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  Carrie Sherbourne

  Copyright © 2017 Carrie Sherbourne

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

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  ISBN 9781788030045

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  I dedicate this book to all teenagers who already have a hard time just being a teenager. I know it is hard. It is even harder when you are faced with other challenges outside of your control. Challenges like moving house away from your friends or moving country away from everything you know and love. Challenges of love and relationships and challenges of fitting in. In today’s society of social media that can be a challenge in itself, in positive and negative ways. It was unheard of in my teenage years and staying connected was done by good old fashioned letter writing. Being different can be difficult but we are all different so we all experience difficulties with our difference. We grow, develop and mature so hang in there – you will get through your difficulties! To all the parents of teenagers…. I feel your pain !

  Contents

  Home 1979

  June 1979

  October 1979

  December 1979

  A Rebel is Born

  Christmas 1980

  March 1982 – Turning 17

  Home at Last

  June 1984

  April 1982

  Home

  1979

  June 1979

  ‘Charlie will you open this tin of peas for me? My hands are all swollen,’ Mum shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘Mmmmm, something smells good,’ I replied, looking up from my dreaded maths homework, so any distraction was welcome. Even if it was only to open a tin of peas, which incidentally, I didn’t like! It was a lovely sunny day in the middle of June, the 21st to be precise, the longest day. I couldn’t wait to get the homework out of the way before dinner, so I could get ready to go to the youth club disco with my boyfriend, Will, and friends. Will was 16—17 in October. He was soooo handsome. Tall, six foot-one inch tall to be exact with gorgeous dark silky hair, almost black hair but not quite. He had dark tanned skin with the loveliest, deepest, intense brown eyes you’d ever did see. We were totally mad about each other. Mother was not happy at the fact that he was almost three years older than me, so as you can imagine, she was most disapproving of our relationship. Dad didn’t even know and I wasn’t about to tell him anytime soon. I could do without the lecture, thanks very much. It had been just over a year since we had been going out and, as yet Mum hadn’t met him because, well, we always met at the youth club and to be honest, I was not ready for him to get the third degree. He was my bit of life that was all mine, outside of our house. The fact that my mum knew about him was enough, along with the lectures I got about being a “respectable Catholic girl”. Anyway, there was nothing for her to worry about. The youth club was near where we used to live. We had lived there all my life, until I was 11 years old, and I was very sad to leave. I loved my house, my bedroom and most of all my two best friends, Caron and Natalie. They were sisters. They were also the sisters I never had, and to me, they were family, and I was moving away all the way to Wyken. I mean it was a whole one point five miles away and at least a half hour walk—more if I dawdled or wore high heels! Oh, how I had longed for a real sister but instead had two older brothers, Richard and Andy. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my brothers dearly, most of the time, but it wasn’t the same as having a sister. Although, I could never understand why Caron and Natalie would often argue with each other; didn’t they know how lucky they were to be related? Caron had beautiful blonde hair and the bluest eyes, almost sky blue, like the local Coventry City football team, who were doing quite well at the moment, hanging in the first division! She looked like a young Sophia Loren with her high cheekbones and full lips.

  Natalie was the complete opposite, with her chocolate brown eyes, making her look very exotic as she also has beautiful tanned skin and her dark, shiny, chestnut brown hair. Definitely more of a tomboy than Caron, and we would get into all kinds of trouble and fights! She had a quick temper though and would lose control at times. One day we were having a bit of a disagreement in my front garden, which quickly escalated into a bit of a fight. The next thing I knew, she had found and picked up an iron rod from the grass and at quick pace, was heading right for me looking very determined. I quickly ducked then suddenly heard the crashing sound of breaking glass, where the front window got it! Mum came running out to see what on earth had happened and stood in shock and disbelief. But what else was there to do but the only thing a pair of eight year olds could do, laugh of course! We thought it was just hilarious and fell to the ground laughing like a pair of hyenas!

  Caron was the oldest out of all of us. She was seven months older than me, and Natalie was the youngest at eight months younger than me. I loved being with my friends more than anything. I vowed that when we moved, I would still go back to them and to the youth club, even if it gave me blisters in the process.

  The summer of 1976 was a very hot year. In fact, there was a hosepipe ban, because of a water shortage and it was known as the “year of the drought”. I, true to my word, always walked back from our new house on the Ansty Road to the youth club, in Stoke Heath, and hung out with my friends and they would, at times, come to my house and we would hang out there.

