HERNE BAY
The Little Restaurant on the Prom
A childhood memoir of life before polio, and immediately after, and my magical childhood adventures in and out of a wheelchair
Janet Bailey
I lay with the beautiful Janet all that summer afternoon
I was potty about her, every time I saw her, my heart seem to swell within me. I used to send notes to Number 12, The High Street, Herne Bay, where she lived. Notes and cards that I sent from The Royal Sea Bathing Hospital in Margate and was written in tiny writing, hoping that I could hide the love I held for her, yet on the other hand it was a declaration of my love. She was so, so pretty. I had her photograph on my wall next to my bed, a photograph that I had asked Mr Scrivens our local photographer for. He gave it to me free of charge (Mr Scrivens took photos of holiday-makers just right of the Clock Tower where he had a kiosk). I thought about her day and night.
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My cousin Alan and I, down from London and living with us for a while, used to put on our suits from Burton's. I with my neon green socks and elastic sided shoes and Tony Curtis hair cut and cutely crafted DA (duck's arse) at the back, he with his red tie and similar hair and brightly polished shoes. Cousin Alan's dad, my uncle Max, used to run a café in Berwick Street Market, London. When I and my sisters and brother visited, Alan used to show me the prostitutes plying their trade outside his father's café. ''See that bloke talking to that woman?'' I nodded. ''Well 'e's about to give 'er one.'' ''What in the street?'' I replied, innocently. ''Naw! Watch the bloke!'' I did as I was bid and watched the bloke. He was talking to the woman in hushed tones, his head bent over as he listened to what she said. He held a cigarette in his right hand and pulled on it nervously. The woman finished talking and the man hurried away, flicking his cigarette into the gutter. ''Now watch,'' said Alan, ''she'll follow him in a sec.'' Sure enough, the woman, looking from side to side, hurried away in the same direction. ''They're goin' to have sex. And afterwards he'll give her money.'' ''How do you know?'' I said. ''I dunno. I just know," he said. Alan came down from London. He was streetwise. He knew all the angles. He was from LONDON after all.
From left to right: My mother, Kevin, Melly, Josie, cousin Carol, Uncle Tom, Aunty Patsy (with cousins) Uncle Bob, Granddad, Aunty Fay and a little bit of Dad
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We must have been about 12. Alan and I used to frequent Macari's ice cream parlour on a Sunday. We used to preen ourselves, smoke the odd woodbine and comb our hair a lot. We were desperate for the company of women. Janet Bailey was once seen on a Sunday afternoon with her mates, drinking coffee. I had to see her. I didn't tell Alan of my love. He would have taken the mickey mercilessly. All that winter we spent our Sunday afternoons in Macari's, making a cup of coffee last for the eternity of a Sunday afternoon. And all the time I was thinking of her.
Summer came. And still my waking thoughts were centred on her. Once, when cousin Alan was about to put a penny in an arcade machine, having waited patiently for an unsuspecting punter to put just the right amount of pennies in the machine to get a result (we used to wait like vultures, pretending to encourage the punters for their forthcoming kill) Janet, my love, appeared out of nowhere to claim her prize: namely to ram her penny in before Alan could get to it. The winning pennies clattered into the metal cup. Alan made a dive for the winnings claiming that she had cheated him. He pinned her against the wall. With instant rage I sprang to her defence, my strong left arm pulling Alan off the girl I loved as if he were paper. ''Thanks,'' she said, her hot breath condensing like dew on my hand as it came close to those lips that I would have given up heaven to kiss. I was already in heaven and sent an army of angels to her rescue: namely me. ''Can I keep the money?'' she said, sweetly. Alan protested. I held him in my strong left arm. ''Course you can.'' I said, ''course you can.'' And she swept off with the money and a little piece more of my heart. ''Wot did you do that for?'' my cousin protested, ''Why did you let her get away with it?'' I looked him right in the eyes. ''You put a hand on her a second time and I'll kill you!'' I said. Cousin Alan got the message: ''You fancy her, don't yer?'' From that moment on the cat escaped the bag. The beans were spilt. The secret was out. Paul Bura loved Janet Bailey.
Yes, I fancied her. So much was she on my mind that I swear I heard her name being called inside my head. I swung round, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. There was no one there.
