In the mornings at school I learned about religion, the British Empire, the Kings and Queens of England, and how to calculate by counting with my fingers on my chin. But after school in the afternoons I learned about sex and where babies came from. And my teacher was my gran who’d gone a bit off her rocker even though she was always on her rocker, if you know what I mean. She thought I was about sixteen, though I’d told her a million times I was nowhere near that old. Perhaps she thought she’d better tell me in case she snuffed it ’cos she kept saying how my own mam would never have the guts to do it.
After school let out, I went round to my gran’s in Bengal Street to see if she wanted any errands doing. It was a chore my mam made me do every day even though she knew I hated it. The one consolation was that Gran sometimes gave me a piece of cake. As usual, she was sitting in her rocking chair, mumbling to herself. When she said she didn’t need anything, I heaved a sigh of relief and got ready to make a quick getaway.
‘Wait,’ she said suddenly. ‘Sit down in that chair. I want to have a serious talk with you.’
I didn’t much like the sound of this but did as I was told.
‘It was your birthday yesterday, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Gran’ma. I was eleven,’ I said, even though I knew
it was a waste of time and would go in one ear and out the other.
‘You’re a lovely girl with lovely brown hair. Why, it stretches right down your back. It’s your crown of glory.’
‘Yes, Gran’ma. Thank you, Gran’ma.’ Not a patch on Lizzie’s golden hair, I thought.
‘Make sure you don’t get any nits in it, that’s all,’ she snapped. ‘You’re quite the young lady now, eh? Getting to be a big girl now and it’s time we had a heart-to-heart talk.’
Where was this leading? With my gran you never knew.
She looked at me and suddenly said, ‘Have you started your monthlies yet? I remember your mother started early and she hadn’t a clue either.’
Uh-oh, I thought. Here we go. My face went bright red as I’d treated this matter as a guilty secret and I didn’t want to talk about it. A few weeks back, I’d started bleeding and I’d been worried out of my mind in case it was serious. Fanny Butterworth, of all people, who was a year older than me and had had the same problem, explained what it was and told me what to do. But I wasn’t sure that Fanny had had the right answer.
‘Sorry, Gran’ma,’ I said, pretending not to understand her. ‘My monthlies? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You know very well what I mean,’ she grunted. ‘I can tell by your face. It’s what we call the woman’s curse and you’ll have it every month from now on. You must cut up some sheets into strips and use them to wrap yourself up down there.’ She pointed to the lower part of my body.
It was a relief to know that Fanny’s advice had been correct. Still, I was embarrassed to be talking about it. Why hadn’t my own mam warned me? I knew that if I ever had a daughter I would tell her ’cos I had truly thought there’d been something wrong with me.
‘Anyway,’ Gran went on, ‘it means you’re becoming a young woman and it’s time you knew about the facts of life. It’s up to me to tell you ’cos I know that mother of yours is too daft to do the job.’
I looked towards the door and wondered if I should rush out and shout out some excuse, like our chimney’s on fire.
‘If you’re going to be a respectable young lady, there’s certain things you must never do. Are you listenin’?’
‘Yes, Gran’ma.’
‘Never eat in the street. Never put on jewellery that makes a noise and never pluck your eyebrows. You do as I say and you won’t go far wrong.’
‘Yes, Gran’ma.’
‘Now you’re starting to become a young woman,’ she continued, ‘it means you can have babies and you’ll start attracting the boys. Do you have a boy?’
I went even more red. ‘Me? A boy, Gran’ma? I’m eleven. I’m much too young.’
‘Don’t try to kid me. You’re never too young for that sort of thing. And I see you’re beginning to develop a little bust on you. That’ll catch the boys’ eyes for a start. So the first thing you must do is flatten your bust so it can’t be noticed.’
‘Flatten my bust, Gran’ma? I haven’t got a bust . 5
Trust Gran’ma to try and make mountains out of molehills. To tell the truth, though, I had noticed that I was developing a bosom. Furthermore, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. As we lay in bed one morning, Cissie said, ‘Eh, our Kate, I’ve been looking down my nightie and I haven’t got two lumps like yours. All’s I’ve got are two little pimples. It’s not fair. Why can’t I have lumps?’
‘You will one day,’ I’d said to reassure her. ‘When you’re eleven like me.’
‘Get your mam to bind your bust to flatten it,’ Gran’ma
was saying, ‘so it won’t cause wicked boys to have wicked thoughts. And don’t let boys kiss you, that’s another thing.’
‘I won’t, Gran’ma.’
‘Do you know where babies come from?’ she asked sharply.
‘My mam says they come from under the bed but the girls at school say the nurse brings them in her black case.’
‘Nonsense,’ she snorted. ‘Babies are made in your belly. Do you know how they get there?’
I didn’t.
‘They’re put there when you let a boy hug and kiss you and put his thing in you.’
What was she talking about? She was trying to shock me. Was she saying that my Mam and Dad did such things? And what about Queen Victoria? Surely Gran’ma didn’t think that the Queen had done these terrible things with Prince Albert? Gran really had gone off her trolley.
‘How does the baby get out?’ she rapped out.
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘Through your belly button, I suppose. It must open like a flower.’
‘Babies come out from the same place they went in,’ she said.
I knew for certain then that Gran had gone off her head.
‘So you mustn’t let boys hug and kiss you and put their thing in you, do you hear? You let a boy do it and next thing you know, you’ll be having one of them there illiterate babies like Lizzie that your Auntie Gladys got from your Uncle Jack.’
The photo of my late grandad glared at me from the sideboard and he seemed to be agreeing with his widow. I was sure I saw him nod.
Her next question knocked me over.
‘What kind of knickers are you wearing?’
I turned scarlet. ‘Knickers?’ I faltered. I wanted to say, ‘What’s it got to do with you, you old witch?’ Instead, I said, ‘Ordinary ones that my mam bought on Tib Street market. The kind with a little pocket for your hankie.’
‘What colour?’
‘Pale blue - they were the only ones they had.’
‘I want you to promise me never to wear black underwear.’
‘Promise, Gran’ma.’ Anything for peace.
‘Any lace?’
‘No lace. They’re plain.’
‘That’s good. Now you’ve started your monthlies, you’ll have to stop playing them skipping and ball games where you tuck your dress into your knickers. You mustn’t show off your legs to the boys. You’re a young lady and you must start behaving like one. Now then,’ she went on, ‘it was your birthday yesterday and you thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t. Look in that cupboard in the sideboard.’
I went over to the big sideboard, pulled the drawer open, releasing a smell of mothballs. Now I was sure my grandad’s picture was smiling. I found a brown paper parcel.
‘Open it!’ she ordered.
I did so and found a huge piece of navy blue cotton material. She’s bought me a tent, I thought.
I was wrong. It was the biggest pair of bloomers I’d ever seen; they had elastic all round, at the waist and at the legs. . .
‘That elastic is there for a purpose,’ she said. ‘We call these bloomers “hand-trappers”. Wear them and you’ll have no trouble with boys.’
I was sure she was right. What could I say except, ‘Thank you, Gran’ma.’