The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  Her class of second-years stared at me as I stood at her desk. She asked me my name. She’d been my form mistress, but she didn’t remember who I was. I wondered if it was because she hadn’t seen me sitting at the back of the class, or that I rarely said anything, or simply that she didn’t like me. She lectured me again about the need for politeness. She said I had to learn a poem.

  It made me late for French. I tried to slip into the room while Miss Harmon was writing ‘le hoquet’ on the blackboard. Everyone was laughing because Julia Gilbert actually had hiccups, but Miss Harmon turned with the chalk in her hand and gazed at me. She looked at her watch. ‘Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Linda,’ she said.

  ‘Je m’excuse d’être en retard,’ I muttered. The apology for being late was one of the first sentences in French I’d had to learn. I went to the empty seat next to Cray.

  ‘Et pourquoi es-tu en retard?’ she said.

  I looked desperately at Cray. ‘Pourquoi’ meant why, that much I had made out. Cray stared back at me, wordlessly.

  ‘Because . . .’

  ‘En français, s’il te plaît.’

  ‘Parce que j’ai des problèmes?’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ Miss Harmon said. ‘Partage tes difficultés avec la classe, s’il te plaît.’

  What on earth had she said? ‘Je ne regrette rien,’ I said, hopelessly.

  ‘La Vie en Rose est un peu trop pour toi, je crois.’ Miss Harmon sighed, and so did I. I had no idea what she was saying. ‘You’re a lazy little monkey, Mademoiselle Linda. You could do so much better. You’re good at French, but you do no work.’

  I blinked at her.

  ‘Yes, and I’m bothered,’ I whispered to Cray when we were doing an exercise. ‘There are two types of bothered, bothered and bothered, and I’m bothered.’ Cray didn’t understand moddy talk. But I was sorry Miss Harmon was disappointed, because French was my favourite lesson, even if I wasn’t in the top division and even if people laughed when I tried to speak with a French accent. Did she mean I could be good at French? Did I have it in me? Was I clever? I hadn’t been clever since I left primary school, where it had all been so easy. Sylvie thought I was clever. Was she right? Could I travel the world speaking French, have adventures, write about them?

  At home after school Judith was sitting in the living room, reading. There was an hour before Mum got home. She had a temporary coding job at County Hall. ‘The hoover’s in the hall,’ Judith said. ‘And don’t look like that, I’ve done upstairs already.’

  ‘I wasn’t born to do housework,’ I said.

  ‘Try telling Mum that.’

  ‘I’ve had a horrible day at school –’

  ‘Which was doubtless your own fault.’

  ‘And hoovering the stairs is not going to make it better. I’m going out.’

  ‘Someone has to clean everything,’ Judith shouted after me.

  I stomped out of the house. I wanted to talk to someone. I realised the person I wanted to talk to was Sylvie. I knocked on Sylvie’s door.

  ‘Thank goodness you’ve arrived,’ Sylvie said, as if she’d asked me to come. She hung my coat in the hall and I followed her past Mansell, sleeping in his pram, into the living room. There was a swathe of red-and-white material on the floor. Flimsy pieces of paper pattern were pinned haphazardly onto it. ‘It’s a dress,’ Sylvie said, waving a paper packet at me. On the front was a sketch of a very thin woman in pointed shoes, posing with her hand on her hip. She wore a dress with a tight bodice and a full, gathered skirt.

  I frowned.

  ‘I’m on an economy drive and I am henceforth going to make my own clothes. But I can’t make head or tail of these instructions.’ Sylvie handed me a large piece of paper with pale words and diagrams. ‘Can you understand it?’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘If you decipher the code, you can borrow the pattern.’

  I looked at her. I’d never wear anything in that style. ‘You’ve chosen the hardest one,’ I said. ‘It’s Vogue. They hardly tell you anything.’ I knelt on the floor. ‘You’re supposed to cut the pattern into individual pieces first.’ I raised my hand. Silently Sylvie handed me some scissors.

