(Gosforth, age 14)
Wake early. Very tired.
Mum goes out.
Bath, wash hair, and give breakfast.
Watch TV.
Go to Granny Vernon’s—£2 in my pocket. A good amount now—pocket money inflation. I remember when it was a 3D piece or a 10-shilling note. £2 feels like something.
Dentist. A lot of new wires.
The regular rhythm of going back and forth to school creates these quiet clearances—while I’m away, Mum removes what she doesn’t want: old clothes, things she doesn’t like. Each return, something else has gone.
Don’t have time to see Julie-Anne or Granny Wilson.
Going back to boarding school happens three times a year, but it’s still a strange kind of leaving—like going on holiday, but longer, and without postcards. A departure without continuity.
Lunch, change, watches.
Trunks and tuck boxes in the car, new jeans & C.O.
I’m not even sure Mum’s car could take it all—two trunks, two tuck boxes. She may have had to do more than one trip. It’s just across the Great North Road—from Fencer Hill Park to Melton Park—where the bus meets us. A small crossing, but it marks the shift.
On the bus.
The Police stop Lola and my kid sister for some reason. I don’t really know what happened—there were always stories going round, some shocking, some ridiculous. Flashers, mostly. It all sits somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
Typewriter—left behind. I decide not to take it. The noise of typing would have drawn too much attention. A shame. If people had seen what I was writing, it might have helped—made it more real somehow.
Eat sweets.
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