Me with Wiley Price with one leg in a bicycle clip - poised for a quick getaway !
Not only did she look like an angel she sang like one, too. She won the Bandstand talent competition with Wiley Price and his Orchestra. She sang Doris Day's: Que Sera Sera. She was so professional! I died there in her song a thousand times. Her voice lifted above the Bandstand on that golden day. I thought that she sang for me and me alone. But no, she sang for another. His name was Glenn Worthington, son of the trombonist, Stan, in Wiley's Price's orchestra, he who once saved my life, (as I shall soon describe).
Cousin Carol and Melly
I was an easy touch. Janet hid a side to her that I was blind to see. She was greedy. Many times I flattered her with words and she responded with her lust for money. I, full of her presence, her nearness, her voice, doled out cash to her, my ears full of promises. But all the time she dallied with another, then another. I fell for her charms and demands like the soft little sod that I was. Yet still she was precious to me.
Once and once only I lay with the beautiful Janet on the beach the whole of that summer's day. I had to be dreaming, drunk on her beauty and the sound of her voice. She didn't see my polio belly that flopped like I was middle aged. She didn't see my withered legs and Quasimodo back. Did she? I did my best to cover up with towels on that crowded beach. Yet she stayed and stayed. I pretended to wipe a fly from her shoulder just so that I could touch her. Her skin was soft, silky and yielding. The sun had done its job, covering her with the colour of honey. I was in paradise that day and the days that followed. Yet on leaving she borrowed two bob, all the money I had.
Glenn and I were still mates, even though he possessed the lovely Janet. Or so I thought. Janet soon dispensed with him and went on to the next boyfriend, but not me! Glenn Worthington watched me as I eased my bum down the steps one after another, flicking my weak leg in a kind of rhythmic dance. He watched me ease myself into the warm, waiting water. Already I was being buffeted. I swam like an eel in those far-off days, breaking through the breakers, breaking through the nonsense that was polio. All the time Glenn watched me. The sea, completely untameable, grew ugly, foam started from its mouth. I knew it was time to get out. But the sea refused to let me go! Every time I approached the steps it would paw me back like a cat. Just as I judged the gap in the waves, got my bottom onto the first step, a fist of water punched me sideways! I could see Glenn, the terror rising on his face. I tried again. Just as Glenn cupped his hands under my armpits in an attempt to lift me free, I was torn from his grasp! Even then I didn't realise that I could drown. I even stayed down under the waves longer then was necessary for more dramatic effect! Then the fear gripped me. Glenn was crying. He knew what 'living in the moment' was all about. There was no dreaming in him then. This was real!
A last but mighty effort, timed between waves, to pull me free, a panicking sob, Glenn's tears mingling with the salt on my back.
At last he hauled me free from the wet hands that held me! I was crying too. The only way you could tell was the gentle heaving of my shoulders. ''You saved my life,'' I said, ''I shall not forget it!'' Glenn nodded, quickly wiping away the tears on his shirt so that I wouldn't see. We said no more about it.
As the weeks flew by the memory faded. What was it that kept the incident a secret? I don't remember telling anyone else about it. I had forgotten. Or maybe I just kept it at arms length…until now. Maybe Janet had something to do with it, although she had finished with his favours. Even though Glenn had saved my life, was I still jealous? Had I carried that jealousy a bit too far? I don't remember.
After that summer Wiley Price and his Orchestra packed up their intruments and faded into panto land, to return again the next year. Whilst Glenn, with his father, Stan, who packed his trombone and clown's mask, that he kept wrapped in grease paint, was never to be seen again. My interest in Janet Bailey waned. Oh, she still made my heart jump, still excited the romance in me. But her eternal greed for cash and her steady promises of ''I'll pay you back next time I see you,'' followed by her brilliant, seductive, smile and a toss of her head, were more than I could bear.
Years later, when the boy became a man, I was to see Janet again. ''I live in Liverpool now.'' ''Do you still sing?'' I enquired. ''Yes,'' she said, ''in a night club.'' My experience of her told me that she was also inclined to tell fibs. I liked to believe her. But did she really? It no longer mattered anymore. It really didn't matter.
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