  As I cut through the paper, following the faint outlines, Sylvie said, ‘So how is your life? If I may say, you look a little disgruntled. Is that because you disagree with Vogue? Or have they moved you to the housewives’ class in school?’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Everything’s horrible. I got into a load of trouble with two teachers today and they’ve both given me poems to learn.’

  ‘Poems? That’s a good thing to do. You must know poems.’

  ‘But it’s two.’

  ‘If they’re for different teachers, couldn’t you just learn one? You must know one poem.’

  ‘One of them has to be in French. I don’t think my English teacher would appreciate a French poem. A French poem!’

  ‘There are some lovely French poems, very romantic, passionate poems. You’d like them.’

  ‘I don’t think our French teacher would. I was thinking of “Frère Jacques”.’

  Sylvie made a face. ‘I think we can do better than that.’

  ‘And the English one has to have at least three verses, and I’ve got to do it by Monday.’

  Sylvie wrinkled her nose. ‘Shakespeare?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know – “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix”.’

  ‘Isn’t that a really long poem? I’ll be there till Christmas if I have to do that one. It’s all just so boring.’

  ‘Oh, chicken, I’m sure it’s for your own good. The High School is a highly respected school. It’s the best you can get. You really should make the most of your schooldays. Enjoy them, relish them.’

  ‘Learning poems? If I apply for a job and they say, “What can you do?” and I say, “Not much, but I know two poems, one of which is in French,” do you think they’ll give me the job?’

  ‘We-e-ell, it depends what it is.’

  I rocked back on my heels. ‘They’re all so posh, the teachers, the girls. Even my friend Cray is posh. I don’t want to be posh. I’m working class, and I’m proud of that.’

  ‘I know it’s not easy, but you should take as much as they will give you. And then you can show them! You can be a working-class success.’

  ‘Yes, that’s likely. The trouble is, I don’t want to be a big swot. The girls who are swots have terrible hair and they don’t care what their uniform looks like.’ I reached for a jam jar of pins and looked for one that wasn’t rusty. ‘I suppose I just want to know everything, but not have to do all the work.’

  ‘What a wonderful world that would be, if we could do that,’ Sylvie said. ‘Look, promise me you will try, do some homework, read those books.’

  I looked at her. What did she want from me?

  As if she’d read my mind, Sylvie said, ‘It’s not for me, it’s for you. For your future.’

  I was still rooting round in the jam jar. I stabbed myself in the finger. ‘Ow!’

  ‘And now you’re bleeding. Chicken, you are in the wars. What can I do to cheer you up?’

  I sucked my finger. ‘You could tell me some more about how you met . . .’

  Sylvie glanced over to the door. She could see Mansell in his pram. He was still asleep. She looked back at me, tilting her head on one side. ‘You’re such a funny one, getting me to tell you all my secrets. All right. Now then, where had we got up to . . .?’

  I knew exactly where we’d got up to. They were at the dance, and he’d just arrived with his friend. So she said. Did I really want to know more? What strange and mysterious things would she tell me? But it was such a romantic story. I did want to know. ‘You were just about to dance with him.’

  ‘Oh, but I didn’t.’ She settled herself on the settee.

  *

  As I walked off the dance floor towards him, all smiles and looking forward to an interesting evening, a group of girls arrived, laughing and giggling and smelling
of hairspray and perfume and Mum deodorant. They completely surrounded our two Yanks, and even though I sat out the next dance, waiting for him, he didn’t come and find me. I thought, well, that’s it. I threw my cardigan round my shoulders and slid across the floor to Janet, who was dancing with someone who looked like a vicar, and told her I was going home. I walked back to the boarding house on my own, under the stars, listening to the sound of the waves rushing onto the shore.

  *

  ‘But it can’t have ended there,’ I said.

  ‘Patience, my little chickadee,’ Sylvie said.

  *

  It was the next night. Janet and I went to the pub near the boarding house. I was wearing my favourite red lipstick, ‘French Passion’ it was called, and a halterneck dress. The skin on my back was quite tight and hot from the sun. And lo and behold, he was in there with his friend. I had no idea he’d be there. Janet went straight up to the bar to order the drinks. She stood right beside them. Suddenly I felt shy and I crept over to the corner and perched on the edge of a bench seat.

