Art Sex Music Read online

  Although I’d dressed sexy (or so I thought) in my miniskirt, I didn’t really know what sexy meant or fully understand the repercussions of attracting that kind of attention. My dad turned out to be right in that respect. A couple of years later I spent weeks crocheting a pink-and-blue minidress that ended up too short, simply because I ran out of wool. When I put it on to go out, Dad asked to see me for his approval, and immediately told me I couldn’t go out in it. ‘I know what men will think when they see you in that.’

  Me and Mum went upstairs and stretched the dress – Mum taking the top and me the hem and both pulling as hard as we could. I put it back on and stood still, hoping the wool would hold its new shape long enough. Dad approved. But by the time I’d got to the bus stop it had sprung back to its original bum-cheek micro-mini length.

  There was much talk at school about music, boyfriends, fashion and sexual awakenings, and I bought into that big time for a while. Then one day, as I was looking out of my bedroom window, daydreaming, I realised I wasn’t that interested in entering the grown-up world sooner than I needed to. I had another option. As a smallish, skinny, underdeveloped twelve-year-old, I could just about get away with being a tomboy ‘child’. I’d be an adult for the rest of my life once I took the plunge, and would never be able to get the childlike years back.

  I made a decision to opt out of ‘growing up’. I put on my old pre-teen clothes and took off on my bike, roaming the estates and countryside. I spent more time with Les. We’d both been introduced to chemistry at high school and decided to perform our own experiments, gradually acquiring an astonishing array of equipment, from Bunsen burners, test tubes and evaporating dishes to all the necessary apparatus to form a condenser (as used for distilling).

  Like most schools back then, Estcourt High School channelled girls’ education to suit various careers. Girls were steered towards academic subjects to potentially become teachers, but were mostly encouraged to do secretarial work via commercial studies. It was the age of the typing pool and the school had one of sorts, in the guise of a large annexed classroom dedicated to secretarial work and fitted out with about forty typewriters, each enclosed in a custom-built desk. The noise was phenomenal when the girls were all clanking away. Although I was intrigued by the machines and took every opportunity to play around with them, that line of work wasn’t for me. I was determined to pursue my passion for art and the sciences.

  By year three I was expected to focus on subjects that would equip me for my chosen career (of which I had no idea yet, despite my dad having decided for me). I excelled at art and science, and both mistresses were determined that I continue in the two subjects, and arranged for me to do so even though it was against school protocol. It felt good to know people cared enough to bend the rules, and, small as the gesture seems, it suggested there were possibilities for working outside systems. It turned out great: I knuckled down and succeeded in the art and science exams, receiving prizes for both, and with some of my artworks framed and hung on the school walls.

  *

  My teen era was one when we no longer felt the need to follow our parents’ lead in dress, music or lifestyle. Music was the ‘thing’ for teenagers and provided a rite of passage. The arrival of rock and roll had laid the foundations for teenage rebellion. Elvis, ‘Beatlemania’ and, later, psychedelia took it to a whole other level. My parents didn’t understand what they’d never experienced and saw the music and personal choices I made as unacceptable. There was a schism between those who fought in the war and the teenage children who were breaking away from the traditions their parents had defended with their lives. Like my sister, I was expected to focus on getting a good education that would lead to a decent job, then start a ‘bottom drawer’, collecting things in readiness for marriage. But art and music came first, both as an escapist delight and as a means of expressing myself. I’d draw or paint for hours, inspired by the new materials I had access to at high school and those I’d accumulated myself.

  Like all my friends, I kept up with what was happening on the music scene via the weekly top-twenty radio chart show Pick of the Pops, and TV shows Top of the Pops, Juke Box Jury, with its panel of celebrities reviewing and judging new record releases, and my favourite, Ready Steady Go! with Cathy McGowan. But most of all I wanted to hear live music and see my ‘idols’ in the flesh. In October 1963 my sister went to the City Hall to see her favourite band, Johnny Kidd & the Pirates, complete with Johnny’s famous black eyepatch. I was so excited I wanted to hear all about it, but all she told me was that Johnny Kidd was great but the other band playing were terrible, looked dirty and had long hair … The Rolling Stones.

