Читать книгу STILL STANDING - M.G. Crisci - Страница 6

“The real history of consciousness starts with one’s first lie.”

― Joseph Brodsky

1988…

My first porky pie (innocent fib) was never intended to hurt anyone’s feelings. I was just the new girl at a new school, and I wanted to be liked.

It was more like Shelly’s and my “little secret.” Ironically, it was the first of many lies to come!

Becket Primary had a non-school-uniform policy. We could wear whatever we wanted. Cool, hey? Except Mum dressed us identically. Don’t get me wrong; we were the best-dressed kids, in posh embroidery Anglaise dresses with satin ribbon bows around our waists.

You name it, we wore it, and yes, we looked beautiful, but we hated being matching. Shelly, two years older, was more annoyed than me. One day she came up with a rather creative solution: “It’s simple,” explained Shelly, “we just tuck some spare clothes into our bags and change in the garages before we head to school!”

“What, the block of public garages behind other people’s homes?”

“Yeah!”

“Suppose someone sees us changing? Or Mum walks past during break time and notices we have changed?” I worried.

“It will be fine,” responded Shelly. “Plus, Mum never walks past the school!”

It was naughty betraying Mum, but I wanted to look cool in class. Imagine, I could wear what I wanted. My first selection was a pair of baby blue callots shorts (ones that look like a skirt) and a matching top that tied in the front. Since I was worried Mum would notice a lot of clothes were missing, I wore the same outfit every day that first week. I’m sure the teachers noticed, but they never said a thing.

As a kid, there would be many more fibs and cover-ups: spilling nail polish on the sofa, breaking a china basket ornament and gluing it back together with toothpaste, and searching the house top to bottom in the weeks before Christmas to find our presents.

As a teen, the Porky Pies grew larger: bowling nights with friends meant underage drinking at local discos and sneaking out on holiday in Turkey to meet up with a hot boy—I’ll come to that little escapade later.

I became pretty good at justifying my little lies. I rationalized they didn’t really hurt anybody, and my friends were doing the same thing!

As I was to learn painfully, lies do matter. When someone you love lies to you, it hurts. Equally, when you lie and it hurts someone you love, it’s sickening. It might even make you a little irrational, which is what happened to me.

~

Primary school flew by. I loved to read and quickly worked my way through to higher levels. My favorite books were Roald Dahl’s and Frances Hodgson Burnett’s, The Secret Garden.

I formed a love of both writing and reading and even created a newspaper, The Gazette. I’d sit for hours writing articles.

The only bad memory occurred when I was about 11. An Ouija board had been taken to school by a scary shaggy-haired girl who claimed the board allowed her to contact the spirit world.

I told her she was full of you-know-what. “Watch,” she said, “I have asked an evil spirit to place a curse on anyone with a surname that begins with the letter F.” She then pointed at my two friends and me. “That means you, you, and you.”

We were terrified! I remember going home and shaking like a leaf while crying against Mum’s chest. It was a different type of fear because I couldn’t control what wasn’t there; ghosts. I feared I’d be haunted by demons forever. Maybe I am and that’s what has led to poor, regrettable life choices. Who knows?

~

Secondary school was daunting. I was small and thin as a stick. My sister Shelly told her friends that Mum and Dad named me Cauli Flower (cauliflower). My maiden surname was Flowers!).

The kids would always find ways to tease me. One looked at me and said, “Vicki, what’s that string hanging from your skirt?” Another would respond, “Oh, that’s your legs!” Such comments hurt and messed with my self-esteem. They left invisible bruises on my skin which have stayed on me into adulthood. I began to realise that our own actions, and that of others, can be traumatizing.

Summer camp arrived; it was humiliating. I was 11-years-old, but I hadn’t developed like the other girls. We’d been asked to undress and use communal showers. I’d never taken my clothes off in front of anyone other than my mum! I was a prude and very self-conscious. I simply did not want to do it but was made to face the indignity, which in turn, crushed any confidence I had left.

“Vicki has no boobs or pubes!” Becky declared loudly on the school bus, mocking my figure to the boys while proudly showing off her push-up bra, as though she was the Queen Bee.

I slid down in my chair, cringing, and cried all the way home. I wanted the floor to crumble and swallow me up whole. It was the first time I’d ever felt humiliation and it broke me.

After that, I became timid and feared further hurtful comments. They came, of course; people can be cruel. One memory, that sticks above all others, was being told I was fat. (I weighed 5 kilos and was pencil thin.) The boy was joking, but I went home and swallowed laxatives to make myself thinner!

Despite my shyness, I was welcomed into the cool circle. People found me humorous, and I was invited to everything.

Boys and girls started to date; well, hanging out with each other on their bikes after school if that’s what you would class as dating; at 11 or 12. I didn’t want to be left out, so I agreed to go on a date with Ed. I thought having a boyfriend would boost my confidence. We had our first kiss on the tennis courts. It was sloppy, and I wanted to be sick.