  ‘Two Martinis, please,’ Janet ordered in a loud voice. She was always the pushy one.

  The barman turned towards the row of bottles behind him.

  ‘You don’t want a Martini, gal,’ one of the Yanks said. ‘There’s no point, there’s no ice in this country.’

  ‘OK, cancel that,’ Janet said, without looking at them. ‘I’ll have two glasses of wine. White wine. Vin blanc.’ We’d been to France, we knew the lingo.

  The barman turned back and looked at her with a frown. ‘You mean, ginger wine?’ he said.

  ‘Ginger wine! That sounds exciting,’ one of the Americans said. ‘Hey sweetie, are you old enough to drink?’

  Janet said, ‘I’m old enough for a lot of things.’ She glanced across at me. ‘We both are.’

  ‘OK then, let’s all have ginger wine.’

  Janet turned and winked at me. I didn’t know what to do with my face. I was thrilled he was there, but I was afraid he’d think we were chasing them. Janet came back and scolded me for my lack of effort. ‘I was doing all that work for you,’ she said, handing me a glass.

  It tasted like cough medicine. ‘This is revolting,’ I said. ‘Why did you get this?’

  ‘It’s a drink, isn’t it? It was all they had.’ Janet sipped from her glass. ‘Oh, it is horrible. Ooh.’ We began to laugh.

  Then, to top it all, the barman brought over two more. ‘From those jokers,’ he said. He tipped his head towards the Americans. I noticed a ten-shilling note poking out of the top pocket of his shirt.

  The Americans bowed at us and raised their glasses. Janet raised hers and hissed, ‘Smile!’ So I smiled.

  The men sauntered over. ‘Oh God, now we’ll have to drink it,’ I said to Janet.

  He came and sat beside me. I moved to make room for him and scraped my back on the rough material of the seat. ‘Ow!’ I squeaked and I jumped, almost onto his lap!

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked in that smooth American voice.

  ‘I’ve got sunburn.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you have cream?’ He looked really concerned.

  ‘Cream? We don’t have anything,’ I said. ‘We’ve only just got rid of our ration books.’

  ‘No, no.’ He laughed. ‘I mean, cream to rub into that smooth, perfect skin of yours. It’s called – oh, heck, what is it called? Help me out here, I’m trying to soft-soap you and I can’t remember my lines.’ He looked at me so helplessly, with his eyes so green and strange.

  ‘Are you talking about suntan lotion?’ I said.

  ‘Something like that.’ He grinned. ‘My mom has a special recipe. It eases away all your pain.’ His voice was soft and intimate, and just for me. I knew what his game was, and I liked it. And the fact that he was so open about it, and so inept, was very appealing. ‘Let me show you,’ he murmured, and he leaned towards me.

  As if I was hypnotised, I moved my shoulder towards him and his fingers grazed my skin. So lightly, but it felt like – like fire. I gasped and and jumped away.

  He laughed. ‘OK. Maybe later. Let’s have a proper drink. Do you like this stuff?’

  ‘If this is all there is, I’d rather have a glass of orange,’ I said.

  ‘OJ sounds good. I’ll join you.’

  His friend said, ‘Well, that’s a new one on me.’

  The time flew by and suddenly it was ten o’clock. Janet and I had to get back. ‘It’s lucky you’re staying at our boarding house,’ Janet said. ‘We can all go back together.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’ He looked at his friend, who shrugged. We all stood up and strolled out into the chill night air. Janet nudged me and whispered, ‘All right? All right?’ Then she dropped back and I could hear her talking to the other one. Something about sugar beet, I think, which, as you know, is a Norfolk crop.

  So there we were, walking and talking, as if we’d known each other for months. He was a pilot in the US Air Force and his name was . . . Bob. Bob Stanferd.

  *

  ‘Bob?’ I was sorry; it sounded so ordinary, so unromantic.

  ‘That’s exactly what I said.’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘So boring.’

  ‘ “You never heard of Bob Mitchum?” he said.’

  *

  He came from the South, he said. His friend, Gary, was from Wisconsin. They were in Great Yarmouth for the week. He said he had seen me swimming; he was impressed. He said I seemed different from other English girls.

