My Story

My Story

Lizzy May Morrison

Austin Macauley Publishers

My Story

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Preface

Part One: Spring Term 1972

Chapter One: January

Chapter Two: Auntie Cath

Chapter Three: The Youth Club

Chapter Four: Tears

Chapter Five: Elsa Duke

Chapter Six: February

Chapter Seven: The Intruder

Chapter Eight: Messages

Chapter Nine: The Shock

Chapter Ten: Joe

Chapter Eleven: The Revelation

The Hillerton Herald: 26 July 1958. Edition no. 520: Young Mums in Head-on Car Crash

The Hillerton Herald: 6 September 1958. Edition no:526: Local Woman ‘Not to Blame’ For Woman Left Paralysed from Accident

Chapter Twelve: Chris

Chapter Thirteen: Incentive

Chapter Fourteen: Discussion

Chapter Fifteen: Easter

Chapter Sixteen: Wise Words

Chapter Seventeen: The Wide Game

Chapter Eighteen: Promises

Part Two: Summer Term 1972

Chapter Nineteen: The Parent’s Evening

Chapter Twenty: Frankie

Chapter Twenty-One: Isaac

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Date

Chapter Twenty-Three: Dog Duty

Chapter Twenty-Four: Discovery

Chapter Twenty-five: Mr Cook

Chapter Twenty-Six: News

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Story

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Escape

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Fund Raising

Chapter Thirty: The Trip

Chapter Thirty-One: Gifts

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Appendix

About the Author

Lizzy May Morrison lives in the West Country, with her dog and many friends nearby. She is now a grandmother and used to work in education. It may not come as a surprise (when you have read these pages) to learn that she drives an ancient car and flies an even older aeroplane.

Dedication

For Eddie and Wilf; Kai and Lillie.

The next generation of readers.

Copyright Information ©

Lizzy May Morrison 2022

The right of Lizzy May Morrison to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398427563 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398427587 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Grateful thanks:

To Tom for the illustration.

To flying friends, past and present, and their families.

Preface

She thought she could do it and that she had it in her—the stamina and endurance and self-belief—but now she is terrified. It’s only in the last twenty minutes or so that she’s had the courage to admit it; to herself that is: being the only person around.

How does it really feel, raw fear? The exhaustion, the befuddled concentration from hours of staring, her hunger and the cold—these are all aspects she might bring to mind later (if she lives). But right now, it’s just the fear.

Fear of going forward because every mile brings her closer to that which is unrecognisable and riddled with risk. And yet she cannot turn back. She is beyond that, The Point of No Return. The other enemy would be waiting for her—the one which she has been fighting for over a year and from whom she is finally escaping.

Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for it to be right.

She must press on, given what is below. What does death feel like when you have maybe five minutes, at most, to live? She doesn’t want it to work out this way for no-one would find her, no one would know.

She has to keep going, she has to trust. If not in herself, then in the amalgamation of wood, cloth and metal that have kept her up thus far, and if not in the machine either, what else? Is there a greater power that can keep her safe?

And she recites the silly rhyme to herself that has become a sort of mantra going round inside her head. She mouths the words again—maybe they’ll be her last.

Or could they help?

Lord of the sea and sky;

Help me fly.

Part One

Spring Term 1972

Chapter One

January

Hi there! My name is Lizzy and I am growing up in the 1970s. I guess it seems like an age ago. After all, that is in the last century. But when I put myself back into those days, life doesn’t really appear to be so terribly ancient and old-fashioned.

At the time my story starts I am fifteen and a half. The Coal Miners are on strike at the moment which means that on some evenings we have power cuts.

I live at home with Mum and Dad and I go to college. I am the youngest there because everyone else is sixteen or over, but I have been given special permission to attend because my old boarding school was closing down. (It’s not because I am super-clever or brainy). I don’t have any brothers or sisters and I live out in the country in a small village which is OK as I have quite a few friends, including a special pal called Frankie—short for Francesca. Frankie is still at school (it’s different from the one I went to).

