With all this talk of recession I have been thinking about
the affluence of many teenagers today compared with my teenage years: are they
feeling the pinch as we felt the pinch?
At 14 I was given £4 a month as an allowance. This allowance
had to buy any ‘extras’ I needed and that included clothes and shoes other than
school attire as well as make-up, going out etc. It wasn’t much even then and I
soon supplemented it by babysitting. (I
was lucky as I became the preferred baby sitter for two local families and was
paid very well.) I regularly saved the bus fare and walked the nearly three
miles to school and back again. At 16 I had a Saturday job in Littlewoods, for
which I seem to remember, but can’t verify, that I received about £7. This was
the mid-late 70’s.
Memory may be selective, but I think I had only two or maybe
three outfits at anyone time, and from the age of about 15 I regularly made items
of clothing... mainly skirts (gypsy layered skirts in particular) and
occasionally trousers. I also altered jeans, in the pre-stretch fabric days, to
fit better. The machine was a simple electric Singer that had been my mother’s
21st birthday present (circa 1955) and it did simple chain stitch,
backwards and forwards. Nothing else. (And I used it intermittently until last
year....it was still working, but I needed a few more options as it could not
deal with stretch fabrics.)
I often washed and ironed my own clothes and helped with the
family ironing from about 14 as a ‘family duty’ rather than a job to be
rewarded with payment. This wasn’t unusual.
Do teenagers still learn how to sew at school? Do they sew to
clothe themselves? (The last time I looked at making something rather than
buying it the cost was prohibitive, so maybe not a wise choice anyway!)
My own off-spring both have an allowance paid into a
building society account monthly. not a huge sum, but they both assure me, less
than their friends get. They do not have to buy their own clothes, but are
expected to buy presents at Christmas and on birthdays for close family members
and any extras that they may want. Yet neither seems inclined to do extra jobs
for extra money. My youngest complains that he is the only person he know who
is expected to help with the washing up.
(This poem has been published in Writers' Forum in April 2008 after workshopping with Sarah Willans. This was a very interesting exercise and open to those who submit poetry to the monthly competition in Writers' Forum)
“Interview -” She
stood up from the chair in the corridor, “at the library.”
She felt his
eyes wander over her.
“Are you doing
anything afterwards?”
The library office
door opened. They both looked round.
“Mrs Carter?” asked a small woman with a
formal smile. “Oh, good morning, Mr Dawson.” There was a distinct hint of a
blush.
“Here’s my card,” said Justin, “My mobile
number’s at the bottom. “Speak to you after the interview?”
Then he turned to
walk away, not looking back.
*
The last time
she had seen Justin was at the end-of-sixth-form party flirting with Miranda
Nichols. Beth had gone home in tears. After the summer he had gone to
Edinburgh, while she went to Bristol. Their paths had not crossed since.
After the
interview – and before she lost her nerve - Beth keyed in Justin’s number.
“Excellent,” he
said when he heard her voice, as though he was congratulating himself. “Have
you got time for lunch?”
They arranged to meet in the same old corner café in
the town centre. She arrived a few minutes later and gazed in through the
window, spying on him before he saw her. The hair line was receding just a
little, but somehow it seemed to strengthen the line of his jaw and he looked
fit, as if he looked after himself. She felt a flickering under her rib cage.
They soon fell
back into familiar banter.
“Married?” said
Justin, looking at her ring. “Any one I know?”
“Patrick was at
Uni with me -”
“Children?”
“Two girls. Five
and six. And you?”
“No children -”
he paused, “well, none that I know of anyway.” He watched her face, relishing
the effect of his comment. “You haven’t changed. Still as gorgeous as ever and -”
“- and what?”
“Oh! I don’t
know!” he laughed. “Teasable.”
She lifted an
eyebrow.
“What about you?
Are you still as fickle?”
Justin leaned forward
and brushed the back of her hand with his finger tips.
“Oh! Beth, we
were teenagers.”
Beth sat back,
and pulled her hand away. Cradled it in her lap. She remembered this: his
tendency to touch, and to take control. Why did she find it so attractive?
“Do you
realise,” she said, with an attempt at a laugh, “we left school nearly fifteen
years ago?”
He pulled a
face.
“How time flies.
Shall we order?”
As they ate Beth
felt aware of herself and her reactions in a way she had almost forgotten, like
a teenager.
“Tell me about
your life,” he said. She heard herself telling him things she might share with
a close friend. Suddenly he cut her short as he glanced at his watch.
“Time’s up.” He
stood. “3B calls. Do let me know about the job- Text me,” he instructed. “I’ll
pay on the way out.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “See you again. Soon.” His warm breath and
brush of lips tracked goose-bumps down her left side. Beth watched him leave. Whatwould
life have been like if it had worked out between us? She though, And I’d never met Patrick?
*
When Beth
started at the school library Justin asked her to join him for lunch to
celebrate her success. She wasn’t sure. He persuaded her.
They met at lunchtime
in a small local bistro, busy with shoppers. Beth picked at her meal, but frequently
sipped from her glass, which Justin refilled more than once.
