This is an instalment of an as-yet unnamed autobiographical series that started in Australia in 1975.
Click here for the first instalment.
The full list of instalments so far is in the sidebar to the right.
So I finished my finals and came to the end of my university career – if I passed the exams, that is, and I wouldn’t know that till August.
In some ways, the finals had been but a blip on the radar screen of my life. In other ways, they were like the interference that masked radio transmissions. They didn’t matter – John was all that mattered to me now – but they stopped me engaging with him and the new life he promised. He was so imaginative, musical, funny, individual, romantic and I longed to be like that myself, instead of the diligent scholar I was.
I found a job waitressing at a National Trust house a few miles outside Exeter, near John’s cottage. It wasn’t Australia but it was fine – and after my finals it was a relief to work nine to five at something I could easily do. Our boss was young and beautiful and she left us mostly alone. The restaurant was in the main house in a light-filled room – an orangery perhaps - and the guests older, polite and generous with their tips. We wore frilly floor-length aprons in a leafy green and white cotton.
Rod, who was looking after Kitten, moved out of the cottage and agreed to take her with him for the moment. She had after all been the cottage cat, not John’s exclusively, even though she’d become that when everyone else deserted the place.
John was already in debt because of having to pay everyone else’s rent on the cottage so we decided that he should cancel the lease and move out in his turn. What a performance! We stuffed the Mini with as much as it would hold and put to one side other important bits and pieces of John’s that Rod would take with him and store safely.
John and I tussled over what he did actually need and what he didn’t, what was junk and what was something ‘that might come in useful’. The house looked just as cluttered when we left as it had before and I pitied the landlord – a local farmer with whom the tenants had waged a non-stop battle. He’d let down the Mini’s tyres at one stage in protest at the drug-dealing that was going on.
In one of the farm’s barns John had found an old clock in pieces and he’d repaired it. He wanted to take it with him, thinking that it had been abandoned, but the message arrived (I can’t remember how) that they wanted it back.
John refused to have any more to do with the family so I went up to the farmhouse on my own with the clock and the money still owing and knocked on the door. The farmer’s mother answered - small, bony (not to say hatchet-faced) and sharp-eyed. She looked surprised when I handed it all over.
Now we had to find somewhere to live.
The tenure of the Exeter house was shortly to expire, and most spare property was let to tourists over the summer. And that was without the fact that John and I weren’t married. I scoured the local paper every Thursday, property day, and rang likely places from the payphone in the house. They always asked about our marital status and before I could explain anything put the phone down on me. To be together but unmarried was to be ‘living in sin’. I didn’t see it that way.
At last Liz, a friend of John’s – she’d briefly consoled him after his girlfriend left – and who was now with Rod, offered us a room in the house she was renting.
The room was tiny, the size of our mattress, so all our other possessions had to live on the landing outside it. But the house, up a country lane on the outskirts of Exeter, had a big overgrown garden and we started to enjoy the summer.
In some ways, the finals had been but a blip on the radar screen of my life. In other ways, they were like the interference that masked radio transmissions. They didn’t matter – John was all that mattered to me now – but they stopped me engaging with him and the new life he promised. He was so imaginative, musical, funny, individual, romantic and I longed to be like that myself, instead of the diligent scholar I was.
I found a job waitressing at a National Trust house a few miles outside Exeter, near John’s cottage. It wasn’t Australia but it was fine – and after my finals it was a relief to work nine to five at something I could easily do. Our boss was young and beautiful and she left us mostly alone. The restaurant was in the main house in a light-filled room – an orangery perhaps - and the guests older, polite and generous with their tips. We wore frilly floor-length aprons in a leafy green and white cotton.
John let me use the Mini to drive to work while he travelled to the university every day, in the opposite direction, by motorbike. I don’t think I realised how much of honour it was that he trusted me with his car.
Rod, who was looking after Kitten, moved out of the cottage and agreed to take her with him for the moment. She had after all been the cottage cat, not John’s exclusively, even though she’d become that when everyone else deserted the place.
John was already in debt because of having to pay everyone else’s rent on the cottage so we decided that he should cancel the lease and move out in his turn. What a performance! We stuffed the Mini with as much as it would hold and put to one side other important bits and pieces of John’s that Rod would take with him and store safely.
John and I tussled over what he did actually need and what he didn’t, what was junk and what was something ‘that might come in useful’. The house looked just as cluttered when we left as it had before and I pitied the landlord – a local farmer with whom the tenants had waged a non-stop battle. He’d let down the Mini’s tyres at one stage in protest at the drug-dealing that was going on.
In one of the farm’s barns John had found an old clock in pieces and he’d repaired it. He wanted to take it with him, thinking that it had been abandoned, but the message arrived (I can’t remember how) that they wanted it back.
John refused to have any more to do with the family so I went up to the farmhouse on my own with the clock and the money still owing and knocked on the door. The farmer’s mother answered - small, bony (not to say hatchet-faced) and sharp-eyed. She looked surprised when I handed it all over.
Now we had to find somewhere to live.
The tenure of the Exeter house was shortly to expire, and most spare property was let to tourists over the summer. And that was without the fact that John and I weren’t married. I scoured the local paper every Thursday, property day, and rang likely places from the payphone in the house. They always asked about our marital status and before I could explain anything put the phone down on me. To be together but unmarried was to be ‘living in sin’. I didn’t see it that way.
At last Liz, a friend of John’s – she’d briefly consoled him after his girlfriend left – and who was now with Rod, offered us a room in the house she was renting.
The room was tiny, the size of our mattress, so all our other possessions had to live on the landing outside it. But the house, up a country lane on the outskirts of Exeter, had a big overgrown garden and we started to enjoy the summer.
 |
| John (left) and Rod enjoying the summer in the garden of Liz's house* |
Meanwhile my mother had kept her promise and wrote to me with nothing but the ‘usual mundane gossip’. (How on earth she thought that she could brush under the carpet something as important as me wanting to marry and how on earth she thought I would just forget about it, I couldn’t imagine.) From my father there was nothing.
I hadn’t replied to the letters, partly because I didn’t have time and partly because I hadn’t a clue how to handle the situation. Conflict wasn’t anything our family dealt with. Tears were allowed but anger wasn’t. Parents were always right.
Anyway, I didn’t want to think about my parents as whenever I did I fell apart. The glue holding me together as a person came unstuck and I turned into a random collection of meaningless bits. It was horrible. It was frightening. It was like a drawn-out version of the black hole I’d fallen into in London.
It never ever occurred to me however not to marry John and we started to plan a wedding. If my parents didn’t want to be involved, we would do it ourselves.
I hadn’t replied to the letters, partly because I didn’t have time and partly because I hadn’t a clue how to handle the situation. Conflict wasn’t anything our family dealt with. Tears were allowed but anger wasn’t. Parents were always right.
Anyway, I didn’t want to think about my parents as whenever I did I fell apart. The glue holding me together as a person came unstuck and I turned into a random collection of meaningless bits. It was horrible. It was frightening. It was like a drawn-out version of the black hole I’d fallen into in London.
It never ever occurred to me however not to marry John and we started to plan a wedding. If my parents didn’t want to be involved, we would do it ourselves.
* Apologies as usual for the state of the photograph
To be continued . . .
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