I’m into the music of that time which, for me, is a combination of heavy rock such as Genesis, Deep Purple and Pink Floyd and the top songs in the charts from Slade, Rod Stewart and T. Rex. The fashion is baggy trousers, smock tops and skinny jumpers. Skirts are either really short minis or completely long and dragging on the ground. I also have a pair of platform shoes which are shiny and purple and would now be worth a fortune in a ‘retro’ shop. The fashion suits me because I am quite tall and very slim and can get away with skirts that only just cover my bum. In our house we have TV, but back then the word computer as we know it wasn’t even in the dictionary. Frankie’s parents have only just got a telephone and we are definitely not talking about mobiles!

I am studying for my ‘O’ levels at college and I guess I am about average for my age. Looking back, I don’t think I worked extremely hard but I am probably giving myself less credit than I deserve. I was a very normal teenager and didn’t find life particularly difficult; I had a good group of friends and I generally got on very well with my Mum and Dad.

Frankie has a boyfriend called Dave. Before she went out with Dave she was with Pete, and before Pete it was a guy called Alan. Frankie is only nine months older than me but she looks about seventeen, whereas I appear young for fifteen and the only benefit this brings is that I can still get on a bus for half price (child fare). Perhaps it’s how I look or maybe it’s just the way I am but I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m happy having a good group of friends and lots of fun. I’m really keen on sport and sometimes it does seem that having a boyfriend can really be quite boring and antisocial. When Frankie and Dave are together, I feel like the odd one out and I wonder when I will get my best mate back.

So…boyfriends. The thing is, there’s a guy in my Maths group called Joe and I really fancy him. He is different from the other boys I know. For one thing he’s older. Joe is eighteen. That’s three whole years my senior and, compared with me, he is so mature. But it’s not just that. There’s something about him that, to my mind, makes him seem extra special. I am intrigued by him too.

So far I have found out the following: a) he wants to be a teacher, b) in order to do this has to go to teacher training college, c) he doesn’t have enough ‘O’ Levels/ ‘A’ Levels to get there and d) this is why he is in my Maths group (yippee for me). Joe is also good at Art. He’s not just good at it, he is A1 brilliant and it is Art that Joe wants to be a teacher of eventually. There’s no contest. Joe is cool, mature and talented and me—well I don’t even look fifteen. There is no hope.

On the night of Wednesday, the 12th of January, I go to a party. It’s a late Christmas ‘do’ for a sports group I belong to and good fun. We all want to dance even though the DJ keeps us waiting between each record change. (At these points we resemble versions of musical statues more than a disco). Frankie’s Mum picks us up at 11:30 just as it’s ending and I’m home by midnight and up for college at 7:30 the next morning.

Maybe it’s the after-effects of the party, or perhaps just the way opportunities present themselves, but that following afternoon I find myself sitting next to Joe after our Thursday Maths lesson has ended and I’m talking to him properly for the first time. He seems interested in me! He asks lots of questions and I can tell he’s paying attention when I gabble away with my stupid answers.

I want to keep talking—anything to stay sitting together. The one thing we establish is that I live in the same village where he goes to a youth club. I have never been to this particular club having been away at boarding school but it seems almost too good to be true. I can just ‘turn up’ on Friday evenings and ‘happen’ to see Joe. (He will never guess I’ve joined the club because of him, or will he? Do I care?) We keep talking and just being with him excites me. My exaggerated gestures must show how keen I am but he doesn’t seem perturbed by my signals. In contrast to me he is calm, serious and grown up. How does a kid like me stand a chance, and why doesn’t everyone in the whole world fancy Joe like I do?

When I go home that evening my heart is singing and my brain is leaping around with wild thoughts about Joe. Since the beginning of the course in September, I have watched him and never said very much. Now we have had a proper chat and, as far as I am concerned, I’m in love. I guess I’m just an ordinary teenager who is nuts about a boy; that’s nothing unusual. But, for me this feels so special, so unique as if I am the only girl in the Universe who has ever had these feelings and fallen head over heels for a guy. This is my moment, my life and I can revel in the wondrous beauty of it all.

