The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘Were there lots of people?’ I wasn’t sure if it was true. In spite of what I’d said to Sandra, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear completely made-up stories.

  ‘It was a room hardly any bigger than this, just like in all the films, dark and shady, with little orange lamps and full of French people all drinking wine and eating horse.’

  ‘Horse!’

  ‘I don’t know, probably. And we didn’t start till about ten o’clock at night. I was almost asleep. We were so young.’ She was smiling. ‘We’d put on lots of red lipstick and very tight black dresses we’d got from C&A in Oxford Street.’

  ‘That’s where I got my suede,’ I said.

  ‘That’s nice.’ She wasn’t interested. I was interrupting the flow.

  ‘What did you call yourselves?’

  ‘Sylvie and Jeanette. It was the first time I’d called myself Sylvie. It was so much nicer than Sylvia.’

  ‘But how did the man with the accordion know what to play?’

  ‘Fortunately, he was an Ella Fitzgerald fan. “Ah, Ey-La!” he said every time we suggested something, although he played a bit strangely.’ She smiled again and shook her head.

  ‘And how did it go?’

  ‘It went very well. We got lots of tips, and they asked us to come back.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No, that night we got back to our hotel so late the manager wouldn’t let us in. He shouted at us through the door.’ She laughed. ‘The trouble was, we had met some marines in the bar. We should never have taken them with us. The manager mouthed, “Putains!” through the glass, which means, as you probably haven’t learned at school, prostitutes. So we had nowhere to stay, and of course, we’d spent all our tips, which meant we had no money, and nor did the marines, and so when they asked us to go down to Nice with them, we said yes.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘No, we didn’t. We said we’d meet them at the Gare d’Austerlitz, but we skedaddled.’

  ‘Was that Mansell’s dad?’

  ‘Oh no, these were French marines. Or perhaps they were in the Foreign Legion.’ She frowned. ‘So after a night on a bench at the Gare du Nord, we came home. Back to dear old Chelmsford. And I was sick on the boat all the way down my coat.’

  ‘But what about your things? At the hotel?’

  ‘Oh, we donated them to the manager’s wife. Somewhere in North Paris is a woman who is probably still wearing a St Michael’s vest and a green cardigan with an unravelling sleeve.’

  ‘When was this?’ I could hear Sandra asking the question.

  ‘It was a long, long time ago.’

  ‘Years?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  She yawned. ‘I really can’t remember.’

  It was time to go. I stood up.

  ‘Don’t forget the book.’ She picked it up and followed me into the hall. The haunting trumpet wafted after her. I put the book in my school bag.

  ‘I love that beret,’ Sylvie said, as I clipped it back on my head.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, perhaps a little bit.’ She leaned against the door and fluttered her hand in a wave as I walked down the path.

  *

  ‘You’re getting very matey, aren’t you?’ Sandra said that evening. We were on the bus into town. ‘I don’t know why you want to hang around with someone who’s so old.’

  ‘She’s not that old. And I don’t hang around with her. I just talk to her. She’s . . . she’s lent me a book.’

  ‘Well, just watch out. I mean, when did she actually decide to call herself Sylvie? When she met the French, or when she was expecting?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, when did she go to France? And all that about the marines, did she show you any proof? A sailor’s cap or a tattoo or the coat she was sick on?’

  ‘It wasn’t that kind of conversation. Anyway, it was years ago. She told me that much. It was just a story.’

  Sandra sighed.

  I’d told her about my afternoon at Sylvie’s, but I hadn’t told her about my experience with the careers lady. I could have told her I’d said I wanted to be a housewife. But I couldn’t tell her how upset I was that I’d said it. A housewife was what Sandra would be once she got married to Danny, and she knew what I thought about that. I certainly couldn’t tell her what I really wanted to do, because she’d laugh. And she’d be jealous. We both still talked about our dream of getting away, the two of us on a scooter, driving around England, getting jobs where we could, spending the summer by a beach. We both knew it would never happen.

  *

  Danny was coming out of the Orpheus as we were crossing the bridge in London Road, and seemed as surprised as we were. He wasn’t meant to be here. He frowned. Then he said, ‘It’s my best girls! Hey, tell you what – let’s go up to Moulsham! It’s their youth club tonight.’

  ‘Moulsham?’ I said. ‘We’ve just got off the bus. We’re going down the Orpheus.’

  ‘Shut up, you,’ Sandra said.

  ‘Yeah, come on, girls. You don’t want to go down there. We can get the bus.’

  ‘But Moulsham!’ I said. ‘By the time we get up there, it’ll be time to go home.’

  Nobody said anything.

  ‘For me to go home.’

  Silence.

  ‘So I might as well go home now.’ I said. ‘Cheerio, then,’ I said. I could have stayed, but I knew it would be at least a shilling to get up there, then we’d have to pay to get in, and unless there was someone with a scooter who’d passed his test we’d have to pay to get home and probably end up getting a taxi. I couldn’t afford all that. Not if I wanted to go to the Corn Exchange on Saturday. And I did have some Latin verbs to learn. If I went home now I might even have a chance of remembering them for tomorrow’s test.

