Forever Is Over (67 page)

Truth be told, I always had a bit of a thing for Richie Billingham.
There were other fit lads at school, Jemma went out with one called Billy
McGregor and I
“
got off
”
with his mate, Eddie Garland, once, but they
were full of it. Nothing mattered more than their reflection. Richie was
different. He had the smouldering good looks, he looked like Jude Law
did in his early twenties, when he was married to Sadie Frost, but he just
did not have that teenage boy ego. Richie was mature beyond his years,
a true gentleman, which made it seem even more bizarre that he was
dating someone who looked like she
’
d only just returned from Candy Land on the
‘
Good Ship Lollipop
’
.

Years later, when I went to see Les Miserables, the character Eponine
reminded me of myself with Richie. I certainly did not have scheming,
penny pinching parents like Eponine, but I was totally besotted with
Richie, just like Eponine was besotted with Marius and in return, their
feelings were purely platonic.

I remember once being at a party over in Halsall, at Joey Birch
’
s
house and being in Joey
’
s kitchen when Richie Billingham walked in.
That night actually turned out to be the night I
‘
kopped off
’
with Eddie
Garland and when Richie walked in, I was already halfway through
Eddie
’
s best lines on me. I cursed my luck. I hadn
’
t realised Richie was
coming and now I knew he was here, what did I do, blow Eddie out and
go for the star prize or stick with what I had? I remember standing there,
not really listening to what Eddie was saying, as I kept glancing past
him to see what Richie was up to. I must have tried to catch Richie
’
s eye
one hundred times in that kitchen, but he did not look my way once, he
just sat there talking to Kelly, so after twenty minutes or so, I decided,
by chasing my dream, I could end up with nothing, so I cut my losses and
“
kopped
”
with Eddie.

Later on that night, I was standing in the bathroom queue, with
Kelly and Jemma and Richie came and stood behind us. I was drunk
but Jemma was far, far worse and we were trying to get her to the toilet
quickly. I remember when Richie was behind us, I daren
’
t turn around
as Eddie Garland had had a pretty stubbly face and I had a red rash
all over mine where his stubble had been brushing up against my face
during our more passionate moments!
I stood in that queue pleading
that Richie did not to say anything which made me turn around to
reveal my face, it would take my already limited chances down to zero! I
remember trying to keep the conversation going with Jemma and Kelly,
without pausing for a second
’
s breath, in case Richie should start talking
to us. Kelly started chatting to him at one point, but I just kept yapping
to Jemma until Andrew Cullen came out the bathroom and Kelly and
I bundled Jemma in.

All through school, Jemma and I had been like soul sisters, we spent
all our time together, mainly Jemma coming over to my house, because
her Mum was a bit of an alcoholic fruitcake, but we were pretty much
inseparable. Instead of calling us by our names, some of the catty girls
at school used to call us
“
Siamese
”
. Instead of saying,

“
What are Amy and Jemma doing?
”
             

They would say,

“
What are Siamese doing?
”

It didn
’
t really bother me, but it used to wind Jemma up good and
proper! Jemma always used to have an edge to her, that
‘
too cool for
school
’
swagger and I don
’
t think she liked being seen as part of a double
act, after all she probably had the strongest personality of all the girls
in our year. Like most girls, I just wanted to be liked, but Jemma wasn
’
t
like that, she did not care tuppence if she was liked or not, I just think
she wanted to be remembered.

I loved Jemma. I thought she was great. A lot of the girls in our year, could not stand the sight of her, but I thought she was fantastic. I wished
I could be as confident as her, as witty, as good looking. Mr. Redworth,
our History teacher, described her as Ormskirk
’
s Audrey Hepburn.
I do remember being completely cheesed off with her once though.
It was that night at the Birch
’
s. I had inadvertently walked in on her in
bed with some bloke. I didn
’
t see who it was, as all I saw was Jemma
’
s
perfectly formed backside riding on top of an obscured figure. Jemma
later claimed it was Richie and I just could not get the vision of them
together out of my head. It was an unwanted mental picture that I
would have to carry for the rest of my life, like a tattoo of Jesus on an
atheists arm.

I had probably had a thing for Richie for eighteen months by then.
I had never confessed this passion to Jemma though, simply because she
was far better looking than me. I feared by letting Jemma know how I felt, I may draw her attention to him when her sights had always been
on older boys. So, despite hoping beyond hope that they would never be
an item, it looked like their beauty had drawn them together.

I felt sorry for Kelly too, she was all happy to have secured a date with
Richie, blissfully unaware that he
’
d been screwing her sister. Jemma told
her later though, not that night, I don
’
t think, but a few days later.

