Being Lara (9 page)

So now she cried less and sang more.

The sixties was the decade that had taken her father as well as her childhood; but now, on the cusp of a new era and a period that would see her officially become an adult, Pat hoped there was a lot more to look forward to.

“Where are those blimming cigarettes?!” blasted her mother's voice, which sounded sickeningly close. She placed the brush back on the table and rushed off to find her mother before
she
found Pat.

By the time Pat was nineteen, her sister was already knocked up and married (in that order, but Mum swore otherwise) and, at last, the bed belonged solely to Pat. That first night should have brought with it an elation that she could finally spread herself across the bed in any shape she desired and hum herself to sleep without facing the wrath of her sister. Instead, Pat felt a strong and unexpected sense of loneliness and isolation. Two of her older brothers had already left home after marrying in quick succession, with only one remaining—and he was out most of the time, too. So it was just Pat and her mother most days, their relationship slightly strengthened by the absence of others and a shared love of baking. Of course, she could never beat her mum's soda bread, but she one day hoped to perfect the Madeira cake in all its glory.

One day Pat was called into the kitchen by her mum, the smell of cigarette smoke and fresh bread wafting in the air around them.

“So what are we going to do with you then?” said her mother.

Pat ran her nose just above the newly baked bread, which sat invitingly on the table.

“Smells good, Mum.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Shall we bake something for later?”

“Maybe. Don't you get sick of baking all the time?”

“I love it!” she said. Actually, she didn't “love” it as much as she enjoyed the time spent with her mother—and of course the end product.

“I know you don't want to spend your time in the kitchen. You're different from me and your sister. I've always known it, always known you were a special one. The only one out of my kids who wanted to go places.”

This was news to Pat, who'd only ever seen herself as one of five kids, the youngest and at times a nuisance.
Just there.
She'd basically assumed everyone else, including her mother, had that view, too.

Her mother gazed at her expectantly, waiting for an answer to the question “So what d'ya see yourself doing, Pat?”

By now, most of Pat's friends were married with a kid, some even on their second, and part of her at times envied that security, of knowing where life was heading, the direction it would take and its ultimate destination. But at the same time, she still felt an incompleteness she was unable to fathom. She was not yet a woman, but no longer a child. It didn't help that at nineteen, she'd never even kissed a man before. Pat wasn't a “plain” girl like Gerry's daughter next door (as her mother liked to put it); she was just at times painfully shy, introverted and wary of people she'd never met before … or anyone from North London. Plus, if men were anything like her dad or her brothers, she was probably best off without them anyway.

“You want to learn to type?” asked her mother. “Mavis's daughter does it and gets a good wage. You know … if getting wed isn't for you.”

Pat appreciated her mother's attempt at
understanding,
but felt unsure of how to answer. No real aspirations had ever hit her, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd really sat down and assessed her future. She liked to sing and that was it. One thing she felt clear on though; she would always try to be happy in everything she did and not become like her siblings who seemed to be permanently angry with life and quick to blame others. She also hoped never to be the type to run away at the first sight of hardship, like her dad.

“I've heard you, you know.”

“Heard me?” asked Pat.

“Singing. Since the kids left it's been easier. You've got a pretty good voice.”

Pat wasn't sure whether to feel embarrassed or pleased that her mother had noticed the singing.

“Thank you…” she said tentatively, as her mother bent down to the oven.

Pat's confidence in her voice grew over the years, but she'd yet to sing a full song in front of anyone. A job at Mr. Roach's quiet paper shop afforded her the time, while she counted out aniseed balls or restocked magazines, to dream of one day having the confidence to sing in front of a real audience.

One day, one of Pat's brothers came over to the house after a “row with the wife” and a “baby that won't stop grizzling,” demanding sympathy and a plate of pie and mash from his mother. Of course, still being the youngest at twenty-one, Pat was sent to fetch the food while her mother piled on the sympathy to one of her precious sons.

“Don't forget the jellied eels!” her brother shouted as Pat slipped into her coat.

As usual, the queue at Cooke's Pie and Mash was long, and unlike the majority of the people standing in line, Pat didn't recognize anyone she could have a natter with. The air had a cold chill to it, so to keep warm she rubbed her hands together and began humming the tune to “Wings of My Love,” tapping her foot enthusiastically and beginning to sing under her breath in the process. When Pat was halfway into the song, the person in front turned to face her.

“Very nice song by Michael Jackson,” he said in quite a posh accent. Posher than she'd ever heard in her entire life. Perhaps he was from North London. She immediately turned a shade of red.

“Thank you,” she replied, midblush.

“Not many people know that one. They mostly just know him as being with the Jackson Five. I like his solo stuff better. Lovely lad.”

“Y … yes,” she replied.

“Sorry, am I embarrassing you?”

“No,” she said quickly, turning to the floor and to the blob of chewing gum her shoes had narrowly missed. She hoped his eyes weren't following her and took a quick peep and to her horror, they were! His gaze was intense, boring into her, seeking her out; he looked like he was attempting to reach into her soul and pick at it, only to rip out the bits he needed. Her thoughts may have been overdramatic, but there was something about this man that made the sides of her neck gather sweat, her armpits itch. She wrestled with a sudden need to flee and stay all at the very same time.

“If I am embarrassing you, I apologize,” he said.

“You're not,” she said.

She had to admit, he had a kind face. Not as handsome as Paul Newman but with an honest chin and trustworthy nose. She'd heard her mother focus on such qualities after her sister had dragged home her future husband for the first time. Apparently, chins and noses say a lot about a person.

