CLARE: I had five years of being the only daughter, then Chris came
along and my bubble burst. Mum told me I used to say: “We don’t want her.
Can you send her back?” Chris was born a rebel; my mother always said she
took day for night, and night for day. Literally. She’d sleep all day and at
night be awake, she was just… different. Chris drove my mother demented. I
remember her saying, “I’m ready to throw her out of the window,” and my dad
replying: “Don’t be so stupid, Sylvia.”
We grew up in World’s End, Chelsea. Dad was a chef and would be away from home
all hours. He wasn’t there enough really, because he worked so much. It was
a terrible life, and he always used to say to Clare and me: “I don’t care
what you girls do, so long as you don’t go into the catering
business.”
Both my parents were born in England, but my father’s family was Italian, and
at the age of seven he’d been sent to Italy and left there with his
grandmother for seven years. He came back just before the second world war
with an Italian passport — and was promptly interned. He was sent to
the Isle of Wight, where he met my mother’s brother, which is how he
met my mother.
Italian women tend to dominate and my mum certainly ruled our house. My mother
was the one who always had the say over whether we could go out and how long
we could stay out. For instance, I was a serious mod, and all my friends
were going down to Clacton one weekend, but because I was the youngest in
that group I had to ask my mum if I could go. She said: “Go and ask your
dad.” I never thought I’d get permission, but he said: “Yes, okay.” I told
Mum: “Dad said I could go.” “No, you can’t,” she said. “Don’t be stupid.”
Chris and I both went to the Servite school in Fulham Road. It was a Roman
Catholic school, not fee-paying, of course, but the best in the area. I had
quite a hard time, because it was straight after the war and, being of
Italian extraction, I wasn’t welcome at Christmas or birthday parties for
quite a few years. “She can’t come — the Italian one,” the parents would
say. Even the nuns were nasty to me. But the nuns loved Chris when she came
along.
She was very good academically, very bright, very gobby too — always had an
answer, but made you laugh. I got through okay, I was a plodder, but she was
really gifted.
Five years is a big gap — and we used to share a bedroom — in fact, I shared a
room with her until I was 20. One half of the wallpaper was rock’n’roll, and
the other side was Noddy. Chris was an absolute Noddy freak. She had a Noddy
dressing gown, Noddy pyjamas, Noddy slippers with little bells on, plates,
saucers and Noddy cups. Everything was bloody Noddy.
When I was 19 Chris would take my clothes. I could go into her wardrobe at any
time and guarantee to find something of mine there. But the thing that used
to upset me most was when my clothes were cut up, because she would try to
make something for herself out of them, and just destroy everything. We used
to fight a lot, and sometimes it would be fist fights. But on occasions we
got on well. We both absolutely adored music, and I’d come home and teach
her to dance: Mud Jive, Mickey’s Monkey, all the mod dances.
When Chris got to 15 she dropped a bombshell: she’d had enough of education
and wanted to travel. And the next moment she had left school and gone. She
went all around Europe and Africa. She’d come back to England and do temp
jobs to earn some money, and then be off again — and take half my make-up
with her when she went. But I did miss her. I was always worried about her
and wondered what she was getting up to. She had an English boyfriend, and
they used to travel together, and when they split she moved in with this
great Dutch guy, and settled for a while in Amsterdam, although that didn’t
work out in the end. But she’s got a wonderful partner now, and she and I
are good friends. Great friends.
I had a pulmonary embolism a few years back, and as soon as she found out she
was round at the hospital, and did not leave my side from dawn to dusk. I
was very touched. I’m so pleased that I’ve got a sister now. You can trust
family, can’t you? They back you up, and when push comes to shove they’re
always there for you.
CHRISSIE: I hated my sister and she hated me. Obviously, it was very
hard for her, because Mum and Dad were both working, so she had to look
after me and was stuck with this sister who was five years younger, and
that’s a huge difference with girls at that age. But I hung around with
girls who had older sisters, and their sisters seemed much kinder to them.
