Still reeling from a drama I didn’t fully understand which featured my normally (at least outside the house) mild-mannered mother yelling uncontrollably at the head teacher about the shame caused by the label pinned to my jumper on my first day at school: ‘has fits’, I made my way innocently to the toilets.
Neither did I fully understand the nuance of what my mother had been yelling but I’d picked up something about public humiliation, something about discretion being the better part of valour (or Valerie – which my father always said), and something about how my mother assumed that the other children could actually read, this being a school where education occasionally happened?
“It’s probably already too late! You’ve probably made a laughing stock of my child.” I’d looked at my mother in awe: I didn’t remember her standing up for me in quite this fashion before although I was concerned that she was making the kind of first impression that wouldn’t serve me well in the long-term.
I was thinking this as I entered the toilets. This was 1970, and Constable Street Primary School was an old Victorian building with a few utilitarian 1960s additions. The main feature of the playground was the wall wrapped around the infant building. Babbapapa and Babbamama had been painted on one wall in garish pinks and black. Also, the entrance to the toilets was outside: built in stone, it curved round, and, from memory, a single light served half a dozen stalls. It was cold. And it was not a place for the faint hearted: the shadows danced along the walls.
I have an older brother and an older sister so I did possess a general awareness of threat: when you’re the youngest (as I was then) you tend to keep your eyes peeled, have a sense of something imminent that follows you around, a menance, and you tend to be on the lookout for the demands coming down the line to you (I had, cleverly, adopted two tactics to avoid doing things: pretend I couldn’t do it OR cry and run away. I had major successes with both approaches.)
It was dark in the toilets and I knew, immediately, that I was in trouble. Three girls appeared. One was a girl called Wiggy: I didn’t know that then, I just knew she was wearing a blue knitted bonnet that was really too small for her head which from the angle I was looking at her, made it seem unnaturally shrunken. There was not a trace of hair on her head. She was also very tall. The other two were Hilton girls: one of them, Kim, was stocky – and I knew instinctively, as birds know the moments before the sun rises, that she was to be feared, that she was to be avoided. Like the plague.
“Now then,” Kim said. I think the older girl was probably her sister. She was taller, but otherwise indistinguishable. The only thing I knew about the Hilton clan was that there had been 24 of them – 24 children in one family. I’d given this a passing thought: we struggled to get into the bathroom in a morning, so how they managed it was anyone’s guess.
“Now then,” Kim said again. “You’ve got fits?” This was phrased as a question but I sensed that she was not expecting an answer. I thought about crying. I thought about running away. I thought about how this might be my only way out of the situation. I looked from one girl to the other to try and see what the right answer might be. Kim smiled: if I’d had teeth like hers, bright white, I’d have smiled all day. Kim Hilton did not smile all day, her default position was simmering rage.
“Have one then,” she said. Kim was not making a joke. Kim did not make jokes.
The thing about having fits, from what I can remember, is you have no idea what happens or what it looks like because you’re busy having a fit not observing it from a distance for a later date when someone commands you do it on demand.
So, I lay down on the cold concrete, and started to shake. Vigorously.
At that point, my sister came in. My sister who did often hate me hanging around all the time and who generally got fed up of me said, “What’s going on?”
“She’s having a fit,” Kim Hilton said, matter of factly.
“I think that’s enough now.” My sister said.
Miraculously I made a full recovery. My performance had been enough to satisfy them for the moment. “Alright” Kim said, and walked away. Wiggy and the other Hilton girl followed. Kim would hover at the edge of my playtime daily, waiting for me to go into the toilets. I did not make the same mistake twice.
I often saw Kim Hilton out and about around Chomley Street and down the Boulevard where her family lived. She and Wiggy were often companions, and, when I did see them, I did invariably find something really interesting to look at in the opposite direction. Lots of members of the family had a reputation for hitting first and then – if the mood took them – considering later.
My next serious encounter with Kim was not one of my finest moments. A couple of years later, when I was about 7, my sister and I were looking after two smaller children. Kim, for no better reason than she fancied a bit of sport, swaggered towards us. Words passed between my sister and Kim, and possibly me, that quickly escalated into World War 3. I did what any self-respecting survivor would do: I ran away. Yes, I left my sister with two small children and ran. This is not something I’m especially proud of, and I accept I did not cover myself in glory but it taught me an important lesson… flight is a legitimate tactic even if it appears selfish, even if your sister reminds you of it for the next 150 years.
One time, one of the Hilton children was knocked over in the street, a pure accident – cars were infrequent at that time, and there was much less need for speed. The child had simply stepped into the road. This was not how the Hiltons saw it. They were totally committed to each other, a tight-knit clan who were fiercely loyal, and would do anything if that commitment was questioned or challenged, who would do anything if something (or someone) came between them. Clearly, I did not match that level of loyalty. I was too frightened for that. Too cowardly. After the ambulance had taken the child to the hospital, the family turned on the car driver, 20 of them rocking his vehicle from side to side, as the guilty man, Mr Fairhead, sat inside it, terrified for his life. This level of threat cloaked them like an aura, like a veil – they had an undercurrent of hostility that rested among them like legionella, invisible but lethal.
That anger never left Kim Hilton. Years later, I saw her rugby tackled by a police officer after she had allegedly stolen a few packets of biscuits from the shopping centre on Bransholme housing estate. The police roughed her up unnecessarily, and in my student inspired hopes for a better world, I was outraged by the brutality that she was subject to. She swore black was blue as a knee in her back held her flat to the floor.
Brutality was a world Kim understood. She was often angry and provocative. And that, in part, contributed to her death. On that particular day, Kim and her then girlfriend began drinking strong lager at lunch time. The drunker they got, the more Kim’s partner convinced herself that Kim was having an affair. The argument raged on and off all day, with Kim being punched, and then, later each viciously shouting at the other in the street, before going their separate ways.
At midnight, or thereabouts, the partner, Andrea, returned with an iron bar as a weapon and managed to get herself into Kim’s flat. All those years of fight, had stood the test of time, and Kim was never going to do the coward’s thing, and run away. Instead, she fronted up and disarmed Andrea, taking the weapon she’d brought to smack her, and placing it out of harm’s way. But the fight did not end there. Neighbours shouted for the women to shut up…and then silence came – still in a rage, Andrea grabbed a knife and stabbed Kim Hilton through the heart. She died straight away, her rage fading away with her shadow.