Evil Relations (9 page)

Rose Hill could accommodate up to 120 boys at a time. Most were classified ‘juvenile delinquents’. Many had run away from home or institutions, had a history of truancy or disruptive behaviour at school, or criminal convictions. Most had a background comprised of several such elements. The approach among staff was to focus on ‘character building’ as a means of encouraging the young residents back onto the straight and narrow, through a strict timetable of work, recreation and gym.

‘Rose Hill was a correctional facility where every hour of the day had to be accounted for,’ David recalls. ‘There weren’t any high fences or tall gates but the front door was always locked and no one was permitted to go outside without adult supervision. The house itself was actually very picturesque, with enormous rooms and high, ornate ceilings. We slept in a long dormitory in neat rows of beds covered with the stiffest starched sheets imaginable. The dorm smelled super-clean because the sheets were washed with something called “lanery”, which gave them their cardboard-like feel. We had daily lessons in a huge schoolroom and a certain number of boys were given tasks to do: each morning we’d line up in the big association room, where we were allowed to play pool, darts or cards in our “leisure time” and the gardener would troop in wearing his wellies and flat cap to pick his work detail for the day. The chosen few went off to a couple of greenhouses at the back of the grounds or tended the vegetables. Meals were dished out in an enormous dining room and only after dinner in the evening were we allowed into the association room to relax a bit. Everything was regimented and all activities seemed to begin and end with standing in line. It was tough, and we behaved ourselves because of that. Even gym, where you could usually let off a bit of steam, was bloody hard. We were made to play British Bulldog and goaded into really charging about and going hell for leather at each other.’

He pauses. ‘You’ve got to remember that in those days, physical violence in places like Rose Hill was just the norm. You took your punishment whether you deserved it or not because it was all part of the correction process. At Rose Hill, a chap called Butterworth was the “dish it out” man. He’d literally punch you to the ground and you couldn’t complain to the governor about it because everyone got slapped around. Funnily enough, I took to Mr Butterworth because there was something about him – not just the violence – that commanded respect. Like I said, I wasn’t as anti-authority as I seemed.’

Visits from family and friends were permitted once a week and usually took place in the grounds if the weather was fine. David’s dad turned up regularly with gifts of fruit, biscuits and cigarettes; the latter were a privilege at Rose Hill and any misdemeanour resulted in their immediate confiscation. Annie never visited, which came as a relief to David, since he had no wish for her to see him in there. He had other female visitors, however: his girlfriend, Maureen Siddall, and her cousin.

‘Maureen was known as the Bomber,’ he recalls with a smile. ‘She used to wear these leather jackets and boots and was a hard case. Her cousin was known as Basher Bradshaw. What a pair, eh? Bomber and Basher. Maureen was four years older than me, but I didn’t give a thought to the age difference, strange though it might seem, and neither did she, as far as I know. Having said that, those short trousers I was forced to wear at Rose Hill didn’t do me any favours. And every Sunday all the residents had to take a long walk, in a well-behaved line, wearing our Rose Hill uniform. We went to Ringway Airport, of all places, and one of the streets on our journey was where my girlfriend Maureen Siddall lived. Thank God she never saw me marching past in my short trousers and sensible little haircut. But she came to visit and I don’t think she was impressed because she turned up on a later date with a neck full of love bites. That was the end of our relationship.’

David’s release from Rose Hill found him in ‘educational limbo’, as he terms it: ‘The authorities didn’t want to know. I was still only 13, but no school was willing to take me in for ages. Then all at once I was accepted into St James’s in Gorton.’

A 1968 letter from Canon Cecil Lewis, who taught at the school, reveals the staff view of David: ‘He was found to be a difficult boy and it was thought that our headmaster might be able to cope better with him. This in fact proved to be true so far as school time was concerned, when at least he conformed, even if he did not really cooperate . . . I always regretted that he did not come to us earlier. I always found him on the defensive, if ever I tried to speak to him – always thinking you were against him . . . I sometimes wish I had pushed a little harder to try to win his confidence.’