“My class is on
a geography trip.” Justin announced as he stretched back in his chair. “No
teaching this afternoon.” He leant forward. “Come back to the flat for a coffee?”
He traced a figure of eight on her forearm, raising the hairs a little. “I’ve
found some of our sixth form photos. You should see them.”
Beth hesitated. Driving
was out of the question, at least for an hour or so. She pushed a strand of
hair behind an ear, and nodded.
*
Once in the flat
Justin went into the kitchen.
“Have a look
around,” he called out, “Oh! And the photo’s are on the table.”
When Justin came
back carrying a tray Beth was by the large sash window in the sitting room, fiddling
with her phone.
“Patrick’s going
to collect the girls,” she said, her voice feeling tight. She was relieved to
sit on the sofa, turning the pages, laughing at the dated styles, pointing out half
remembered people. They came to the day of heavy snow when half the sixth form
had gone sledging.
“That’s when it
all started,” he said, “do you remember?” His voice was gentle. He was no
longer looking at the photos. He reached out to put his arm around her, his
forearm brushing against her breast, tautening her nipple. She felt almost that she
could not move. In slow motion she put up her hand, pressing it against his
chest. She felt his heart thumping, felt her own pounding. Fear or excitement? Her
voice came out in a small whisper.
“No, Justin,”
she said. The room was tilting. He nestled his face into her neck and put his
hand on her thigh. She felt the silky lining of her skirt sliding over her bare
legs. Then he kissed her.
“No! Stop.” She pushed
him away and stood up unsteadily. “No.” Her face was burning, her eyes stinging.
“It’s all right, Beth-” He stood facing her, steadying
her. He stroked her cheek gently with his thumb. “There’s no rush. Come on.
I’ll walk you back,” he said.
*
Each time Justin
visited the library he caught her off guard. She feigned indifference while her
heart reverberated against her chest wall.
Then one Friday morning
she found an envelope waiting for her on the desk. The card read, “I’ve booked
a table at Michel’s for 1:30. See you there? Justin.” She looked at it for a
while then slid it into her handbag. The temptation pulled against her grain.
She could think of little else. A chance of being alone with him again. She
felt sick.
At break-time a
cluster of girls started whispering in one corner of the library. Beth found herself listening in as she
wondered over to ask for quiet. She heard the tall, skinny, black haired one
say,
“But Mr Dawson is just such a good
maths teacher-”
“Yeah, and we all know you’ve got such a crush on him, Lucy.”
“I have not!”
“Well it
wouldn’t do you any good anyway. I heard Mrs Watson talking to him yesterday, about
his wedding plans.”
Beth stood still.
“What- wedding?”
said the tall Lucy.
“To Sophia
Andrews -”
“What, Sophia
Andrews? – I thought that was just a
rumour- Sophia who left last year?”
“The same-”
Beth crept back
to the desk and sat immobile for a few minutes. Then she reached for her bag
and searched out the card. She tore it into tiny pieces which fluttered like
confetti into the bin.
*
That afternoon
Beth went home and in the lull between finishing work and collecting the children
she sat at the kitchen table hugging her hands around a mug of coffee, staring at
a piece of crumpled paper. She had found the number in the school records, but
now she knew had to use it. It’s the only
way she thought to bring peace of
mind. She drummed her finger tips on the table. It’s the decent thing to do. She glanced at the clock. Now. Before the girls are home from school. She went over to the phone. She felt sick again. After she had dialled the ringing tone
sounded three times before an answer machine cut in. She waited the eternity it
took for the message to finish then spoke.
“Justin’s
cheating. He’s cheating on you- just look for the signs.” She felt a crack in
her voice and slammed the receiver down, her hands shaking.She leant her forehead for a moment against
the kitchen door frame, tears stinging in her eyes. She grabbed her keys and a
tissue before stepping outside. She banged the front door behind her. Then
suddenly full of exhilaration she started to run.
*
That evening when
Patrick came home he found Beth bathing the children.
“Bit early isn’t it? What’s this in aid of?”
he said.
“Just a spur of the moment thing,” said Beth, smiling. “Here, you take Helen.”She
gently guided a towel clad child towards him. “Mum’s coming round, we’re going
out-”
She felt Patrick
look at her. He had crouched down, his arms around a wriggling, giggling child
and suddenly he grinned at her as if he had caught her mood.
“What is it?” he
said, “Has something happened?”
“Not quite,” she
said. She threw back her head and laughed.
Amicus, 'Oh dear! You are one of these sad people who do not know the difference between "complementary" and "complimentary".'...
in case you didn't realise that was humour, not ignorance.
Good point Low Wattage: not all nations have the same divide of left and write. I believe Chinese folk are more likely to be left handed, in the same proportions as White Europeans are more likely to be right handed.
Sorry it's me again.
Louise, this blog doesn't show on the 'Creative Writing' Link on front page because although you have chosen 'creative writing' as the catagory you haven't in addition tagged it 'creative writing'. You can do it retrospectively.
I agree that radio frees you up to carry on with tasks while TV generally halts this. Radio makes ironing bearable! That's engaing even more parts of the brain - physical as well as auditory processing and imagination providing the images.