  I had different taste to Pam. Les and I obsessed over the Beatles but never got to see them when they played Hull in 1964, though we had ‘Help!’ on rotation at his house. Until I was allowed to go to concerts, I had to settle for listening to Radio Luxembourg or the pirate station Radio Caroline on my little transistor radio. It came with a small earphone, so at night I’d lie in bed, tune in and listen to music.

  TV was a huge influence as I entered my teens. Not just the music shows but also programmes like The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and Batman. I was totally smitten with The Avengers and the female leads, Honor Blackman and Diana Rigg. They were my kind of women: self-assured, bold and more than capable of handling themselves, and I aspired to be more like them than the expected ‘norm’. My dad had other plans for me, which were revealed one Sunday lunch as we were all sitting at the table eating. Something had happened, I can’t recall what, but it was enough to trigger the following.

  ‘I’ll be glad when I can walk you two down the aisle,’ Dad half-shouted at Pam and me.

  Pam kept her head down, as usual, but I replied without hesitation. ‘You’re not walking me down the aisle because I’m not getting married. I’m going to live with someone.’

  The conversation ended. Whether Dad was dumbstruck or just ignoring me, I have no idea. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of mapping out my future in that way. I had every intention of taking charge of my own life.

  15 April 1966

  Went to see Mindbenders, Herman, Dave Berry, D&J, Pinkertons … Eric came out. Fans got him, got thumped on the back by bouncer.

  I finally started going to see bands with my friend Elaine. Although the Monkees were the band everyone went crazy over (yeah, including me), my big teenage crush was for Eric Stewart of the Mindbenders. I was allowed to go to their matinee performance at the ABC and was among the hordes of young girls screaming Eric’s name, rushing to the band coach and stage door to get a glimpse or a touch – and getting a thumping instead.

  Dave Berry was on the same bill. His stage act and presence was strange in comparison to the others, and somewhat creepy to a fourteen-year-old. The stage curtains were closed, a spotlight shining where they met, and then a black-gloved hand appeared, caressing the velvet fabric as the body slowly emerged, stretching out one leg and thigh as if teasing the audience. His face peeked out and, with microphone to his lips, almost obscuring his face, he started singing his hit songs, ‘The Crying Game’ and ‘Little Things’, as he wriggled and entwined himself in the mic cable. It was an extraordinary sight, but memorable as it was, it didn’t get a mention when I gave a talk at school about seeing the show.

  I got the live-gig bug after that and went as often as I could, either with Elaine or my friend Jo. There was no ‘theme’ to the concert line-ups, so you’d get an eclectic mix of musical styles: the Rolling Stones, the Walker Brothers, Dusty Springfield, Geno Washington, the Moody Blues, the Ronettes, the Pretty Things, Heinz, Roy Orbison, the Troggs, Marianne Faithfull, and so on. That rich variety of so many different sounds was something I feasted on, indulging my shifting taste for the beautiful Heinz with the Joe Meek ‘Telstar’ sound, Phil Spector’s ‘Wall of Sound’ (which would mean something totally different to me many years later), to the Motown sound and rock and roll. Me and Jo went to see the Small Faces. She was mad over Steve Marriot
t and cried all the way through the concert. She called round for me on the way there and I was late getting ready. Mum tutted at me for keeping Jo waiting. ‘No man will ever wait for you,’ she said.

  ‘If he won’t wait for me, he’s not worth having,’ I replied, and waltzed off with Jo.

  My clandestine trips to a club in the centre of town, dancing to songs like Marvin Gaye’s ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’, the Equals’ ‘Baby, Come Back’ and ‘Young Girl’ by Gary Puckett (about a girl being under the legal age of consent – like I was), led to the last time my dad hit me. It was for getting home past his set 10.30 p.m. curfew and for lying to him that I’d been at my friend’s house when really I’d gone somewhere without his permission.