Unfortunately, things are not so good when I get home and I come down to earth with a bump. My Mum isn’t well. She’s been complaining of pains in her chest and I’ve got used to her not eating all her dinner and going to bed early because she is so tired. But today she’s been back to the doctor to get the results of some tests. She doesn’t tell me exactly what the problem is but I sense it’s not good news.

All of a sudden I feel angry and cross with her. Why is she going to spoil things? Just when everything is about to go right for me my Mum has to go and get ill. This isn’t fair. Dad comes into the kitchen and somehow, he seems different. He looks tired and old for my Father and it’s all too much for me. I’m tired from the party last night, the excitement of being with Joe, and I flip. I shout at my Mum. I can’t believe I am doing this to her. My Mum who I love is so ill and tired and suddenly I’m screaming at her. So Dad shouts at me and it’s awful. I’m hungry and thirsty but as far as they’re concerned my day has ended and I’m off to my bedroom. I throw off my clothes and don’t even bother to brush my teeth. As I slam the door however, I start to weaken and hot tears smart in my eyes. How dare my mother become ill and spoil everything just when my life is taking off? Why should I have to put up with pain and suffering when I could be out enjoying myself? Mum and Dad seem wrapped up in each other; who cares about me?

I lie straight and rigid under my sheet and blankets staring at the ceiling until the moon shines through my half-closed curtains casting shadows across the room. I turn over and put my face in my pillow and heave with sobs that seem to come out of my whole body. I am fifteen. It’s January. I’ve spoken with a boy I’ve fancied for ages. And I now know deep in my heart that Mum is very sick indeed.

Chapter Two

Auntie Cath

I wake early. I’m thirsty and my stomach feels empty. It’s Friday which I usually enjoy because I have good lessons on my timetable—English first of all which I enjoy. But I’m not really in the mood for college as I gather my thoughts in the darkness of a January morning and events of the previous evening cast a gloomy shadow over me. It’s so early the heating hasn’t come on, but I’m willing to brace the cold in order to have a hot drink. I put on my light, push my bedclothes away and get dressed. Just as I’m doing up the strap on my watch, I hear the rumble of our oil-fired boiler and I know it’s 6:30 without even looking at my wrist.

I make myself a cup of coffee with lots of milk and two heaped spoonfuls of sugar which I gulp down while I put two slices of Hovis under the grill. Meanwhile, I feed our six-year old female cat called Tootsie.

Dad appears in the kitchen in his dressing gown. This is odd for a weekday as he works in an office, always wears a suit and is out of the house just after seven. But of course, owing to last night’s events no one had a conversation with me and I am somewhat unaware of what exactly is going on. We sit down at the kitchen table and I give him one of my pieces of toast as a token peace offering. He explains that Mum has an appointment at the hospital and he is going with her. If he is back in time he will go to work in the afternoon. Meanwhile, she will stay in bed until they need to leave at 9:30.

It all seems rather strange and I don’t feel like hanging around too much, so—most surprisingly for me—I am out of the house and up to the bus stop far earlier than normal. I resign myself to having a long and cold wait, but that is when Auntie Cath comes along.

* * * * * * * * * * *

As well as all the obvious people you might expect to be in a fifteen-year-old’s existence—family, friends, teachers, relatives and neighbours—there is another significant person in my life whom I haven’t mentioned yet, and that is Auntie Cath. She isn’t my real Aunt and we are not related in any way. Her full name is Catherine Van der Hayde. She lives in the same village as me and for two reasons we seem destined to be close.

The first occasion happened when I was nine years old. I had been sent on an errand by Mum to cycle up to the village shop and buy a box of icing sugar. On the way home a car came too close and I wobbled into it. I fell off and the car went over my bike but not over me. I was all right but rather bruised and very