Free Forged with Flames by Ann Fogarty, Anne Crawford

mini skirt was definitely the go—even I wore one—as was long, hippie-style hair and Afros. Backcombing and the beehive were popular—some of the women added inches to their height with their beehives. I was fascinated, wondering how they’d done it but preferred the look of the short, Twiggy cuts—neat with sharp, straight lines.
    On one of these shopping trips, Julia and I lashed out and had our hair cut at Vidal Sassoon’s salon, just for the experience. There were some amazing hairstyles going on as we glanced around but because my hair was long I just had it shaped and trimmed so the overall effect wasn’t that noticeable—a pity really, given that I spent most of my week’s wages, about six pounds, on it. The real treat wasn’t the cut so much as having it washed and conditioned beforehand. I’d never had my hair washed and cut wet and was completely unaware that anyone did this. We both loved it, but decided we’d only do it once, as it didn’t really seem worth it.
    We also spent our wages on new outfits, though mine were always pretty straight compared to those of other people my age walking around London at the time. Sometimes I thought it would be wonderfully liberating to be the kind of person who had the confidence to wear whatever they liked, but I just couldn’t bring myself to throw over the traces of my previous life.
    And so the London party scene of the sixties completely bypassed Julia and me, as did drugs. I never saw anyone taking them let alone be offered any. The closest I came to illicit substances was hearing at Springfield House that a young staff member at one of the nursery schools was experimenting with them. We were all shocked. Another example of how innocentwe country girls were in so many ways was my total lack of fear about travelling home alone at night after our days out shopping. It was quite a long walk from the tube station at Totteridge and one night a police car drew up alongside me. The constable insisted I get in and then drove me right to my front door. I was most impressed by this service, not realising until much later that it was to make sure I got home safely!
    The Hymans treated me well and appreciated my services, but as time went on—weeks spent feeding, changing, washing, wiping and walking the children—I became quite lonely; sometimes whole days felt dreary and endless. It didn’t help that it was winter and bleak, with darkness descending around four o’clock. Even when it was clear, the sun shone so half-heartedly that the day seemed never to wake up. I would look out my diamond-paned window and wonder what I’d got myself into. I suppose I’d been hoping to experience a warm sense of family with the Hymans where I could contribute something, but I was really an aside to their lives. The long hours and little free time weren’t conducive to making many new friends and, pleasant as the children were, I missed adult conversation. Most of the time, the parents ate downstairs in their well-appointed dining-room—naturally they wanted time to themselves—while I ate my meals balanced on a tray in my bedroom.
    To avoid sitting by myself at night, I began to go out after I put Emma, then John, to bed at seven o’clock. At first, I would just walk about, meandering through the neighbourhood under the street lights, filling in time, pausing by the lake’s edge at Totteridge Common to watch the ducks, then wandering on. On these rambles I couldn’t help sneaking the occasional glance into the lit-up lounge-room windows of homes that always lookedso warm and enticing.
    One evening, I ventured into a little Anglican church close by. St Andrew’s was grainy and dark inside, empty and tranquil in the way churches are. I’d been to Sunday School when I was young but we weren’t particularly religious so there was no reason other than curiosity, and an open door, to walk