‘He said what?’ Johnny chortled as soon as I rang him to tell him what Peter had done.
‘Don’t! It’s not funny. You should have seen the way everyone looked at me. No one spoke a word to us after it.’
‘Oh, don’t. I think I’m going to die laughing,’ Johnny howled, begging for mercy.
I imagined him wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
‘Listen love,’ he said after he’d managed to compose himself. ‘It won’t be long before I’m home. I’ve only another month to go.’
I couldn’t wait, even though Johnny’s wages had come in handy. Now that I’d given my agency up, and with an extra mouth to feed, things had begun to feel a little tight. In fact, I was so strapped for cash that I decided to sell my beloved Mini. I loved my car but keeping a roof over our heads was more important than having a nice runaround, so I mentioned it to a friend of mine, called Kay.
‘I think my manager’s looking for a new car, Pat. I could ask her, if you like?’
‘Yes, please do.’
A few days later, Kay and her manager – a lady called Myrna – arrived at my door.
‘Hello, Pat,’ Myrna said with a smile. ‘Kay says you might have a car you’re looking to sell.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said. ‘It’s just around here,’ I gestured, pulling on my coat. ‘Are you looking to buy it for yourself?’
‘No,’ Myrna replied. ‘I’m looking to buy it for my husband. He works at the hospital.’
Just then, I spotted a smart blue Hillman car parked in the drive.
‘But whose car is that?’ I asked.
‘Oh that,’ Myrna said, turning around. ‘That’s mine. It’s a company car. It comes with my job.’
I was flummoxed. Her car was absolutely gorgeous.
‘Why, what job do you do?’
‘I’m a Tupperware manager and they give you a car.’
I looked at Kay and then back at Myrna.
‘But Kay works for Tupperware and she hasn’t got a car?’
Myrna nodded.
‘No, that’s because Kay’s an agent. I get one because Kay’s in the group I manage.’
Suddenly, a light bulb flashed inside my head. I needed to sell my car, but I also needed a job to make ends meet.
‘What are the chances of me becoming a Tupperware manager?’ I asked.
‘There’s every possibility. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come along on Monday, and I’ll introduce you to the distributors.’
Sure enough, after I’d sold her the car, I turned up on the Monday morning and explained that I wanted to be a Tupperware manager.
‘My husband is about to go into pantomime in Porthcawl and, now that I’ve sold mine, I won’t have a car. So, you see, I’m afraid I won’t be able to work for you unless you make me a manager,’ I said cheekily.
After a bit of deliberation, it was decided that they’d make me a manager, even though I had no one to manage. However, I did have one thing going for me and that was a good diary of contacts. Before the meeting, I’d booked up a number of potential Tupperware parties, so they realised I had an inkling for selling, if nothing else.
To my delight, I was also given a car. Back on four wheels, I drove myself around Wales, hosting numerous parties. I was thirty-six years old, but I’d just bagged myself a new career, swapping my tap shoes for Tupperware. I loved my new life and sold those plastic bowls with a passion. At one point, I became so busy that I was hosting up to ten parties a day. My sales were so successful that I was given prizes. I won cut glass, a couple of bikes for my boys and even managed to bag us a free holiday in Spain. Over the three years that I worked for Tupperware, I rose up through the ranks to become one of their most successful managers, earning £300 to £400 a week.
One afternoon, I’d taken Rachel, who by this time was six years old, along to one of my parties.
‘Just sit there and be a good girl and don’t speak to Mummy before Mummy speaks to you.’
It sounded harsh, but I knew any slight distraction could lose me a booking. My bookings not only helped to pay the mortgage; they kept the family afloat whenever Johnny found himself in between jobs.
‘I won’t,’ Rachel said, crossing her heart with her finger.
She was a good girl, and I knew that I could rely on her. I sat her down with her dolls in a corner of the room and I got on with the business of hosting the party. By the end of the afternoon, I had a queue of ladies all eager to put their names down for their own Tupperware party.
‘I’ll be with you all soon,’ I said as I rummaged around in my bag for my diary.
I looked up to see Rachel sitting with her arms angrily folded across her chest.
‘Rachel, are you all right?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but I don’t think much to this party,’ she replied in a loud voice.
The ladies in the queue gasped and all turned to look at her. For a split second, I didn’t know what to say, so I decided to humour her.
‘Why, Rachel? What’s wrong with the party?’
I dreaded what her answer might be.
Rachel huffed and held out her hand as she counted off the faults one by one against each finger.
‘Well, there’s no jelly, no ice cream, there are no party games… and there’s not even a blancmange!’ she complained.
Suddenly, the room erupted with laughter.
‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ the hostess said with a hand against her chest. ‘For a moment, I wondered what she was going to say.’