  As I came through the front door as quietly as I could, Dad appeared in the hallway, stone-faced, with Mum stood behind him looking fretful. He asked me where I’d been. I said I’d been at Bridie’s house. I lied.

  ‘Don’t you ever lie to me!’ He slapped me across the head and knocked me off my feet.

  In a split second as I lay on the floor, I remember thinking, ‘I’ll rise with what dignity I can.’ I pulled myself up, turned away from Dad, looked into my mum’s worried eyes and said quietly, ‘Goodnight, Mum’, and at a measured pace made my way upstairs to my room. I hoped it would go some way towards showing him that I had no fear of him any more. I never really spoke much to him again.

  I continued to disobey Dad, with invaluable and much-appreciated assistance from Mum. She’s the one I thank for being who I am now. She believed in me and encouraged me by finding ways around the restrictions imposed by him, and smoothing things over whenever possible. She was in a difficult and unenviable position, in the middle of a battle of wills between two headstrong people. She was the one hurting the most in the ongoing struggle. Dad seemed to apply his experience of military discipline to parenting, barking orders with no option to question them. I must have frustrated him because his authoritarian method wasn’t that effective; if anything, it made me more determined to challenge him.

  By the time I was in my final year and preparing to sit my exams, things were changing fast – markedly so in my schoolwork, it seemed, as I was unexpectedly awarded the ‘Most Progress’ certificate that year. My friend Elaine moved far away to Leeds and my taste in music shifted quite considerably – from ‘pop’ to protest songs by the likes of Joan Baez and Bob Dylan. 1967 was the year of Procol Harum’s ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’, the Doors’ ‘Light My Fire’, Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ and the Stones’ psychedelic album Their Satanic Majesties Request, to name but a few. I went to see Jimi Hendrix at the Skyline Ballroom, supported by Family and two other rock bands. Hendrix was resplendent in a velvet suit, performing ‘Hey Joe’ and ‘Purple Haze’. His charismatic presence and his vocals and lyrics, combined with such unrestrained, expressive guitar-playing, gave me shivers and goosebumps. It was unlike anything I’d seen or heard before and I bought the album Are You Experienced as soon as it came out. It quickly became my most treasured album, alongside Disraeli Gears by Cream.

  July 1968

  Carol is a sociable girl who has shown powers of leadership as form captain and team captain. She has much ability and has been industrious, producing some very good work. She has a great deal of energy. D. Aveyard

  The final words from my headmistress’s rather guarded and no doubt partly generic ‘To Whom It May Concern’ letter for potential employers. I like that ‘industrious’ and ‘energy’ both feature. It makes me sound like a hard-working troublemaker.

  Although I was distracted by boyfriend activities, I managed to get good exam grades and left school with seven certificates under my belt. I loved school and was gutted that I had to start work. I’d pinned my hopes on going to university or art college, and my science and art teachers had encouraged me to take that path. But, true to form, Dad dismissed my ambitions. My sister hadn’t gone to university so Dad’s logic of fairness was: ‘Your sister didn’t go to university, so you can’t.’

  I had no choice but to leave school and get a job. I applied for work as a laboratory technician, Dad’s chosen career for me, duly inscribed in ink on the first page of my school report book. First I applied to Reckitt and Colman, where I’d seen an ad for someone to work in their animal laboratories. I was so naive I didn’t realise it was related to animal experiments for their product research. Asked at the interview whether I liked animals, I said I adored them. I didn’t get the job. So I then applied for the position of assistant lab technician at nearby Saltshouse High School, preparing the experiments and instructing and assisting the students and teachers in the science department. Until that came through, I got a job as an office junior.