She never really wanted me around; when her friends got together, I could
tell she was really pigged off that I had to come too. But, having said
that, if there was any trouble, I knew she would defend me to the hilt,
because I was always getting into scrapes, and she’d even fight for me. But
after that we’d go back to hating each other.
Secretly, though, I admired her. She looked good, she was very glamorous. When
she first got into make-up I wanted her make-up, down to her lilac eye
shadow. I wanted everything that was hers, especially her clothes, and she
wouldn’t give me anything, literally, even when things were too small for
her. She was horrible to me. So she made her own cross to bear by treating
me that way. I learnt very quickly how to antagonise her and get my revenge.
I used to steal her clothes — in my little mind I imagined that I could
transform them completely by remaking them, and that she’d never recognise
them, and they’d be mine for ever. Obviously that would turn out to be a
disaster, and I used to bury them under this loose floorboard in our bedroom
and just watch her scream and yell. “Where’s my jumper?” she would shout
about some trendy thing she’d got at a boutique in the King’s Road. I
started going to pubs when I was very young, because you could dance there.
That was what people did in the ’60s. She would order me out of the pub,
because she didn’t want her younger sister there, but of course I wouldn’t
go, and then I’d end up cadging a drink off one of her boyfriends, just to
irritate her. She’d fly into an absolute rage and say to him: “Why are you
buying her a drink? She’ll just stay longer now.”
Sharing a bedroom was murder. I suppose she’s told you about the meeting of
the wallpapers. She had rock’n’roll on her side, and I had Noddy. We shared
a double bed in those days — you did when you were working class. But God
forbid you rolled over into “her” territory. Clare always had this dividing
line, and you’d suddenly get an elbow in the back: “You’re over the line.”
Also, Clare had her own cup. God forbid you used Clare’s cup. I couldn’t
care what cup I used. “I was sitting in that chair first.” It was all stuff
like that. We’re so opposite, it rubbed my character up the wrong way. It
was very niggly. That was our relationship, that’s what it was like.
I was very useful when she wanted to practise rock’n’roll, however — dancing
with the chair got boring — so when I got in from school, it was: “Come
here, I want to show you something.” We both loved dancing. We had a record
player downstairs — although of course that was always “hers”. And I
couldn’t afford records anyway, until I had a Saturday job in a record shop.
I remember one night when Clare was having a party. Mum and Dad were going out
and they said she couldn’t have a party unless I could come. I remember it
was a summer’s night, and I was sitting on the windowsill, watching them
all dancing — this mod dancing — and snogging, and just yearning to be
part of it. Clare just seemed to be really sophisticated and cool to me at
that time. However, once I turned 15 I wasn’t under her control any more,
and I took off, left the country. I didn’t miss her. You’re very selfish
when you’re young, aren’t you? I was away for my 21st birthday party, and
when I look back I realise my family must have really missed me, but it
didn’t enter my head that they might. I didn’t think about Clare at all. But
whether I loved her or hated her, there was a sense that Clare was always
there. Family means a lot to me too now, but it meant a lot to Clare at a
very young age.
When I came back to England, I joined her working in the model agency she’d
just set up, and then I was old enough to feel like a contemporary — a
21-year-old can hang around with a 26-year-old, no problem. Clare started to
share her feelings, and suddenly she wasn’t this big sister, where
everything was perfect in her life. I’d always been the wild one, and
the dramas were around me, but I saw she had her own dramas and problems,
and I was old enough now to relate to them, and to be able to talk about
them, and we became friends.
I can’t bear to see Clare low, or, as women do, start doubting something about
herself. After the break-up with one boyfriend, I heard she was a bit down,
and I invited her out to Spain when I was living there, to come and stay
with me. That was something different for Clare, because she doesn’t really
like change, and doesn’t like to travel. But she was great. For once she
didn’t knock my world, or judge me, and she had a good time. It was a
real turning point in our relationship, a time when I could offer something
back to her.
Things have completely changed. We’re women in our own rights. Of course we
have different perspectives, but it’s a great relationship now, and has been
for quite a while. I don’t think Clare has really ever been able to
work me out. But what I love about her is that she never stops trying.
Interviews: Danny Danziger.
Portrait by Lydia Goldblatt