“Don't let me stop you. You carry on singing. Please. It was so nice. Plus I should tell you, the last verse of that song is my favorite,” said the man. Pat had never hummed for an audience before, let alone a stranger, and definitely not a man.

She shook her head slowly.

“Please… It's too lovely not to be heard by anyone.”

Enjoying his plea, she let out a quick hum—then thought better of it.

“Please?” he reiterated, and her resistance began to thaw again. She hummed and felt a bit silly, but she bravely carried on for a verse.

“I can't!” she protested as the queue slowly inched forward.

“Yes, you can. You can do anything you want to do,” he said. Pat covered her mouth with her hand, hoping he hadn't seen the smile forming on her face or the butterflies doing “the Lambeth Walk” in her tummy.

“I can see you're not married then. Good. At least tell me your name?”

“It's … it's Patricia Smith. Pat. A bit ordinary, really,” she said as a droplet of rain landed on the tip of her nose.

“There's nothing ordinary about you, Pat Smith,” he said, lightly brushing the droplet from the end of her nose. Her whole body tensed up at the audacity of his touch.

“I can see it and I can hear it in that voice of yours. You're special.”

Pat realized that this was the second time someone had referred to her as special in her entire life. First her mother two years ago and now this strange man. Maybe it was true or maybe they were all talking out of their arses. All she knew was that it was “out there”: the
suggestion,
which seemed to be enough to kick-start the thought that she was perhaps on to something life changing where her voice was concerned. Perhaps.

“Pat, that last verse of ‘Wings of My Love'…?”

“Yes…”

“I have a feeling it's going to come true.”

Pat felt an unexpected explosion of joy in every bone and in every crevice of her body as the sky opened up to more rain. This was to be a special day, she knew it.

A day, she hoped, that would catapult Pat Smith straight out of who she'd once been and straight into a life
less ordinary.

Pat

1972

B
arry Reid wasn't the type of name Pat would have associated with someone posh, so perhaps he wasn't so posh after all. But he was certainly a man with manners and so far removed from the burping, swearing, loudmouthed brothers she'd been used to. Barry possessed a gentle streak tempered with a quiet strength that, although unfamiliar to her, she liked. For their first date, he'd picked her up in his Ford Cortina, making sure to open the car door for her; and once inside the restaurant, he stood whenever she got up to go to the loo. And he took time out to recommend and explain the dishes she'd never heard of, which was about 99 percent of the menu, without making her feel stupid and “uncultured.” In fact, it had been the first time she'd set foot in a restaurant before and made such a welcome change from the noisy and cluttered pie and mash shop.

They were walking up Portobello Road one night with Pat carrying a lurking suspicion that something had changed in their relationship. They'd become closer. She felt him all around her, even when they were apart, and she hoped it was a mutual feeling.

“Are you happy, Pat?” asked Barry. He was constantly asking her questions—about her day, her hopes and dreams. She'd never had one person be so interested in her. At first it felt peculiar and she'd mistrusted his interest, remembering her mum's daily rant of “men can't be trusted, can they?” Pat was unsure of why Barry would want to know so much about her, anyway. But since accepting this as the kind of man he was, she'd allowed herself to accept it as something good.

“Yes, I am happy,” she replied robustly as he turned to her. The feel of his hand as it brushed against her own was like a soft silky feather against her skin, causing a slight chill to course through her body along with a momentary fear that she might not ever see him again. Was this what it felt like to really love a man? This feeling of fear and helplessness? If so, then Pat didn't bloody well need it. But then she needed Barry. She was sure of that now.

As they strolled on, they came across a man and a lady both with big Afro hairstyles, headed in their direction. Like Pat and Barry, the couple seemed to be deeply engrossed in each other's company and Pat wondered if they, too, were enjoying something special. The lady smiled politely in their direction when suddenly a car drove past and angry voices shouted obscenities.

“Are you all right?” called Pat.

“Thank you,” called the man as he and the lady disappeared hurriedly into the distance. It had all happened so quickly. The moving car, those horrible hateful words.

“Why would anyone say such things?” asked Pat, turning to Barry, feeling a mixture of anger, helplessness, and naïveté.

“Just some very ignorant people about,” said Barry, clutching her hand tightly. Pat immediately felt safe again, yet so sorry for that couple; she'd conjured up enough empathy to actually feel their distress. She'd often heard her brothers talk about people in a way she'd never, ever agree with. She'd heard about how some people were constantly treated in this country just because they were deemed to be different. But what was different? People bled the same, hearts beat the same. None of it made sense to Pat, still reeling from what she'd just witnessed, her heart beating intensely. They both discussed the incident on their way back to Pat's, and as she sensed the evening drawing to a close, she felt determined it would end positively.

When Barry kissed her full on the mouth, it was loaded with sincerity and warmth—genuine and thoughtful just like Barry. When he took her hands in his, it was the moment Pat knew that no matter what evil lurked in the corners of Portobello Road, or indeed on the moon now that blokes had stood on it, she was safe.

She would forever be safe.

Barry and Pat were married at the registry office, with Pat dressed in a long cream halter neck jersey dress and Barry in a very smart light blue suit with a cream ruffled shirt. Pat's mother beamed with pride, at times mumbling something about “your good-for-nothing dad not even having the good grace to give his daughter away” while Pat's sister seemed more concerned about fueling the gossip surrounding Pat's “pregnancy.” But Pat was able to eliminate the surrounding negative vibes and downright ungratefulness on her big day (considering Barry had paid for everything) and instead focused on what she now had. A future, a husband.