Sweet Little Lies by June Leader
My coat collar up against the November drizzle I had waited, a small leather case at my feet. The Haymarket in Newcastle was busy with people coming and going jumping to avoid the spray from the buses. Women looked preoccupied, patting their hair; knowing that dampness and backcombing was not a good mix.
In my enthusiasm I had been early, the bus service to the airport was still a bit of a novelty. The working classes from the north in the fifties were still happily visiting holiday camps, changing one routine for another. My sole experience of travel came from the stylish Thomas Cook posters of the day. They showed visions of the ‘ideal’ family; dressed in their best; waving as they went. Off to Devon maybe or to Scotland possibly in an overnight berth. Height of sophistication I had once thought, but now- look at me-this slip of a girl, off to start a new life. . .abroad. Even I, in my rose tinted spectacles realised what an unlikely scenario this was.
Sitting on the top deck my thoughts had wandered to my last school report. ‘June is bright, but a bit of a dreamer; ‘I feel that her curiosity about the world may find her in unusual situations.’ I could not help but think the unusual had arrived early. After yet another look at my ticket a small pang of disappointment arrived from nowhere. I had hoped someone might see me off; but this was a Monday and nothing but nothing interfered with the weekly wash. Dad who was very quiet was on the early shift down the pit; he had slipped ten shillings in my purse and told me not to sit on the wheel of the bus from Ashington to Newcastle as I sometimes got sick. This was his way of saying he cared.
As the bus had slowly snaked its way through the suburbs and out along the Tyne valley I saw signs to places I had heard of, but never visited. Corbridge, Hexham, Hadrians Wall, I had written an essay once about ‘the domestic problems faced by the builders of the wall,’ my teacher had said ‘it was a sound attempt at placing myself in that role’ it seemed to be the only thing I was good at in school, making things up. Once I had overheard my mother saying I was ‘not a good mixer’ this had always sounded like a drink to me; I preferred the term ‘reserved’. So I had spent a lot of time gazing out of the window. . .planning.
The people I had worked with at the co-op for the last year after leaving school had become hugely enthusiastic about my plans. Everyone had an opinion, ‘you are far too young’ one said, while another said ‘go on, you only live once. Carol from the button department said her aunt had been on a plane and that they served you a meal on a tray. I had wondered if that was possible. I was not heading all the way to Australia but just a gentle hop to Jersey. It may well have been Tim-Buck-Too as it was not the mileage involved but the size of the step I was taking that was scary.
I had gone through many times the arrangements for checking in. I had to show my ticket and they took your case away, I thought this was a bit strange, okay, it was just a beat up little brown case but it held everything I owned. Next Mrs.Hunter had said I would have over an hour to wait and that I might get some tea, but, and this was important, I had to listen for something called a tannoy. 1 thought I had heard one of these at the greyhound racing when I went with my dad. This then told you to go to a certain gate and give them your boarding pass, then you could get on the plane.
Someone had told me you could choose to sit near the window and someone else said you were given sweets—very kind I thought.
Saying that I was surprised to get the job was akin to saying that the coal mining town of Ashington resembled Las Vegas, it was unbelievable. For a start, the day of the interview had not gone well. After seeing the advert in the ‘Lady’ magazine during one of my breaks in the curiously named rest room, which was really a broom cupboard in the Co-op, I had composed a letter. All of a sudden all that writing of essays had some purpose, I could write a good letter. The ad. had read, Mothers help needed for Doctors family; large house, three children, swimming pool, and lastly but most importantly to me, a room of ones own. Shortly I was invited to the interview in Jesmond at the home of Mrs. Hunters mother. My mistake on the day was to wear my sisters coat, nice coat, but too big. Arriving in Jesmond, the heavens had opened and worried about my beehive I had sheltered in doors which made me late. No matter, Mrs. Hunter turned out to be a nice woman. She asked why I wanted the job. I said I liked children and had done some baby-sitting: also I did not mind housework as I had always helped at home. I said I enjoyed swimming which was not true but I knew they had a pool. She asked jf I would miss home and I made her smile when I said that I was sick of looking at slag heaps from the bedroom window. Realising then that I might get some sympathy I told her of our outside loo, and how I shared a bed, this seemed to go down well as she told me that she had been a community nurse before she married and had gone into all sorts of houses. Lastly she said ‘you do look very young for eighteen’. I had quickly picked up photographs of the children and remarked how attractive they were.
Waiting for the plane I dealt with the niggling worry by convincing myself that by the time they found out my real age I would be doing such a great job that they could not possibly send me home. And so happily it came to pass.