  There was a lot going on in 1976, what with moving house and starting secondary school in the September. So many changes were upon us, but on the bright side my brothers and I were going on holiday. We were being “sent” to Ireland to our grandparents’ house for a whole month, as our parents were “doing up” our house. We loved going to Granny’s house. She lived in a lovely cottage right by the sea. It was amazing. Granny’s house always had a strange smell. It was a nice smell, but strange. You could only smell it in Ireland. Apparently, it was the turf in the fire and the must from the walls! I thought it was funny, because there was no toilet inside the house, so at night time, Granny would leave a potty in the room for me. A potty! But in fairness, it was pink and a much nicer shape than the one that she gave to the boys to pee in. That said, it was a tad easier for them to hold the potty and aim, them being boys and all. It was slightly more difficult for me, hovering like a space craft over my target! It was after all a child’s potty, as in a two-year old’s size potty. A two-year old had a small bum, well smaller than my bum at age 11, so to try to navigate a successful pee, into the said pretty pink potty was harder than first thought… With practice, however, success was achieved. The wis
e words of my mother would ring in my ear, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Grant it, the first time she said it wasn’t anything to do with trying to use a potty at my age, but the principle was still the same.

  The other funny thing, well not actually funny ha, ha, but more funny peculiar thing about Granny’s house were the earwigs – my good God there always seemed to be a lot of earwigs or clip shears. Every night before getting into bed, I would throw back the covers, the big quilted eiderdown, the woollen blanket and the sheet, just to make sure none of the little buggers got into my bed, which on several occasions, they did! I would let out a scream when one was there and one of my brothers would come to the rescue and remove it for me, before shoving it in my face first as if to throw it at me. Richard in particular would do this trick! I would climb up onto the big bed, from the cold linoleum floor, and pull the covers right up to my neck and kind of roll myself like a sausage so that they would be tucked in as close as possible around my back, so as to prevent any more creepy crawlies getting into my bed.

  It was always much better when my cousin, Kelly, came down from Dublin. It was great fun when the cousins came down. All the boys would share a bedroom, topped and tailed and one or two on the floor, and Kelly and I would share another room. It wasn’t half as scary then as it would be a tight squeeze for any earwigs to get in the bed when the both of us were in it…

  I loved Kelly and her funny Dublin accent. Kelly loved me with my funny English one. Both of us were city girls and we both thought the country was fun, especially at Granny’s, so close to the sea. We would roll out of bed in the mornings, go through the parlour and then into the kitchen. It was a strange set-up of a house really, strange but quaint. When you entered the house there was a little porch where Granny had lots of plants and the men would take off their muddy boots. Of course, there was the Blessed Virgin and the Sacred Heart too with the holy water in it, so you could bless yourself going in and bless yourself going out. God forbid anything might happen to you! From the porch you could turn left or right. Turning left brought you into the kitchen/ sitting room. It had one large cupboard, freestanding by the wall. At the top were two small doors and behind the doors were all the cups, plates and bowls. Small dainty cups, like a cup and saucer cup, but without the saucer, which were probably broken donkey’s years ago. Not like the mugs that we had at home in Coventry. But then again everything in our house was quite modern in comparison to Granny’s house. Below those doors was a door that you pull down towards the ground, but it would stop when it was completely at a 90 degree angle, a bit like a writing bureaux. Inside this compartment was the bread, butter, jams, tins and condiments, plus if we were lucky, a packet of Kimberly or Mikado biscuits and sometimes a fruit cake or tea brack. I didn’t like fruit cake or tea brack, so I would pray to God that there would be some lovely Kimberly biscuits, and as always, God was good and as per usual delivered, indeed there they were, the sacred Kimberleys. They were a light golden brown in colour, sandwich type ginger flavoured biscuit, soft in texture with a white mallow centre, and were totally Irish. We could never get them in England, so they were a real delight, a delicious squidgy treat. Sometimes there was even a Big D bar or two hiding in there, given to us if we were particularly good children. They were a bit like a Mars bar, but it was called Big D. Again, it was an Irish thing! Beneath this compartment were two more doors, which opened out, like at the top of the cupboard, and in there were cereals, well mostly porridge oats, which I hated, and other packets of stuff like flour, rice and other grains for making puddings and breads.

  There was a stove, a freestanding fridge, a sink, two armchairs and a fire, a real fire, much more cosy than our gas fire at home. There was also a table and chairs up against the wall, near the freestanding cupboard to make it easier to access the bread, cereal and jam etc. No walking miles across a kitchen here to get breakfast! This was the hub of the house and always smelled lovely, with either turf in the fire or boiling bacon on the stove. It always seemed to be boiling bacon. Sometimes it was cabbage, which was yucky, and smelled like Grandad’s smelly socks after a day in wellies on the field. Even more yucky would be when Granny would strain the cabbage water into a clean jug and proceed to pour said cabbage water into a cup and drink it. Yes, that was right, I said, DRINK it!

  ‘Go on,’ she would say. ‘It’s great for your skin, and you’ll get rid of all those spots in no time.’

  Now who the hell was she directing that to, we wondered, each of us feeling very self-conscious that we immediately touched our faces and tried to hide the tiny lone little pimple one of us might have had, and more often than not, did not have, as opposed to having a face full of full blown acne, which we thought she was implying; going by the size of the jug of cabbage water!