For his part, David viewed St James’s as ‘the last chance saloon. But I didn’t care, even then. I had no interest in lessons, other than English. The teacher for that subject was a big bloke called Mr Drummond. I respected him, and enjoyed his classes, but even then I was often disruptive. During one lesson, he got so fed up with me that he bawled me out on a threat. He followed me into the corridor and closed the classroom door. I braced myself, expecting to be punished, but instead he said very quietly, “Right, David, I’m going to pretend to hit you and I want you to make the relevant noises. Then you’re going to return to your desk and get on with your work.” I was flabbergasted and from then on I worked like hell in his lessons. The best thing about St James’s was that I knew all my fellow pupils already. And it was there that I met Gloria Molyneaux.’

There had already been other girls, besides the Bomber. Barbara, who taught David how to kiss; Valerie, the greengrocer’s daughter, who noisily ate an orange throughout intercourse; Pat, who let him go ‘all the way’ whenever they were together; posh Maureen Verity, whose increasing obsession with Cliff Richard sounded the death knell on their romance, and several clandestine ‘encounters’ with sisters of close friends. He also remained on friendly but chaste terms with Pauline Reade, whose sensitive brother he used to wind up mercilessly, pretending to be a vampire on one occasion and on another convincing him that the devil could be summoned from the fireplace with a few taps of a poker on the hearth.

But Gloria was ‘something else’. She was different from the girls with whom David had grown up; her naturally blonde hair was long and chic, and she spoke nicely. The daughter of the church caretaker, she lived with her family on Hyde Road, out towards Reddish way. Her arrival at school caused a stir among the girls
and
the boys, with the latter immediately vying for her attention. ‘Gloria had real style,’ David recalls. ‘She really was
posh
. Nothing like the Gorton girls. All the boys fancied her, but there were only two real contenders for her affections: me, and Tony Latham, who had been cock of the walk at St James’s until I turned up. We decided to fight it out, but in a very civilised fashion – Tony knocked on my door to call for me beforehand and off we went to the back entry near the croft at the end of Bannock Street. Tony won the fight, but I got the girl, so it was a bit pointless really. But that’s boys for you.’

The relationship quickly developed between David and Gloria: ‘At first it was just a case of her popping round to Wiles Street to spend an evening with me. But then we started sleeping together and worried about Gloria getting pregnant because we were “at it” constantly. I knew about condoms, but we just wanted to be sure and felt that we needed some adult advice. So we visited a teacher from St James’s: Mr Fitzgerald. He was only a little fella, but I got on very well with him and so, one night after school, I knocked on his door with Gloria at my side. His wife let us in and made up a tea tray while we went into his parlour to talk. I suppose we were very forward, and I realise now what an awkward position we put him in because we were clearly underage. But he was very sensible, and gave us plenty of sound advice about condoms and so on, adding that if we had any more problems we were to speak to him and could rest assured that he wouldn’t betray our confidence. We trotted off feeling very pleased indeed, as if we’d got the stamp of authority on what we were doing.’

He pauses and reaches again for his cigarettes. ‘But it wasn’t long before another girl came on the scene. I was still seeing Gloria, but there were a handful of nights every month when she was “washing her hair”, so to speak, and I was at a loose end. This other girl . . . I got to know her just hanging around the street corners and waiting in the queue at the chippy – that sort of thing. Very casual.’

He taps a cigarette on the broad kitchen table and takes a deep breath before exhaling slowly: ‘At first, it was just necking – me and this other girl would be at it up the back entries and in Wiles Street on the nights when Gloria was “washing her hair”.’ He gives a short laugh. ‘I wasn’t about to sit in on my own in them days. But then the necking became a proper relationship. It was difficult because I was still courting Gloria, although things went downhill rapidly after the headmaster hauled us both into his office following a complaint about me from Gloria’s dad. He read us the riot act, big time.’

He smiles, remembering: ‘Gloria was very similar to the Sandra character from
Grease
and I was . . . well, from another movie altogether! Gloria left school anyway, soon after the meeting in the headmaster’s study. She moved out of the area and found work in a nursery. I kept seeing her for a while – Sammy Jepson used to give me a lift on his motorbike to the nursery, but our time had been and gone, really.’ He shakes his head and laughs again, ‘
And
little did I know, but after Sammy dropped me home he would roar off back to the nursery alone to spend a bit of quality time with Gloria himself. But that didn’t last either, because he got someone else pregnant. In the meantime, my relationship with the other girl became serious. More serious than I realised . . .’