Still, it had been a lesson learned. After that, I never took Rachel to a Tupperware party again.
After three years working for the company, I decided I’d had enough. It was the early 1970s and there was a new product on the market called Portmerion pottery, so I became an agent. It turned out to be a good move because the pottery proved very popular. In fact, it sold so well that I went out and bought myself a van to transport it to parties. After a particularly good sales run, I decided I needed to stop selling for other companies and sell goods myself.
‘I think I’m going to buy and sell my own stock,’ I said to Johnny one morning over breakfast. ‘What do you think?’
He glanced up from the kitchen table.
‘What, you mean stop all the parties?’
‘Yes.’
Johnny thought for a moment. ‘Well, you’ve spent years making a fortune for everyone else, so maybe now it’s time to do it for yourself.’
With Johnny on board, we travelled up to Stoke, where I sourced and bought the best pottery I could find. I also ordered some cut glass from Czechoslovakia. It was so good that it rivalled the items sold in H.Samuels jewellers. I even brought in a couple of agents to sell the goods at parties because I reasoned three agents were better than one. Soon I had a warehouse full of stock and both Peter and Stephen working for me. The boys would pack the party orders up, and Johnny would drive around delivering them. With sales going well, I decided to set up my own market stall in Cardiff on Sunday, where I sold pottery and other fancy goods.
Soon the summer season was upon us. Johnny had landed a gig down in Weston-super-Mare. I decided to travel down to spend some time with him. By now, Rachel was nine years old and horse mad. She’d found a riding school nearby, where she volunteered to help out on a daily basis. It’d kept her busy and it also meant I had time on my hands. One day, I was wandering around when I passed a market near Brean sands. I spoke to the Toby – the man who ran the market – who also happened to be the Toby at the market in Cardiff, where I had a stall.
‘Hello, Pat,’ he said, smiling warmly as I approached. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, Johnny’s doing a summer season down here,’ I explained. ‘But listen, I’d really like to sell pottery and other fancy goods here. What are my chances of hiring a space?’
The Toby nodded.
‘Not a problem. I’ll sort you one out.’
With my new stall in place, I brought down a van full of goods from my warehouse in Cardiff. With nowhere safe to store it, I loaded it into Johnny’s dressing room.
‘Hang on! Where on earth am I going to sit?’ he complained, looking around the packed-out dressing room.
I picked up a box off his chair and popped it on top of an enormous pile in the corner of the room. I went back to his chair and tapped it with my hand.
‘There. Look, you’ve plenty of room now!’
Johnny rolled his eyes, huffed and clicked on the lights around his dressing-room mirror.
‘It’s beginning to look like a bloody warehouse in here,’ he moaned as he applied his stage makeup.
With my stock scattered from Cardiff down to Weston-Super-Mare, I decided to open more market stalls. I roped in friends and Peter and Stephen to help me. Between us, we sold at markets in Chepstow, Cardiff, Pontypridd, Newport and Port Talbot. Within the year, I’d built up the business so much that I had to buy another van. I also got Rachel to help me out on Sunday mornings in Cardiff.
With theatres becoming less fashionable and cinemas taking over, Johnny’s bookings began to dry up. Instead, he’d spend hours travelling to the wholesalers to source more goods to sell on the market stalls.
A few years later, when Peter and Stephen were in the sixth form, they mentioned they were going out that night to a party.
‘Is it in Cardiff?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Peter replied. ‘But it’s not in a pub, it’s at someone’s house around the corner.’
I was just relieved that my boys weren’t going out drinking in the busy city centre.
‘Well, just be careful and look after each other, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Peter promised as he closed the door and they headed off into the night.
Around 10pm, I was thoroughly shattered, so I left Johnny watching TV and headed upstairs to bed. I was awoken a few hours later by voices in the hallway. I pulled on my dressing gown and ran downstairs, where I found Stephen standing with a policeman, who was talking to Johnny.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I gasped, wondering what the police were doing in my house. I looked behind them and that’s when I realised Peter was missing.
‘Where’s your brother?’ I asked Stephen.
‘That’s why I’m here,’ the officer told me. ‘Peter’s at the hospital. There was an altercation at the party. I’m afraid he’s sustained a nasty cut to his face.’
‘Oh, my God!’ I gasped. ‘Is he going to be all right?’
The policeman looked up at me and nodded.
‘Yes, although I’d like to take you to the hospital to see him.’
‘I’ll get changed now,’ I gasped and ran upstairs to get dressed.
