Transformations 1970

I wrote this piece for

Dr Lily Dunn

‘s memoir competition, and she suggested that I share it on Substack. Looking forward to reading the winning entries next week.

It was 1971 and Julie and I were living the Wimbledon dream at our local tennis

court. No skill, no crowds, just enthusiasm. The sight of my neighbour peering

through the fence, trying to get my attention, signalled that my world was about to

change. Heart attacks don’t usually have a long lead in, they arrived like an uninvited

guest with no regard to the destruction they leave in their wake. This wasn’t my

father’s first heart attack, but it was his last. Mum and I were not prepared I was 17 ,

she was 52 now a unit of 2 , rudderless. My father had been the dominant force in our

small family, a quiet authority but one I didn’t cross. He was 50 when I was born and

our lives were slow and measured like his. He was a filter through which I lived my

teenage years. My life was partitioned into church, school and family.There was little

space to discover more about myself. So many decisions were still to be made about

my future life, I was coming up to a crossroads and had lost my guide. Someone had

to climb into the driving seat, and as I clambered in I felt my world turning.

In my mind two roads were open to continue living at home and work in an office in

the city, something I had done for the last 2 summers or go to university and leave

home.

My image of office work was tainted by images of people I’d worked with.

Joyce, with her pencil worn to a stub, columns of figures covered the page as tidy as

a line of soldiers.Neat, straightforward, hair tied back, beige cardigan matched with

a beige skirt. A touch of pink lipstick and a pair of sensible flat shoes.

Gary, livelier boundless energy stored in a young body trapped in an Insurance office

in London filing, copying out rows of figures. He lived at home, loved glam rock and

day by day was being filed down to fit the mould of an insurance clerk.

My mother harboured a plan that I would continue to work in the city, live at home

until I met a nice young man in a steady job like banking or insurance.

Why not try a secretarial course there’s lots of jobs for secretaries?

But that road would lead to an office and other Joyces and Garys would be there

waiting to embrace me into their fold

Life at home had been easy.I had my own room, my own space . Our bungalow

contained my entire past, I had lived here since I was a baby. To stay at home, help

mum with her transition to a single life, and then start to move on with mine that

would be the most caring solution and the safest.

The other alternative to leave home and go to university seemed more ruthless. But I

knew that I would never make the break later, so it had to be now.

The careers teacher at school was bemused. All I had was desperation and average

grades to fill a UCAS form.

Mum put on a brave face. I settled on a compromise, my original choice of a

polytechnic in Nottingham was changed for a university in Surrey. I could come

home more often, our ties would be stretched but not broken.

I hadn’t been a rebellious teenager, I’d stayed within the lines drawn by home, by

school, by the church. Now it appeared as I carried my small suitcase into my room

at uni that there were no lines to guide me. I was free to reinvent myself.

The first thing to go was my glasses. They had been a part of me since I was 7 and

each year the lenses got thicker until they no longer fitted into frames that were

flattering. These glasses were not a fashion accessory but something to hide behind.

The opticians in London offered cheap contact lenses. Gerry, my ponytailed optican

clad in leather trousers, guided me through the process- it was quite simple.

He would fit me with a blank pair of contact lenses and send me out into the streets

of London for 3 hours. If I managed to keep them in and had not gouged my eyes out

with the pain or walked into a car because I couldn’t see where I was going,then I

was a suitable candidate for lenses.I could hear the voice of Mr Dugdale the optician

from home .

Why not play it safe and stick with the thick glasses?

I was spurred on and 3 hours later blinded by tears I returned to sign up for lenses.

My myopic eyes suffered but my self confidence rocketed.

My long straight hair was cut , coloured and permed.

My clothes became more impractical, long flowing wrap around skirts that blew open

in the wind, cheesecloth tops that were see though, menthol cigarettes and cheap

alcohol.

So far from the neatly dressed office girl of a year ago. The transformation was

complete or so I thought . But it was only skin deep , the work to change that anxious

teenager had only just begun.

Every summer, I went back to office work to settle my overdraft, slightly

unconventional in appearance just to mark myself out from the permanent office

workers. It may have been navy nail varnish, a skirt that was too short or a top that

was too floaty. The statement was I don’t belong here.

I emerged from my 3 years older but not much wiser, and armed with my degree

went to a recruitment agency. They weren’t impressed. The only work that they could

offer me was a clerical job in an office .

Such a pity you never learned to type they told me.

But I didn’t go back to living at home and I didn’t marry someone from banking and

insurance.