Nothing against him, I just wasn’t ready to French Kiss. Hence, we lasted only a few days, and I didn’t rush out for a new boyfriend.

~

Aged 13, feeling more mature and ready to date for real this time, I asked out James, a boy in the school year below me.

He was cute, with dark hair, blue eyes, and dimples when he smiled. He reminded me of Boyzone’s, Stephen Gatley; he was hot!

James said, “yes.” We’d go out on our bikes or to the park. We held hands and kissed a couple of times. We were both shy, and I don’t even recall him ever trying to grab my rear while kissing me. Pure innocence was the extent of a childhood romance in those days.

I liked him; he was funny. But out of the blue, he dealt a blow (delivered some bad news), “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving our school to go to Cannington, an agricultural school,” he said, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

James’ family owned a farm; he would continue their legacy and needed to switch to a farming school to learn the ropes.

Feeling like I would never see him, given he lived in Banwell village, a few miles away, I cruelly dumped him. We were at my mum’s house when James’ best friend, Toby, suddenly turned on the CD player, playing break up songs—somehow, he knew I was about to tell James “sayonara”—cheers, Toby!

I can’t remember my exact words; after all, I was only 13, but I did let him down gently. Hurting him felt dreadful, I felt nauseous and cruel. Despite me ending the young romance, I felt my heart ache for the first time—a dreadful feeling. I think he was gutted; I was older and made him look cool.

Toby found the whole thing hilarious, seeing his best mate get dumped by a girl. I suppose I learned that young boys could be very childish and were far less mature than us girls!

~

A year or so later, I’d become best friends with a humorous classmate named Stephen. He had a nice smile and dark hair but was different from James and Ed.

We’d sit by each other in classes. At the end of school, Stephen was voted the funniest male, and I was voted the funniest girl. Humour was our connection. He loved my stupid impressions, especially of the 90s Dime bar TV commercial featuring an unsophisticated countryman, saying in a West Country (regional Somerset accent): “I likes Armadillos, smooth on the inside, crunchy on the outside.”

One day he asked me out. He said we should be boyfriend and girlfriend, seeing as we got on like a house on fire (got on well). The problem was we had become such good friends, dating felt odd. We kissed, laughed, and went back to being mates. Eventually, Stephen married another school friend, Anya, and they had two kids. But he, she and I remain Facebook friends to this day.

~

As I grew up doing my “boy thing,” flitting from friendships to dates, the time came when I embarked on my first holiday romance.

Family holidays became a bit more adventurous. I have vivid memories of our first trip to Turkey. The traditions and customs were different from any other country I’d ever visited.

We bathed in the unofficial eighth wonder of the world, Pamukkale thermal pools. When we finished, I remember vividly how the ruddy, dark-skinned Turkish men would flock to touch my unusual blonde hair, as if I was an angelic icon. (All the Turkish girls I met had dark brown or black hair.)

My parents were offered 50 camels and a very nice yacht to buy me. Dad played along for a bit. I was terrified Mum and Dad would eventually agree. Fortunately, they did not. Thank you, Mum and Dad.

Other than fear of being sold, I enjoyed wonderful experiences in Turkey: holding a giant swordfish, then eating it, taking camel rides, and being soaped up in a Turkish bath which felt like laying on a marble mortuary slab covered in bubbles, then sliding around like a wet fish.

~

The holiday (vacation) also contained its fair share of “naughty” Porkie Pie moments. One of the most memorable, which I mentioned earlier, was when my sister Shelly and I told Mum and Dad we were tired and going to retire a bit early. I sensed Dad thought it was a bit strange since we hadn’t done much all day besides lunch and sunbathe on the beach. But he said nothing.

I was all in because I wanted to see Aaron again—a cool guy with floppy hair and muscular build who, a day earlier, had chatted me up at the bar. He picked me over Shelly, who was two years older (the same age as Aaron) and looked a lot sexier.

I liked the plans but had reservations. Lying and betrayal sat heavily on my chest, but I also wanted to be daring. “Mum and Dad are right next door. How are we ever going to get past them because our door creaks like crazy?”

“Out the window, of course!”

Minutes later, my butt was sticking out of the window, as Shelly waited so that we could head up the path.

We didn’t know Mum and Dad had decided to go for a romantic walk in the moonlight.

“Where do you think you’re going?” boomed my father’s familiar voice. Red-faced, stomach knotted, with no excuse for dangling half in, half out, we were marched straight back to bed.

Despite that little setback, Aaron and I did manage to meet up a night or two later. He walked me down to the beach, and we kissed beneath the stars. He was a delightful kisser. He also convinced me to puff on my first cigarette afterwards. I didn’t like the taste of cigarettes and never smoked again. But kissing was another matter!

It was also super-cool showing my friends photos of my “older” holiday romance hunk. That first kiss with an ‘older guy’ did wonders for my confidence. I wasn’t undesirable after all. I could be admired by gorgeous boys and the feeling was both exciting and terrifying.