Mahon 1969

Sensitive material:

Some swearing and descriptions of sexual harassment but they are a necessary part of the story.

Mahon 1969

I remember it as though yesterday - “Eh, English, fucky fucky!” These words are seared in my memory. I can still hear them, even now.  They were shouted at me by a raggle taggle group of young men and boys whenever I disembarked from the coach to Mahon from Cala‘n Porter. Face burning, I would head off down the street carrying my metal handled shopping bags. The women would look at me with disdain as they walked passed, their men glancing at me with covert lust. I was nearly fourteen years old at the time. I had long since outgrown my childhood frocks and unable to earn enough money to buy more appropriate clothing, was forced to wear my mother’s cast offs.  In a misguided attempt to be fashionable I had naively shortened my mother’s long pencil skirts. Big mistake. My ‘fashionable’ miniskirts had apparently given the green light to every pervert in Mahon to make lecherous and unwelcome overtures to me.  

The group continued their revolting pantomime of wiggling tongues, hip thrusts and verbal obscenities.  I made my way down the sweltering narrow streets in the late morning sun, the clear blue sky seeming to mock my situation. Dear God, they are unbelievably obnoxious creatures.  Did they really think their sickening mantra and behaviour would make me want to go grab and f**k them? Seriously? 

They followed me down the cobbled street to the post office where I collect the family’s mail from our PO Box. Undeterred, they waited outside. Wherever I went the group would track me. Resigned to my fate, I sighed, gritted my teeth and move on. I ticked off the items on my shopping list as I bought my family’s essentials from numerous shops, the baker’s, fruit and vegetable stalls, Piensos Dulos for animal foodstuffs and shotgun cartridges, fully aware it would be at least two hours before the next return coach to Cala’n Porter. In those days the coach service could be pretty haphazard. The metal handles of the carrier bags had begun to dig into my sweaty palms as the large bags gradually got heavier with shopping.

The sun had almost reached its zenith as I took a right turn into the main street and walked past the Heladeria, a sweet vanilla aroma wafting out the open glass doors enticingly as it mingled with the oppressive heat.  I suddenly craved an ice cream and tried to conjure up the flavour of a cone of nata, imagining its cold, soft sweetness melting in my mouth. Heaven. Then reality kicked in, I didn’t have anywhere near enough spare pesetas to buy the smallest cone.  I couldn’t even afford to go into a café for a cortado, which might have given me some respite from my tormentors. But at least I had managed to buy a media luna pastry for Clarice when I was in the bakery. I try to buy a special treat for my little sister whenever I am in town.

I finish the shopping and head towards the covered market, a place I can loiter and pretend to peruse the dead wild birds displayed on long wooden trestle tables. Robins, thrushes, blackbirds, even tiny sparrows. The sight of them always makes me feel sad, their small, pitiful bodies being sold for their meagre flesh.  Just as distressing are the hedgehogs, laid out and ready to be baked in clay, a legacy of the civil war when a desperate famine stalked the Island. Even though I understand the necessity that brought about this custom, it still breaks my heart. I feel sick and leave, finding my stalkers waiting patiently for me at the exit. Why, oh just why.

Fucky f*****g fucky. I hate being English, but neither do I wish to be Spanish. Despite my dark hair, I stand out from other girls. Literally. At nearly 5’7 I am taller than most women on this godforsaken island. A target. And the Spaniards despise the English. Something to do with Gibraltar. Perhaps their ingrained hatred for the English dates back to the Armada. Who knows. 

Hannah, my Scottish friend of two years, is able to go to school and she leads a comfortable life. She has a father as well as a mother and owns two beautiful horses. I clean out their stables and pick their manure up from their paddock in exchange for riding the lovely animals. No one bothers Hannah, despite the fact she is blond, blue eyed and attractive. They know I am different. Vulnerable.  Mere meat.

“Eh, Fucky fucky English!” Exhausted, I sit in the shade on the low Esplanade wall under some palm trees and try to pretend they are not there. They draw closer to me, all the while continuing with their indecencies. Feeling nauseous with the intense heat and the despair of being trapped in this relentless cycle of sexual harassment, I get up and move on, heading back down Hannover Street. My eyes sting as rivulets of sweat run down my face and the damp patches between my scrawny shoulders and in my armpits spread as I walk. 

The creeps follow. Why don’t they go and annoy other girls? I guess it is because I have no male protector. And being so poor does not help either. Anyway, if I did try to protest it would make no difference.  

“You not like our island? You f**k off, Eeenglish girl.”

That is the response, word for word I received from the Policia Municipal when I tried to complain about the persistent harassment. 

Menorca is a small island and everybody knows everyone else. I am the child of a divorced mother who, despite her best efforts to sell villas for a living, never manages to make ends meet. And mum is not well; agoraphobia and depression have taken their toll of her mental state. As a consequence I have had to work as a cleaner since the age of eleven – before then I used to beg on the beach for food with my little sister. I also sell manure from my donkey and Hannah’s horses to gardeners – it helps pay for the oats and hay. We have nothing. If I could afford the fare, I would return to the UK, my beloved home. Why did mum have to drag us to this detestable island? She tells me she was escaping from a failed marriage and a dreary life in the UK, but hells bells, couldn’t she have moved to Devon, Cornwall or even Scotland? This place is hell on earth for me. And more worryingly, I can never, ever, let Clarice, come to Mahon unaccompanied. They can do and say what they like to me but God help them if they ever say anything to her.  I feel a surge of adrenaline course through me like molten lava at the mere prospect. Clarice is my baby; she has been my responsibility for four years now. So is mum, she would be lost without me.

I wearily trudge back to the bus stand. The louts continue with their sickening charade. After what feels like an eternity the rickety coach finally arrives and I scramble on board, relief flooding through me. Legs shaking from exhaustion, heart palpitating with anxiety, I sit near the aisle, rest my weary, sweaty head against the worn upholstery and close my eyes, ignoring the crotch jiggling and lewd gestures taking place outside the coach. My erratic heart beat slowly eases.

If I had my mum’s 410 bore poacher’s shotgun with me I’d shoot them. I’m a pretty good shot and I’d make sure I got every last one of them. Just like I have to shoot the rats that regularly attack our chicks on the farm. But I’d aim for the bollocks of this vermin. Obviously their balls are their prize possessions, must be where they keep their brains. 

Eyes still tightly closed, I smile to myself, imagining the deep satisfaction such a truly shocking action would bring me. If only. When I open my eyes I notice that the driver is looking in his rear view mirror, blatantly staring at my legs. The sick weirdo, he must be all of sixty years old.

Damn, the things you see when you ain’t got your gun …