ve got a picture from a holiday we went on to Portugal when I was a kid and Mum’s sitting on the back of a fisherman’s motorbike. I hated seeing that picture: he’s swarthy, and to me he looks like a highly sexual person. It was terrible for me because I think Mum was having a holiday romance with him and I hated that, I hated anything to suggest she was a normal, sexual being.

      Uncle Alan played his part in my upbringing, too. He is only 12 years older than me (Nan’s youngest child) and in many ways I grew up thinking of him as a big brother: he used to look after me after school while Mum was working. He’d take me to Nan, who would be at the Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre playing bingo, trying to win food vouchers for our tea. She was no good with money and so she had to come up with creative ways to feed us all, usually involving bingo, the pawn shop or the tally man (the man who collected instalments on money she’d borrowed). Looking back, I can see she probably had a real gambling problem: money always went down the betting shop or the bingo hall and a lot of the time I was with her when she visited there. Grandad never gave her money because he knew what she did with it. She always loved horse racing and followed certain jockeys, working out the odds. At one time she worked in a betting shop and if a punter came in with a bet she knew was hopeless she’d pocket the cash and not put the bet on. Thank God it never came down on her. Later in life she’d watch the racing on telly, screaming and shouting at her horse.

      I remember hiding with Nan when the tally man came round (I don’t know how she knew it was him). Suddenly there’d be a knock at the door and she knew not to answer as if she could smell him. So we’d hide and I’d have to be really quiet, like a game. If we were in the passage when he came, we’d have to get down really low because he could peer through the letterbox. When he’d gone, she’d laugh about it and get on with the rest of her day. If he caught her out and she had to open the door, it would only be a crack, a few inches. I’d be hanging round her legs, trying to see him, but she’d always push me back. I could never put a face to the tally man but the thought of him scared me: he was like a bogeyman.

      I don’t think Mum or Grandad knew about the tally man or the clothing club Nan paid into; maybe it was only Uncle Alan and me who were in on it. Alan got a leather jacket from the tally man money, which he has never forgotten. Nan told us to keep it a secret.

      She was always trying to get money out of Grandad, but he knew better. Whatever excuse she used, he knew it would go down the betting shop or the bingo; they rowed about it a lot. When they were cleaning offices together in the City they would take me with them. I’d sit there making false nails for myself out of Sellotape (a skill used later in life) while they cleaned. She’d be having a go at him about money. Sometimes she’d forge notes from one of the other cleaners (a man), asking to borrow a tenner until next week, and Grandad would hand it over, not realising it was going into her purse. If she had money, I’d be taken to the betting shop and had to hang around outside waiting for her, even after the СКАЧАТЬ