Over the next few hours, a picture began to emerge. Peter and Stephen had been at the party when a few men had turned up drunk. They knew the householder so, when they’d become rowdy, she hadn’t called the police. Peter stepped in to try to calm the situation down and a fight had broken out. At some point, one of the men had smashed a plastic glass into Peter’s face. Although it hadn’t been glass, it was sharp enough to cut open his face. In fact, the doctor told me my son had been lucky not to lose his eye. Frightened and unsure what to do, Stephen and his friend ran to their headmaster’s house nearby and he’d called the police.
The police eventually charged one of the men with assault. I was told it was so serious that the case would be transferred from magistrates to crown court, where a tougher sentence could be passed if the accused was found guilty. We waited months for the case to go to court but, eventually, the day arrived. I sat and listened as one teenager after another gave evidence for the prosecution. I was thoroughly disgusted by the men, particularly the one who’d almost blinded my son because he’d pleaded not guilty. A week or so later, the jury retired to consider its verdict. I was stressed out because the case had taken its toll not only on my boys but on the whole family. One day, I was outside speaking to one of the court clerks. I asked him how long it usually took a jury to reach a decision.
‘That depends,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes it can be straight away, sometimes it can take ages. But you’ll know they’re back if you see the defendants walk past us and out of the court.’
Just as he’d said the words, the door of the court swung open and out stepped the defendants. They laughed out loud as they ran past me and towards the exit.
‘Tara, love!’ They shouted and smirked, trying to goad me.
I turned back towards the court clerk.
‘Does that mean…’
He nodded his head.
‘Sorry but it looks as though they’ve been found not guilty.’
A fury had boiled up inside me. I marched back into the courtroom, where the jury were standing up to leave. I stood in the middle of the court and began to shout.
‘I hope you never have a child come home with his face cut like that!’ I hollered.
The court clerk had run in after me and told me to be quiet, but by now I couldn’t help myself.
‘How can you let them go?’ I screamed at the jury. ‘Just look at what one of them has done to my son. How dare you do this?’
I felt someone grab my arm on either side. I turned to see two police officers who were trying to restrain me. They’d heard the commotion and had come running up from the court cells below. They thought I was a defendant on the loose! Johnny, Stephen and Peter jumped to their feet and ran over to try to rescue me.
‘Let her go. She hasn’t done anything wrong!’ Johnny protested. ‘Can’t you see she’s upset?’
It didn’t matter; I was still ejected from the court. I sat outside on the steps and cried my eyes out. I was furious because, in my mind, they’d got away with it. For months afterwards I simmered with anger, keeping my eyes open, looking for the man who’d been found not guilty of almost blinding my eldest boy. I scoured crowds, looking at every face I passed, but I never saw him.
One day, almost a year later, I was working on one of my market stalls. It was a particularly cold Sunday morning, but I knew I had to carry on and work to pay the bills. Peter and Stephen were busy manning a stall at different market some miles away, so Rachel was helping me out. Johnny and I had bought her a couple of ponies, so it was her way of paying us back.
I was sipping a hot cup of tea, stamping my feet against the cold ground to stop them from going numb, when I spotted a familiar face in the crowd – the man who’d been found not guilty of attacking Peter. He was walking along without a care in the world with his wife and baby. I felt my stomach clench with anger. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. My eyes scanned my stall, looking for a small but expensive item. Within seconds, I’d found one: a pile of silver-plated coasters. I picked them up and was delighted when I realised they fitted perfectly in the palm of my hand. I closed my fingers and encased them. Rachel looked over at me, wondering what on earth I was doing.
‘Whatever you do, don’t say a word!’ I hissed, putting a finger against my lips.
Rachel’s gaze followed me as I strode straight up to the man. As he passed by my stall, I plunged a hand inside his coat pocket, withdrew it and held up the coasters.
‘Thief!’ I shouted, looking him directly in the eye.
Other market traders had heard the commotion and came running over to try to restrain him. The market lads held him down as he tried to protest his innocence.
‘But I haven’t done anything!’ he shouted as his wife looked on in horror.
‘Tell that to the police!’ one of the other traders remarked.
The police were called and the man was arrested and taken away.
‘Phone your dad,’ I told Rachel, pushing some coins into her hand.
She took them and rushed off to use the nearest phone box.
Of course, the man continued to protest his innocence at the police station. At first, they didn’t believe him, until he explained all about the case and the fact he’d been acquitted of attacking my son.
Ten minutes later, Johnny arrived at the market. As soon as I saw him, I fell into his arms, sobbing. I knew I’d done wrong but I couldn’t help it – I’d just wanted justice for my boy.
‘Pat, this is serious,’ Johnny said when I explained what I’d done. ‘You could get into trouble for this.’
‘I don’t care,’ I said defiantly. ‘I just hope he felt as scared as Peter did.’
The police eventually let the man go, but they never did come to see or question me. Even if they had, I would have taken my punishment. I didn’t care – I just wanted justice for my son.