The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  Half an hour later we were at the bus station, waiting near the railway arches, where the flower stall stood during the day. Sandra went into the old toilets to change her shoes.

  One or two Vespas went past and Sandra waved in case it was someone we knew.

  ‘If I’m not in by half past nine I’m going to be in real trouble,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘I said I’d do my homework before I went to bed.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘French. All the tenses of the verbs “to be” and “to have” and to know when to use them.’

  ‘That’s easy, I be veray borrred and I ’ave a feeling zis is not going to be a good evernink, after oll.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s good. I can see Miss Harmon liking that. Do you think I should leave the top button of my cardigan done up? Or should I undo it, just casually?’

  She looked at me.

  ‘What if this Cooky thinks it’s stupid?’

  ‘Cooky won’t care.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I said, but Sandra was looking under the railway bridge.

  ‘Here they are.’

  A large green-and-white Corsair drew up. Danny got out of the front and took hold of Sandra’s hand. He opened the back door with a flourish. They climbed in.

  Sandra hissed, ‘Get in.’ I hesitated. ‘The front.’

  I looked into the car. Behind the steering wheel, at the far end of the long bench seat, sat a boy in a red shirt and jeans.

  ‘This is Cooky,’ Sandra said as I sat down. The car smelt of petrol. ‘Cooky, this is my best mate, Linda.’

  ‘Watcha Linda,’ Cooky said, and rolled his eyes at me.

  ‘Shut the door, Linda,’ Sandra said.

  This couldn’t be the Cooky who was like Tap but with curlier hair, who had a car like Tap’s only bigger. This couldn’t be the Cooky who was going to make it a great night out. This Cooky was wearing drainpipe trousers, and his shoes on the pedals were long, scuffed and pointed. This Cooky had greased-back hair. This Cooky was a rocker. He wasn’t even that good a rocker – one or two curls were slipping away from the Brylcreem, flopping onto his forehead. A rocker with curly hair! And his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed pale freckled skin and on his left arm the tattooed bottom half of a woman’s body that moved as he turned the wheel.

  I turned and looked at Sandra, my eyes wide. She grinned and gave me a thumbs up.

  Cooky slid the gears up and down on the steering column. ‘Is there a way we can get out of this place without me turning round?’ he said. ‘I’m having trouble with my reverse.’

  We had to drive through the bus station and halfway up to Westlands Estate because he couldn’t turn round, but eventually we were back in town, cruising past Bond’s, and Woolworth’s, over the bridge and past The Boutique and the Regent, past the Co-op and then round into London Road. Radio Luxembourg faded in and out and Cooky kept banging the dashboard with his hand. When the Bachelors disappeared I said, ‘Well, that’s one good thing.’

  ‘But I like that one!’ he shouted. When Matt Monro dissolved into a hiss, Cooky yelled, ‘That’s my favourite!’

  I leaned against the car door and looked at Sandra, but she was locked in Danny’s arms. He was playing with her hair.

  The car stopped at the lights at the Shire Hall as Johnny Kidd and the Pirates were singing ‘Ecstasy’. Cooky threw a glance over his shoulder and crooned, ‘Mmm . . . kisses, mmm . . . this is – ecstasy.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Danny said.

  ‘How come you know Danny?’ I asked Cooky.

  ‘His mum knows my mum,’ Cooky said, ‘and as his mum won’t have him in the house –’

  ‘My mum’s a cunt,’ Danny said.

  ‘Danny!’ Sandra and I said in unison.

  ‘You don’t know her,’ he murmured.

  ‘He’s staying with us.’

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ I said.

  ‘And I only had to ask twice,’ Danny said.

  ‘My mum thinks he’s trouble.’

  ‘Your mum might be right,’ I said quietly.

  Cooky looked over at me. ‘Do you believe in sex before marriage?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know, with that badge.’

  ‘That’s not what the badge stands for,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, get you. No, just say, just suppose everyone did it. Would you? Do it?’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘You what? I don’t even know you, and you may not have noticed, but I’m a mod.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘I don’t care if you care. I care. I wouldn’t do it with a rocker. Whether or not I believed in it.’

  ‘You know who you remind me of?’ he said. ‘That Mandy Rice-Davies.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said loudly.

  ‘What did he say?’ Sandra asked from the back seat.

  ‘He wants to know if I believe in sex before marriage.’ I couldn’t bear to repeat his comment about Mandy Rice-Davies, with her thick make-up, her round face and that beehive hairdo.

  ‘You should watch out,’ Sandra said to Cooky. ‘Her dad’s a magistrate.’

  ‘He’s what?’ Danny said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sandra and I chorused.

  Cooky snorted with laughter. ‘Better not talk about your business, Danny,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Your little parcels –’

  ‘Your little what?’ I said.

  ‘Shut up, Cooky,’ Danny said. ‘Talking rubbish. What say we go and have a drink, girls?’

  ‘What’s the time?’ I said. ‘Have we got time?’

  ‘As long as we don’t have to turn round,’ Cooky said. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with these gears. Here, Danny, isn’t that someone you know?’

