In the erstwhile mining village where I grew up, in an aging upper floor flat on the street next to our house, there lived a middle-aged woman. Her name was Mrs MacPherson, and she lived alone and kept pretty much to herself, but to all the kids in our neighbourhood, she was a legend known as "Tinky Jean".
Granted her sartorial elegance left a lot to be desired, and while she probably did not in fact, as the general population would have it, "smell"; the two missing from the front ranks of her otherwise nicotine stained teeth, and the effect this had on her already mangled pure Fife delivery of the English language, didn't exactly help to dispel the rumours that she was in fact very likely a gypsy, a witch, or worse.
She used to yell out of her upstairs window for volunteers to go down to the local shop to buy her cigarettes, for the princely reward of 5p, in the days when the corner shopkeeper would still sell fags to the kids for their parents. Mind you this was the kind of village where the shopkeeper knew what very brand your Dad smoked, and would likely ask him in the pub that night if they'd been delivered, so hell mend any kid who went in for his/her own. Anyway, only the bravest of volunteers would actually take up the challenge, and instead, the measure of street cred, was whether or not you had the nerve to run up the suitably mysterious and dark close up the stairs to her front door, bang on it loudly, then run away without getting caught, or otherwise magicked into a frog, or eaten.
Later, on entering "the big school" we learned that she was in fact the mother of the arch evil art teacher at our local comprehensive, who was married to the "poshest" and most universally hated English teacher in the school. It was quickly decided that being related to this deadly duo was reason enough to turn anyone to drink, or witchcraft, and all was explained.
Of course with adult hindsight, the poor woman did well to ignore our pathetic and thinly veiled behaviour with the dignity she mustered (albeit with a few justified rants!).
Today, I reflect on Tinky Jean with appropriate shame, as I realised that I myself have apparently become the "Tinky Jean" of our neighbourhood. Hopefully not for the same reasons, although my mother would definitely look at my outfit today with disdain, but I'm not sure if just being the big scary foreigner on the block is any more comforting. This afternoon as I was enjoying an unusual hour on the sofa with a book, I heard the commotion of a boisterous group of primary school kids on their way home.
I usually keep the curtains on the front windows of our living room closed as the setting sun shines straight into the room and your eyes from mid afternoon onwards, so I couldn't see them pass, but I soon became aware that I could hear their voices for a lot longer than it takes them to walk past. When I opened the curtains a crack to see what was going on, I saw 4 of them edging into my driveway, all with an air of trepidation suggesting that Voldemort himself might appear if they took another step.
True to form, when the one girl noticed me watching, there ensued nudging a plenty and a collective shriek as they dispersed in an instant, all the while looking over their shoulders guiltily to check if their abandoned classmate would escape unharmed. The one boy, who'd obviously been the one dared to actually come and ring the doorbell, bolted after them, and I heard the bold laughter of relief at having successfully cheated the fate of being forced to eat 20 hamburgers, sing the ABC song, or some other horrible foreign torture, from round the corner out of sight.
This was not the look I chose.How to react was the big dilemma. Should I go out and challenge them for their lack of manners and insensitivity? I would have been within my rights. But a wave of nostalgia overtook me, and I opted for staring at them unflinchingly and as mysteriously as I could without suggesting real retribution or weirdness, neither dispelling nor confirming any scary fantasies they might have.
If my mundane existance can fuel their imaginations, and make the drama of life greater in a world of cram schools and piano lessons, that's not such a bad thing , is it? I hope they have at least dreamed up an interesting fate to befall them if I catch them! As long as nothing gets stolen or broken, I accept my role as the local witch figure, as a penance for my own behaviour to Tinky Jean, with thanks to her for the magical memories of youthful imagination!
Here's the Hello Kitty birthday cake I ordered my Mummy to make.