* * *

I picture you on the street corner, Maureen Hindley. Hair in rollers and wearing a headscarf, cigarette hanging from the side of your lipstick-slicked mouth.

Someone’s brought a transistor outside and we’re all stood round listening to Jimmy Savile on Radio Luxembourg.

You grab a girlfriend – your best mate, Basher Bradshaw – and start to jive madly, skirts flying high, with one hand holding down the front for decency, every wild twirl exposing thighs and a flash of knickers. You can dance, girl, and you look the part, too: heavily lacquered, bleached blonde backcombed hair and eyes made-up like Dusty’s – huge and ringed with thick pencil and heavy mascara.

We boys watch you while we slouch against the wall (no one
leans
against the walls in our gang; we slouch, an art form that takes hours of serious practice). When Elvis starts to sing ‘It’s Now or Never’, we unpeel ourselves from the bricks and move in for the smooch. I make my play, throwing away my half-smoked cigarette before claiming you. My arms go around your waist, your arms go around my neck, and we move in close. You make for my neck like a vampire and I expose it like a peacock, allowing you to suck until it hurts, letting you cover last week’s love bites without asking where they come from. We rock and we roll, we laugh together, and we don’t care about anything because we’re young.

Later in the day I sit in Sivori’s cafe, drinking coffee with the boys. We all wear the Belt: a leather buckled thing, crammed with as many chrome studs as it can hold, worn for style but often used for fighting. Knuckledusters and flick knives are brought out to be admired. Most of the boys – Sammy, Pete and the O’Gorman brothers – wear cocky Andy Capp hats pushed back just enough to show off the quiffs below. The caps come in two different shiny shades: blue and black stripes, or red and black. But I never wear one because I don’t want to hide the hair I’ve spent so long getting just right. I look down at my shoes: full-pointed winkle-pickers with cowboy-style buckles – no blue suede shoes or beetle-crushers for me – worn with black jeans and the chrome-studded belt. Twelve-inch zips run down the outside of each leg of my jeans, enabling only the thinnest of shocking pink or baby blue fluorescent socks to be pulled on beneath. I always wear a T-shirt, either black or white. I prefer black, worn with a crucifix, which these days is more of a fashion statement than evidence of the Catholicism of my childhood.

And you, Maureen, you have your style. A good blouse, often teamed with a very long cardigan, and a skirt so tight above the knees that you can only hobble – or else a full skirt with a wire in the hem (mostly for dancing). The full skirt is dangerous if you sit down without thinking: the front might pop up around your face, revealing the stockings and suspenders we all love.

Today, as usual, you sit with the girls, pretending not to notice me. I wait for the record on the jukebox to finish. Then I get up, amble towards the boys, share a laugh with them and stand by the neon machine, biding my time. I know you’re waiting and listening. I feel the jukebox with both hands and press the money into the slot.

Bill Fury’s languid voice fills the room. I glance across, unsmiling, and hold your gaze. You don’t look away and so I allow the smile.

Halfway to Paradise is about right . . .

Sitting around, watching the girls, or cruising on the back of Sammy’s motorbike . . . summer lasts for ever around Sivori’s. And those early long summers with the boys and the girls will one day fade away, but I know I’ll always remember the kisses and the moves. Years later, hearing ‘Hey Paula’, ‘Ebony Eyes’ and ‘Leader of the Pack’, I smile secretly and feel good inside.

On this sunny afternoon in Sivori’s, you’re there for me, just as you will be in the weeks, months and years ahead. We don’t court in the conventional sense, but when my mother dies, you’ll comfort me; when I break with a girlfriend, you’ll listen to me; and when I fight my father, it’s you I’ll turn to afterwards. We love each other against the damp walls of the back alleys, and on the bumpy Saturday night couch in your parents’ home on Eaton Street, with Elvis crooning from the Dansette. Sometimes you wear a skirt so tight we have to fumble our way to each other, but we don’t give up until we get there.