Not that Kinda Girl. Lisa Maxwell

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      ‘When you’ve had enough.’

      Off I’d skip with Teddy, who wasn’t exactly pretty. He was part-Doberman and part-Whippet, and probably lots of other things in there as well: skinny, brown and black with a strange little stump where his tail should have been. I loved walking round the estate with him, pretending he was mine.

      One day Teddy made a run for it, with me desperately trying to keep hold of him, which was difficult because the leather handle had snapped and I was grasping the end of the metal chain. Then the metal hook, which held the chain to the leather, pierced the skin between thumb and forefinger: the more Teddy ran, the more it bit into my hand. The pain was excruciating and I was screaming in agony. Somehow I managed to yank the hook out and ran home, yelling my head off.

      ‘All right, babes, calm down,’ said Mum. ‘Let’s have a look.’

      I got on top of my breath slightly and became calmer, desperately hoping Mum wouldn’t take me to hospital – I dreaded having an injection.

      ‘We’ve got to go, babes. You might have lockjaw.’

      ‘What the hell is that?’ I wailed. ‘Am I going to get a stiff head and never speak again?’

      ‘No, you just need a little tetanus. Let’s just get you up the ’ospidal.’

      By this time I was hysterical. ‘Do I have to have a needle?’

      ‘No, darling, they don’t give you needles now – they give you sweets nowadays.’

      So we went to Guy’s Hospital, but I soon realised I’d been tricked when two nurses held me down and a giant in a white coat came towards me with a needle like a pneumatic drill. I screamed, kicked and wriggled and tried to punch, but in the midst of this maelstrom the needle went in without me noticing it.

      ‘There, there, it’s all over – calm down,’ I was surprised to hear the doctor in the white coat say. And then, ‘Now, I hear you wanted sweets?’ and he waggled a bag of Jelly Tots at me. So I got the sweets but it was not the way Mum said it would be. Lying was her first line of defence under pressure and I don’t blame her because all she was worried about was getting me to hospital. I would have preferred to know what was coming, though!

      In my later years at primary school I used to bunk off a bit. We’d go round to the flat of a black lad called Jimmy Paul, who had the ‘Telegram Sam’ record by T-Rex, which we would play endlessly. Jimmy scared a lot of kids – he was a good fighter with a bit of attitude, but I was his mate and so was Wendy Donovan. I really liked her clothes and she lent me her Starsky and Hutch chunky-knit cardie. When we went on our one and only school trip, a week in Norfolk, she lent me her edge-to-edge cardigan for the whole time. A really thin knit that joined in the middle, no buttons or fasteners, worn with a thin knitted belt, it was beige and came down to just cover my bum: I wore it with platform shoes.

      I don’t think I knew the word ‘chic’ then, but that’s exactly what I would have used. To me, that cardigan looked like it cost a fortune. I remember that I extended the loan period, keeping it for the whole trip, and it was out of shape by the end. That trip was the first time I ever fancied a boy – Gary Weston. I showed off by dancing in front of him, wiggling my derrière. It was the start of another pattern in life: I’ve always used dancing to attract blokes I fancy.

      In those days there was a great deal of freedom for children. As soon as I was big enough, Nan and Mum would let me loose to play with the other kids on the estate. They’d call from the balcony when they wanted me and often it would be after dark and I’d still be running around. We used to run everywhere, hiding from each other; we’d even play on a rubbish dump. Although we never got in big trouble, we could be naughty. I remember we played Knock Down Ginger (knocking on the door and running away) on the door of a little round Irish man, who looked like a leprechaun (‘Thick Mick’) – the political correctness police would be after us today. But we never did any harm and he was lovely to us.

      There was a sandpit in Jail Park, where we played endlessly. I once got a mouthful of bird pooh, which gave the other kids a good laugh. Even then, I was talking the whole time and I must have looked up with my mouth still motoring. Another time I was wearing a gold ring with a tiny diamond in it. (What was Mum thinking of, sending a six-year-old out to play like that? Typical of us Maxwells, all part of making me look high-end.) Anyway, I swapped it for a bag of Maltesers. Mum had to go round to the girl’s house to retrieve it.

      My babysitter Sandra lived on the ground floor of Stephenson House: I used to play with her brother Raymond, who was a couple of years older than me, and his cousin Rachel. Raymond was mad about Elvis and we’d all be doing Hound Dog impressions on the bit of lawn at the back of his flat. I was keen on David Cassidy and Sandra took me to see him when I was about seven or eight at the Wembley Empire. Because I was only little and sitting on her shoulders we were allowed right through to the front, and he sang ‘The Puppy Song’ for me and gave me a rose. I was so in love – I remember crying and kissing the television whenever he was on. When he came back to London the next time I was so upset he was kept on a launch on the Thames to stop the fans stampeding him. He was the first person I ever saw wearing Yeti boots, and he was the coolest thing on the planet.

      I rode around the estate on my bike, a red second-hand Raleigh that my mum bought from her friend Shirley Delannoy, whose name I loved because it sounded exotic and foreign. Shirley was a travel agent with bleached blonde hair. She was married to a man from Belgium so by the standards of my childhood she was exotic. It was sometimes a volatile union – they lived on the sixteenth floor of a Bermondsey tower block and she would joke that one day she would deliberately leave open the balcony door when he was out drinking in the hope that he might fall over in his drunken state.

      I got another kind of education from Uncle Jim and Auntie Wendy. Jim had done well for himself, running a successful haulage company, and they had a big house with a swimming pool. He was always supportive of Mum and me and I used to spend part of my summer holidays with his family. I’d be put on a Green Line bus in London and they’d pick me up at the other end. It was there that I learnt to eat posh.

      I remember four-course dinners at their house, everyone round the table. And I learnt how to eat in a restaurant – they took me for my first-ever trip to a Chinese. When I used to pretend I had a father to kids who thought my parents were divorced, all the information I gave about my imaginary dad was based on Jim.

      When I was 10, Jim and Wendy took me to Devon for a holiday. I was with my cousin Samantha and there was this lovely-looking French boy playing near us. He looked like a mini Sacha Distel, with a navy blue jumper. Young as I was, my taste in boys was already refined – I’ve always liked the preppy French look (for a girl from a council flat, I have a taste for ‘a bit of posh’ in terms of looks). So Samantha and I kept smiling at this boy and eventually we got talking to him. I was a bit surprised by his high voice.

      ‘Lauren,’ he said, when I asked his name.

      ‘Laurence?’ I asked, puzzled.

      ‘No, Lauren – I am a girl …’

      I was gutted but we still became pen pals and I think when I was writing to her I secretly imagined she was a boy.

      When I was about 12, I was at Uncle Jim’s house, sitting in the front of the Jag that Auntie Wendy had parked in the drive. Their Alsatian was in the car with me and I was trying to get the Stylistics’ eight-track cassette out of their cassette player. Somehow I knocked the car, an automatic, into reverse and we started to roll backwards down the hill. СКАЧАТЬ