My teenage friendship with Jemma was never quite the same after
that. It was probably not really down to that night, as I am a forgiving
sort, but more down to
“
O
”
level results. After
“
O
”
levels, I stayed on at
“
The Grammar
”
Sixth Form, whilst Jemma left school and started work
at the Middlelands Bank in Moor Street. We kept in touch, but not long
after starting at the bank, she started dating some real gorky looking
older bloke called Ray. He must have felt like all his Saturdays had come
at once to be dating a girl like Jemma when his mirror told only horror
stories. Once he arrived on the scene though, Jemma changed and our
friendship faltered. We went from speaking a couple of times a week on
the phone and seeing each other every Friday and Saturday night, to just
the occasional phone call. I felt let down and I wrongly blamed Ray for
taking her away from me, which was daft really as Jemma would have
kept in touch more had she really wanted to. We both just moved on.
I started going to Disraelis, Bowlers and The Buck at weekends with
my Sixth Form mates, whilst Jemma did whatever she did with
“
Triple
Sacker
”
, as I called him - he was too ugly to be a
‘
double bagger
’
, three
sacks over his head to hide that ugly mug seemed about right!

Communication between Jemma and I just faded away like an echo
until one weekend in April 1989. The weekend of the Hillsborough
disaster. I was in Ormskirk that Saturday afternoon, trying to pick
up a bargain or two off the market, when I noticed there was a crowd
gathering outside Rumbelows window. Being of curious nature, I
wandered over to see what was on the TV that was grabbing everyone
’
s
attention.

“
What
’
s happening?
”
I asked some tall guy at the back who was
peering over everyone else
’
s heads with his three year old daughter on
his shoulders.

“
I can
’
t really tell. It looks like
something has happened at the
Liverpool game. Not football violence though, more like too many
people on the terraces in the Liverpool end.
”

I managed to squeeze my way into gaps and found myself virtually at
the front. The scenes were awful, Liverpool fans, policemen, paramedics
and the men from St. John
’
s were working frantically to help the injured.
People in the stand were hoisting up the fans underneath, whilst the
aforementioned groups were running backwards and forwards on the pitch, carrying away the injured on advertising boards. You could see
the crush but it was hard to comprehend
why it could not be instantly
resolved just by opening the gates at the front or making everyone at
the back take a few steps backwards. A white ambulance weaved its way
through to the crowds to the terrace were the main casualties were. I
walked away concluding some people must have been seriously hurt.
It was only later, when I was at home in the lounge with Mum, that I
appreciated the gravity of the disaster. Moira Stuart was on the BBC
News and announced that seventy four people had died. I remember
my Dad walking in as the news started and correcting her as she said
they died at the FA Cup Final and it was the semi-final and then he felt guilty about picking up on something so trivial amidst such an almighty
tragedy and he just sat on the sofa, watched and cried. We all did.

I went out that night but Orm
skirk was quiet. Understandably.
B
ucking the tranquility trend were Jemma
’
s Mum and the rest of her
pathetic bunch of loser mates, who I remember seeing as I walked past
the bus station and up town towards Disraelis. They were all coming out of the Golden Lion shouting
“
F
”
words to each other as they crossed the
road to the taxi rank, clippity clopping on their stilettos like barebacked
two legged horses looking for a ride. I remember putting my head down
and increasing my walking pace in the vain hope that Jemma
’
s Mum
would not see me, but she did. I walked on, feigning deafness now as
well as blindness as Jemma
’
s Mum shouted over,

“
Amy! Amy!
”

I kept going but heard her yell,

“
Ignore me then, you cheeky little bitch! No wonder you
’
re mates
with my daughter. Stuck up pair of tarts you are! FUCK YOU!
”

It
’
s funny how life works, isn
’
t it? I remember at Jemma
’
s Mum
’
s
funeral thinking that they were her final words to me! I also remember
thinking that in my own very small way, I was responsible for her death
that night. If I
’
d have stopped to talk to Jemma
’
s Mum, she would have
more than likely been later in the queue a
t the taxi rank and then taken
a different taxi to Southport, arriving at different places at different
times, come across different people. Who knows, she may even have met
some random horny bloke with no self-respect, who may have taken her
back to his house or flat and then she would never arrived back home
in the early hours of Sunday morning and fallen to her death down her
stairs.

I could have saved her life that night. Do I wish I had? Not really.
I suppose I could have saved Jemma from jail, that
’
s my only regret. I
could have stopped Jemma from going to jail.