  Walking under the railway bridge were two girls. One wore a long black leather coat. ‘Fuck,’ Danny said. He slid down the seat, hunching his shoulders. ‘Don’t look, don’t look!’

  ‘Who is it?’ Sandra said.

  ‘Don’t look!’ Danny hissed. ‘It’s some girl who’s got the wrong idea.’

  ‘She must have,’ I said. ‘How would she know you, Danny? She looks like a rocker.’ I looked at Cooky. ‘Excuse my French.’

  ‘Was that French? Shall we stop?’ Cooky said over his shoulder. He was winding down his window.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ Danny sounded panicked.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Sandra said.

  ‘He’ll only encourage her,’ Danny said. ‘Keep driving.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Cooky said.

  ‘We’re pointing in the direction of our estate,’ I said. ‘We might as well carry on.’

  Sandra sighed. ‘All right. We can park outside the shops for a bit and talk.’ She must have thought he’d ask her to marry him outside the fish shop.

  I leaned back in the seat as we drove along the Main Road towards Sperry Drive.

  ‘Who was that girl?’ I said.

  ‘That? That was Barbara. Oh!’ Cooky opened his eyes wide and grinned at me. He put his finger to his lips. He looked in his rear-view mirror at Sandra and Danny.

  I wondered who Barbara was. Was she the reason for all the nudges and winks when Sandra asked people if they’d seen Danny?

  Cooky parked the car outside the hardware shop. I glanced at my watch – there were ten minutes before I had to be in. Cooky settled back against his door, sliding his knee onto the seat, and said, ‘So, your dad’s a magistrate? What’s he doing living on a council estate?’

  ‘He’s a magistrate because he’s a trade union official,’ I said.

  ‘You Labour, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m a Conservative,’ he said. A rocker and a Conservative. I wasn’t doing this again, keeping Danny’s friends amused while Sandra tried to keep her New Year’s Resolution. It was March; who cares about New Year’s Resolutions in March? If Danny didn’t ask Sandra to marry him tonight, I’d suggest
she join a convent. ‘That’s how come I know people like Mandy,’ Cooky was saying.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, Mandy Rice-Davies.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I don’t know her, but I know people like her. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘We get all sorts at the base. I work at the base. You know, Wethersfield.’

  ‘The American air base? What do you do there?’

  ‘He cuts the grass,’ Danny said.

  ‘And I drive the van,’ Cooky said. ‘Sometimes.’

  I snorted.

  ‘What have you got against Americans?’ he said.

  ‘For a start, they’re American, then they dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, and now they’re in Vietnam.’ They were killing people they didn’t know, men, women and children, destroying towns and cities in a place far away, and no one seemed to want to stop them.

  ‘You take it too seriously.’ Cooky slid along the big front seat. ‘Looking at you now, you know, you look more like Christine Keeler. She’s got nice legs too.’ His arm was on the back of the seat and his hand stroked my hair, as he moved his head towards me, puckering his lips.

  ‘Get off!’ I yelled. I pushed him away while Danny shouted, ‘Down Cooky, down!’ and roared with laughter.

  *

  Sandra and I watched the tail lights of the Corsair disappear down the road.

  ‘So?’ I said. ‘Did he ask you?’

  ‘No. But he might have if you hadn’t jumped out of the car so fast.’

  ‘It’s gone ten o’clock, Cooky’s sex mad and you and Danny weren’t exactly talking,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘There’s probably no point, anyway. He’s up in court again. This time it’s a big one, he said.’

  We walked to her house and stopped at the gate. ‘Who’s Barbara?’ I said.

  She opened her eyes wide. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘What did Cooky say?’

  Her reaction was so strong, I felt guilty. ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Why did you say it then?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘He just said that’s who was walking under the bridge.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He just said the name when you and Danny were not exactly talking. Cooky’s an idiot.’

  ‘But what did he say?’

  ‘It just came up, he was talking about loads of things. Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies, and Americans. And it just came up. Her name. That was all. You could have joined in the conversation but you were busy in the back seat.’

  ‘You know who Barbara is, she was down the Orpheus that first day,’ Sandra said sadly, ‘with her long black leather.’

  ‘But that girl tonight really was a rocker. She had big bouffant hair.’

  ‘So it was her.’

  ‘I don’t know. Cooky’s probably just stirring it.’

  ‘Danny had a thing with her,’ she said.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Ages ago. He told me all about it. It’s over, but she won’t let it go. He said.’ She picked at a button on her coat. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think he still sees her.’

  ‘Why? Why would he? All his friends are mods now – well, except Cooky, but that’s just because he lives with him. Anyway, he’s got you. Why would he go out with a rocker? He’s finished with rockers.’

  She was silent, looking down.

  ‘Hasn’t he?’ I followed her gaze and stared at her new shoes. They were black patent, had a thin, two-inch heel and they were pointed. They were rocker shoes. ‘Oh, Sandra,’ I said.

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘Is he worth it? He’s changing you.’

  ‘No he isn’t!’

  ‘He’s two-timing you.’

  ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘Well, he’s messing you about. You’re wasting your life with him.’

  ‘No I’m not. You’re just jealous.’ She was breathing heavily.