  Sometimes sausages, rashers or white pudding would be filling the air with a satisfying aroma but generally it was the smell of some part of the pig that would bombard our delicate nostrils. Boy, did it smell good. I often wondered why there was never any beef in the house being cooked. I wondered if there were a secret Hindu religion going on that I didn’t know about. There was no other evidence pointing that way, what with all the crucifixes, sacred hearts and Blessed Virgin statues everywhere. Not to mention the being dragged to church every Saturday night for confession before going to church on Sunday for mass. I really needed the Sunday mass to ask for forgiveness for telling a pack of lies in confession the night before. I was 11. What sins could I possibly have had, but Granny would insist that we all went to confession. Sure didn’t God know what I was like? I talked to him all the time. I even wrote him letters and buried them in the garden for them to go 1st class, if you please, into his holy hands. A few days after burying my letter, I would go back out and check that it had gone. It never failed me, the burial site was always empty. That was how I knew he listened to me, because he definitely got my letters. I didn’t need to go to confession. However, me being me, and not wanting to cause an argument with my ageing grandmother, indulged her and of course went to confession where said lies would be told in order to see her smiling face, when I’d come out and have my penance to pay and offer up prayers to the dear Virgin Mary.

  The walls in my granny’s house were quite amusing as they weren’t straight. All over the house, they were wonky and uneven in texture. I wondered if my great grandfather was drunk when he built the house. I know my grandfather enjoyed a tipple of the Guinness with a whiskey chasing after it, so it could be a family thing. All the walls were painted white and each room with the standard Sacred Heart watching over everyone. Making sure no one was committing any sins. Yet another reason why Saturday night confession was a waste of time really.

  In between the sink and the said big freestanding cupboard in the kitchen was a door leading to a bedroom. This is where Granny and Grandad slept. There was just a bed, a wardrobe a Sacred Heart and a potty in there. By the looks of the items, I’d say they were older than my grandparents. A nice high iron bed with lots of blankets and an eiderdown, oh and a chair, like a kitchen table chair. I supposes it was to sit on or to throw your clothes on at the end of the day.

  When turning right off the porch was the parlour, this was the ‘good room’ where distinguished guests could congregate, like the priest, if he called to visit. Christmas was another good time to use the parlour, and of course if there was a wedding or death in the family. Other than that, it was pretty much a redundant room. Apart from having to walk through it, like a hallway, to get to and from the bedroom. There was another fire in this room, a small sofa, two arm chairs, a dark sideboard adorned with family photos, and a vase filled with plastic flowers, covered in dust. There was a pretty over-mantle mirror in dark wood to match the sideboard and a small window. Off this room were two further bedrooms, each with a double iron bed, wardrobe, wash-stand and potty. It was indeed a typical Irish cottage and I loved it, it was so quirky and out of the Middle Ages as far as I was concerned. It was
fabulous.

  The outside loo was a bit creepy and always full of spiders, so I only ever went in there, when I knew it would be a quick in and out job. No way was I going to be hanging around taking my time, or bringing anything in to read, if you understand what I mean! It didn’t have a proper door either, but a latch type handle so I was always conscious that someone would burst in when I was in the middle of something. I made sure to be quick whilst at the same time wedging my foot at the bottom of the door to so as to give any human intruder a one second warning if they tried to enter! It felt a bit like trying to be a contortionist and again with the whole balancing act of trying to pee in the toilet rather than on it as my legs weren’t quite long enough to jam the door.

  There was a lovely garden filled with trees, flowers and a separate vegetable garden. There was even a chalet which my dad helped to build a few years before. It was for when the flock returned for the annual holidays before returning to sunny far-flung places such as Dublin and the UK. Ballycahore Upper it was known as. I used to think it was because the more upper-class people lived there, but really it was because it was up in the hills and the top of the cliffs. It was in a beautiful spot, three miles from the local village of Castletown and out of Granny’s gate, down the lane for about 500 metres was the top of the cliff.

  It was these cliffs that me, Kelly, Richard, Andy and all the other cousins would navigate and slide down to get to the beautiful sandy beach below. It was breath-taking. Hours and hours of fun were spent on the beach that summer, all cousins together laughing, playing, burying each other in the sand, getting burnt by the hot sun and very nearly losing Andy to an avalanche of sandy cliff falling on him. Now that WAS a scary moment. Everyone thought it would be fun to go further down the beach, where the cliff face was very sandy, and slide down. The sand would get everywhere, trunks and swimsuits would end up looking like a thong, by the time you got to the bottom and we would have a sore arse and legs, with the tiny stones giving you an exfoliation on the way down. Anyway, after a while, and a good few turns each, Andy was having another go when all of a sudden the whole top of the cliff fell in on top of him. At first everyone stood there staring waiting for him to push his way through the sand… but nothing. Everyone ran as fast as they could to get to where he was and scraped and scraped and scraped the sand away, until finally, his little red headed, freckled face appeared, and we all pulled him out. We didn’t play that game again in a hurry I can tell you. We got such a fright, but we daren’t tell Granny, as she would never let us back down again.