  *

  The local Mecca and Locarno dance halls were a bit straight and no longer to my taste. I started going to the only discotheque in town, at the rear of a shop down Whitefriargate. ‘Disco’, as it was known, was where the ‘in-crowd’ went; they played great music, had all-nighters too, and we’d all meet up first at the Black Boy pub for a drink. By now I spent most of my time with Jo and a girl I’d met called Maz. I managed for a while to fit late nights out around my dad’s night shifts, but my social life became more and more compromised by his enforced curfew. I found it impossible to fit that in with the more liberal schedule my friends were granted by their parents. No amount of reasoning or pleading changed Dad’s mind, so I made up one lie after another to keep him happy. It worked OK for a while.

  I was always trepidatious about getting buses or taxis from the town centre station. It was where the ‘Station Gang’ hung out, hurling insults, jeering at people and fighting with anyone who challenged them (few did). Me and Jo constantly drew their attention and dreaded running the gauntlet of chat-up lines, whistles and lewd comments from two of the guys in particular, Adge and his sidekick Killer, so named for his fierce, fearless fighting and freaky look of peroxide-blonde hair and bushy black eyebrows. They were scary guys and known for screwing girls round the back of the station. The undercurrent of violence and edginess was palpable, but I must admit that it wasn’t a total deterrent to me. Adge was very good-looking, in a long-haired-hippy kind of way, with a warm smile and engaging eyes. But his look didn’t match up to a peace-loving hippy ethos. He and the other guys answered to renowned town hardman and reputed pimp Ray Harvey.

  Ray’s main watering hole was the Earl de Grey pub. It was infamous for prostitution and criminality, and legendary among sailors the world over. It was a place I never set foot in. For whatever reason, Ray was often in trouble with the police and spent time in jail for various offences. I saw him in Paragon train station one time, having just been released, returning to a fanfare welcome from a cluster of girls. He told us his girls always met him to take him straight out for a meal and a drink. It was quite a strange sight, this imposing, tall, wild-eyed black guy surrounded by fawning, laughing girls. How much was genuine, I have no idea; I wasn’t part of that side of his life. I knew him from gigs, when I’d see him take to the dance floor with his customary wide-eyed stare into space as he launched himself into his inimitable crazy dance. He was the most tattooed person I’d met and would proudly show me whatever new work he’d had done – notably the ‘Raymond’ on the inside of his bottom lip. He relished telling me how painful it was.

  It’s odd how mundane routines can lead to small but thought-provoking encounters. When I hung out with my friend Bridie we’d go out together, but only after she’d been to church. Her parents were Catholics and insisted she went, so I’d accompany her to her local church about three streets away. It was there I saw two beautiful sisters dressed in personalised deep-red-and-black Victorian-style velvet coats. They had an aura of mystery about them that oozed individuality, confidence and class. They were art students. I’d sometimes see them with their rolled-up artworks under their arms, envious and sad that that path had been denied to me. But they motivated me to be more overtly expressive with my clothes.
r />   This came just a few months before my time in the office job, where I met the boss’s secretary: a petite, pretty, long-haired blonde with thick black false eyelashes (not unlike Jean Shrimpton) and a quirky way of dressing. Modern but with an unorthodox twist. I discovered she bought some of her clothes at a charity shop, which I sought out. I didn’t have a lot of money and couldn’t afford Quant or Biba like Jo, so I made the most of my own clothes with help from Mum and the use of her sewing machine. I started going to jumble sales each week, where I could buy vintage dresses and coats at a pittance. I’d modify or dye them, or adapt dress patterns to suit my ideas and use the fabrics and any trimmings. I must have made a mess with all the buckets of dye and the clothes dripping coloured puddles as they hung on the washing line. But Mum indulged me: ‘I know it’s just a phase you’re going through.’ Then, as time went on and she realised it wasn’t: ‘I thought it was a phase but it isn’t, is it?’ she said, smiling and shrugging in resignation.

  With my customised clothes I felt more myself. Jo’s elder sister, Jan, encouraged me. She was a hippy flower child and had gone out with Jimi Hendrix and run off for a while with Graham Nash. I admired her spirited quest to be independent, to break away from home. Seeing her battling and striving forward was like seeing my future self.