  ‘I’m not! He’s wasting my life, too.’

  ‘You don’t have to come out.’

  ‘Yes I do. You’re my best friend. But he’s no good.’

  ‘Well, this is my life and I’m going to do what I want.’

  We were talking in song titles, but I couldn’t laugh. I was angry. ‘He makes you upset, he’s never there when you need him. He spoils our fun.’

  ‘He’s there when I want him.’

  ‘Well, you want him most of the time, and most of the time he’s in prison.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘Shut up! Oh God, here we go.’

  Her dad appeared from the back of the house. ‘Out gallivanting, without mentioning you’d broken your mother’s favourite cup. Get indoors!’ he hissed at her. ‘Now!’

  We shared a look, then silently she walked down the path.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Election

  THERE WAS A LABOUR PRIME MINISTER, Harold Wilson, but Chelmsford had a Conservative MP, Norman St John-Stevas. The local elections were always touch and go.

  Chelmsford was a boom town, with the firms Marconi and Hoffman’s, Crompton’s and the English Electric Valve Company. Dad had union members in all the factories in town and beyond. There were a lot of local issues he had to be involved in: wages, job cuts, working conditions, as well as the efficiency and safety of the power station at Bradwell.

  I loved the fact that Dad was a trade union official. I loved being Labour. Labour stood for fairness, equality, the National Health Service and proper education for everyone. Labour meant a belief in council housing and nationalising industry so that it was the workers who got the benefits of their labours, not a small group of uncontrolled shareholders. It was so logical and so good. It was a description of how people should behave towards each other, to be fair, to give everyone the same chance, regardless of where they were born.

  Dad said his politics came from Karl Marx, who’d said, ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs’. Mum said her politics came from Jesus, who wanted everyone to love each other and to be good to each other. Mum was a Congregationalist. Dad wasn’t that religious. If asked, he said he was C of E, but he never went to church. Dad’s compromise with Mum was to say that Jesus was the first Communist. That made me like Jesus, although I couldn’t really forgive him for the fact that I’d spent my childhood in Sunday School. It was only a few months since I had rebelled and said I couldn’t go anymore, because it made me feel like a kid. Mum said I could leave Sunday School if I went to another church. I was still deciding which church to go to. The Quakers were in the lead because they had good politics – they supported CND – and they had no hymns.

  The election was the last Thursday in March and everyone had a day off school, but Judith and I had to do poll-checking, so it wasn’t much of a holiday.

  ‘At least it’s the last day we have the “Vote Piper, Vote Labour” poster in the front room window,’ Judith said. Although we knew the issues were important, some aspects of Dad standing for the council were embarrassing.

  The polling station on our estate was made up of tents, which were put up for the day on the waste ground behind the shops. Poll-checking involved jumping out at voters as they entered or left the polling booths, asking for their voting numbers. If people didn’t have their number with them, we had to ask for their address. We had little yellow pads to write it all on, which was stupid as we were Labour and yellow was a Liberal colour.

  The afternoon was a slow, lonely time to take numbers. But as it got near to five o’clock, things started happening. People who cycled to work swooped round the curve of the road and propped their bikes against the kerb, nipping in to vote before going home for their tea. Those who’d got off the bus at Sperry Drive arrived in waves.

  Then, walking carefully from the back of the shops, came Sylvie and Mrs Weston.

  I bent down and retied my shoe. I didn’t want their po
lling number; I didn’t want to ask them for it. I knew their address. I didn’t need to talk to them. The sound of Sylvie wailing was still in my ears. The desperate way she had clutched at me. They disappeared into the yellow light of the tents.

  Some people said that Mrs Weston hadn’t been married herself, and that there had never been a Mr Weston. Sometimes customers in the shop waited to be served by Mrs Brady rather than have Mrs Weston serve them. My dad said that was bally stupid, and once or twice he specifically waited for Mrs Weston to serve him. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I’d like Mrs Weston to cut the Cheddar for me today.’ Or, ‘Mrs Weston, you always seem to choose the best biscuits.’ In fact, we never had that much cheese and there were always too many Nice and not enough custard creams, whoever put them in the bag. But after that people didn’t mind who served them. But they still murmured about Sylvie, crossed the road to avoid passing her in the street. Sandra said she’d seen someone nearly fall over on the bus, trying to move when Sylvie sat down next to her.

  I didn’t want to be like those people, but I wasn’t sure how Sylvie was going to behave. When she and Mrs Weston came out of the tent I pretended to be looking across the field as if I could see a whole gang of people surging forward to put their cross in the box. But Sylvie said, ‘It’s Linda! Linda! Hello!’

  She had made an effort and she looked quite nice – for someone with a beehive hairdo. Her maroon lipstick matched her maroon mohair coat. She was wearing black high heels and her legs were really long. The Conservative poll checker’s eyes followed her across the mud as she walked towards me.

  ‘Do you want our numbers?’ she said. ‘I don’t know if we’ve got them.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I know your address.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’ She looked round conspiratorially. ‘Who are you collecting numbers for?’

  ‘Labour, of course,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, of course. And that’s good because they’ve got our vote, haven’t they, Mum?’ she said. I liked her for that.