  As Sandra and Danny crossed the road, Sandra turned and grinned at me. Behind his back she waved the third finger of her left hand. She hadn’t given up the plan. Then she tucked her arm through his and they disappeared round the corner.

  I watched them for a moment, then walked back along London Road and turned into Tindal Street. Though I couldn’t understand what she saw in him, I could imagine how nice it would be to have someone, someone you cared about so much you wanted them to put a ring on your finger. But here I was, on my own, with no one. I felt sad and abandoned, but I quite liked it. Sometimes it was good to be alone in town, on a cold clear night like tonight. The evening felt full of possibilities; anything might happen, even just walking home. I could meet anyone.

  And there he was.

  At the far end of the cobbled street, right by the Corn Exchange, was Tap, leaning against the passenger door of his Mini, his suede coat bundled around him, smoking.

  This was my chance. I would talk to him. It was fate. But it was terrifying. What would I say? Would he even reply? He might be waiting for someone, and not want to be seen talking to me. But he might say hello. We might even chat. Why not? Linda Piper the fearless, probing journalist wouldn’t be intimidated, nor would Linda Piper the mountain-climbing, desert-crossing traveller. At the very least I’d have something to tell Sandra.

  How should I start the conversation? Hello, Tap, I rehearsed in my head. Hi Tap. Watcha Tap. Remember me? I’m the girl with the caramel-coloured nylon mac, but look at me now! Look at my suede! I bought it in London. Up West.

  ‘Hi, Tap,’ I said.

  He stared at me.

  ‘I’m Linda.’

  He looked at me. I wondered if he recognised me at all.

  ‘I’m a friend of Sandra’s.’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘Danny Mulroney’s girlfriend.’

  He snorted. ‘Which one are we talking about? You’re not a mate of Barbara’s, are you?’

  Barbara again! ‘No, Sandra.’

  He shook his head. ‘Danny Mulroney’s girlfriend Sandra. Interesting.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, uncertainly.
/>
  ‘So, Danny Mulroney’s girlfriend Sandra’s friend . . .’

  ‘Linda . . .’

  ‘Linda, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d seen her, Sandra.’ It sounded lame, even to me.

  ‘Not sure I’d recognise the girl.’ He glanced up and down the empty street as if he was looking for her. ‘What’s Danny up to these days?’ he said, conversationally.

  ‘You know, the usual. Fighting, getting drunk, winding people up.’

  He laughed. ‘That sounds about right. If you see him, tell him he owes me five quid and then some.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, doubtfully.

  ‘Who do you say he’s going out with now?’

  ‘Sandra.’

  ‘Well, well. Is that your mate – the one with the brown leather?’

  ‘Yes.’ He did know who she was. Who I was.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen her.’ He looked up and down the street again.

  I stood uncomfortably, not sure what to do. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ I said.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Not anymore. You’re Linda, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where you off to now then, Linda?’ he said.

  ‘The bus station.’

  ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive you up there.’

  He opened the passenger door for me – no one had ever done that before – and I got in while Tap walked round to the driver’s side.

  The Mini smelt of leather and new seats. It was pristine, clean and uncluttered, not like our car with sweet wrappers and elastic bands everywhere. Tap got in, carefully tucking his coat round him, and started the car.

  Expertly he turned the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. In silence we drove into Market Road, round the back of the Golden Fleece, past the posh bogs and into Victoria Street. I sat neatly, trying to be calm and cool sitting next to Chelmsford’s top mod.

  As we drove under the railway bridge, he said, ‘You meeting someone up here?’

  ‘Unless you mean the driver of the 311, no,’ I said. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘The Hayfield Estate.’

  ‘All right then, Lorna, I’ll drive you home,’ he said.

  ‘Linda. Thank you.’

  We sailed past the bus station.

  ‘So, Linda, where do you work?’

  I hated this question. I hated answering it; it made me feel about twelve. Sometimes I wished I could just leave school and work in a bank. Or even become a housewife. At least then I’d have something to do. I took a deep breath. ‘I’m at school. I’m – I’m staying on.’

  ‘A schoolgirl,’ he said. ‘ “Good morning, little schoolgirl”.’ He tapped the beat of the song on the steering wheel. ‘ “Good morning, little schoolgirl”.’

  I wondered if he was high; why else would he be taking me home and chanting a song at me? People said Tap was a dealer. I didn’t know if that was true, but I knew about drugs, knew the names – purple hearts, black bombers – and what they did, uppers, downers. But I didn’t take them, nor did Sandra. Nobody ever offered them to us. I didn’t even know what they looked like. But I knew people who took them, and I knew what they looked like when they did. Tap didn’t look wide-eyed and loose. He fumbled in the pocket of his suede and pulled out a packet of Embassy cigarettes, flipped open the pack and shook one into his mouth. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not at the moment.’ As if I’d ever smoked.

  He pulled out a box of matches. ‘Light this for me, will you?’ he said.

  I tried to remember the cool way to strike a match, towards you or away from you. Which way? I struck the match towards me, cupped the flame in my other hand and moved across to him. As I held the match towards his mouth I smelt Brut aftershave, sharp and cold. He put his hand over mine and steadied the match. He sucked on the cigarette.

  I pushed down my window and threw the match into the street. I wanted to stick my head out and shout that I was having a cigarette with a mod in a Mini. Not just any mod. Tap! From The Boutique!!

  ‘Do you like having a Mini?’ It was something to say.

  ‘I’m going to get rid of it,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’ I couldn’t think of anything better than a Mini.

  ‘Something bigger. I’ve got my eye on an American Chevy up at the air base.’

  ‘With the steering wheel on the other side? Are you allowed to drive cars like that?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? If they stopped me I could say I was American, couldn’t I?’ He put on a Jimmy Cagney accent. ‘Just give me the money, you dirty rat.’

  ‘Well, you could . . .’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ He pushed down his window and with a twist of his wrist flicked ash from his cigarette.

  ‘Is that how your manager talks?’

  ‘Eddy? Nah. He’s London through and through.’

  ‘From what people said I thought he was American.’ Everyone in the Orpheus was talking about the new manager in The Boutique, Eddy – his clothes, his walk, his voice. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s all right. He’s just taken my job, that’s all.’ He inhaled sharply.

  The atmosphere had changed.

  ‘Did you want to be the manager? I mean, did you apply for the job?’

  ‘No, mate, it was all done over my head. They just told me he was starting the next Monday.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘They said I was the stylist. I’m the one who has to bring in the young customers.’

  ‘But that’s good, isn’t it? Because you are a Stylist.’ Stylists were the really big mods.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He nodded. ‘We’ve got some good Ben Shermans in at the moment, that I chose. We sold six today.’

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘You sound like my nan.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tap switched on the radio. It was Radio Luxembourg and ‘Please Please Me’ was playing.

  ‘Like this?’ he said.

  ‘Not really,’ I said.

  ‘No, nor do I.’ We both laughed.

  ‘I like blues,’ I said hesitantly. What if he said he didn’t?

  ‘Me too,’ he said, easily. ‘Who do you like?’

  ‘Howlin’ Wolf,’ I said, ‘Muddy Waters.’ I’d heard them on Radio 390, a pirate radio station.

  ‘Yeah! All right!’ he said. He turned and looked at me.

  I directed him off the Main Road, onto our estate. As we approached the shops, I said, ‘You’d better park here.’

  He pulled up in front of Roberts’. I wondered if he would switch off the engine or keep it running while I got out. He switched the engine off. Otis Redding was singing ‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long’. ‘I like this,’ I whispered.

  ‘So do I,’ he whispered back. He leaned across and put his arm round me and pulled me to him. He kissed me lightly on the lips. He put his head back and looked at me. He smiled. ‘I remember this.’ He flicked my badge with the tip of his finger. ‘Ban the bomb, then. Do you go on the marches? Have those sit-down protests?’

  ‘I go on the marches. I haven’t done much sitting down. Except, you know, when I have my tea. But that’s not really a protest. Except when it’s sardines.’ It was a joke. I hoped he got it.

  ‘I’d join you in that one.’ He laughed. ‘How old are you?’

  I looked at him, his face so close to mine, the sharp aftershave smell in my nostrils. ‘Old enough.’

  ‘Really?’ He kissed me again. His tongue licked my lips but I kept my mouth closed, and he moved back in his seat and started the car.

  The lift was over. ‘Thanks for bringing me home,’ I said, not sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. I got out of the car. I pushed the door closed.

  ‘Hey, Lorna!’ he said.

  I opened the door.

  ‘Did you send me a Valentine’s card?’

  ‘Why?’

/>   ‘I got some mad card.’

  So Sandra had sent a stupid card. ‘No, it wasn’t me. If I’d sent you a card it would have said “You’re a real Stylist. Be my Valentine”.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s not very romantic.’

  ‘I don’t know you very well.’

  ‘We’ll have to see about that. Bye.’

  The Mini drove off up the road.

  ‘When, though? When will we see about that?’ I said to myself, walking up to our house. The street was empty and silent.

  I was opening the garden gate when the Mini came back. It screeched to a halt and Tap pushed down his window. ‘How the fuck do I get out of here?’ he shouted.

  I opened my eyes wide. Everyone in the street would hear. I crept up to the car and whispered, ‘Down there, turn right, turn left and then you’re at the main road.’

  ‘OK, babe. Come into the shop sometime. Nice coat, by the way. Better than the mac.’

  He couldn’t remember my name, but he remembered my mac. It was something.

  CHAPTER 9

  Poetry in Motion

  THE NEXT DAY IN SCHOOL, after lunch, Miss Reeves, our old form teacher, walked through the dining room. ‘Have you wiped the table?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s this then?’ She held up her hand.

  ‘Looks like three fingers with water on,’ I said. I was still cheerful from the night before, and I was showing off to the others. Cray, my friend Christine Ray, snorted.

  Miss Reeves said I was impertinent. She gave me a five-minute lecture on the meaning and importance of respect for one’s elders. She then said I had to go and see her just before lessons started that afternoon.