  ‘All the girls at the dance, I suppose?’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘At the dance?’

  ‘Did you kiss the girls and make them cry?’ I said.

  ‘I lost you! You disappeared,’ he said. ‘I hope I didn’t make you cry. We’re under orders to maintain good relations with our host country.’

  We both laughed.

  As we approached the front door of the boarding house, Janet murmured, ‘We’d better go in first.’ It wouldn’t do for her auntie to see us with the Yanks.

  Gary looked at Bob.

  ‘OK, I guess we’ll just take another walk around the town,’ Bob said. ‘Take in some more of the sights.’ Then he whispered to me, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, gorgeous. We’ll go to a little club I know. It’s a kind of a casino. Make yourself glamorous.’

  *

  ‘A casino!’ I said. ‘Is that why you play poker?’

  ‘No, it actually isn’t,’ Sylvie said, and yawned.

  ‘So, did you make yourself glamorous?’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘What do you think? I had no money and very few clothes. And I wasn’t about to run up a little number from the curtains in our room.’

  I looked at the material on the floor. ‘No.’

  ‘I bet you could have done something.’

  I smiled. ‘I bet I could . . . something dramatic with an interesting waistband.’

  ‘How lovely that sounds.’ She stood up and ruffled my hair. I smiled at her. Sometimes I really liked her. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘No more today. What about these poems of yours?’

  ‘Well, perhaps I will do a –’

  Sylvie said, ‘I’ve got an idea! Give me a moment.’ She ran upstairs.

  ‘– love poem.’ I stretched over the material, pinning on the pattern pieces, thinking about the story, about Bob’s soft American accent, the way he joked with Sylvie, the way he’d been looking for her at the dance. It was lovely. Would it ever happen to me? Might I have that with Tap? I sat back on my heels and examined the material, wondering if it mattered that I’d pinned the last piece on back to front. Sylvie came into the room and held out a thin paperback.

  ‘Larry Fabbrona. He’s a Beat poet,’ she said, settling herself back on the settee. ‘Anyone who wants to be hip should know the Beats.’

  Sitting in Sylvie’s living room, making her clothes, sharing her love story, I did want to be hip. I opened the book. The paper was very thick and some of the pages wouldn’t even turn but there wasn’t any obvious love poet
ry.

  ‘It’s a French edition,’ Sylvie said. ‘But it’s in English. And a couple of the pages still need to be cut.’

  ‘Perhaps I could learn one of these and convince Miss Harmon it’s a French poem.’

  ‘I don’t think that would work,’ Sylvie said. ‘But you should like the Beats, they’re like us. They’re free thinkers. We’re different from the rest.’ Sylvie thought I was a free thinker. I didn’t think like everybody else, I was different. Did I want to be different? Yes, I did. Different from the posh girls, proud of my accent, proud of my family. My stomach curled with pleasure. This is why I liked her. This is why I didn’t care about the story being totally true. It was the things she said. The way she made me feel better about myself.

  ‘The Beats live on the road, they experience things, they express themselves freely. They love passionately.’ She drew her knees up under her chin. ‘They don’t want to live a boring suburban life.’

  I thought about it. As a free thinker I should say what I felt. I said, ‘But we live a boring suburban life, don’t we?’

  ‘We don’t live in suburbia, chicken,’ she said softly. ‘We live on a council estate.’

  *

  In French I stood at the front of the class and recited ‘Les sanglots longs, des violons . . .’ It was an easy choice – it was at the back of our textbook. I spoke slowly and sadly. There was a hush as I finished and then a spattering of applause.

  ‘Tu vois,’ Miss Harmon said, ‘tu peux le faire quand tu fais un effort. You can do it if you try. I want to see more of that, Linda Piper.’

  At the end of the day, after the last bell, I went back to Miss Reeves’ form room, still glowing from Miss Harmon’s compliments. I peeped through the glass door. Miss Reeves wasn’t there, but a load of girls were sitting on the desks. They were from all different years, including the sixth form. Some of them I knew by sight, but there was no one from my form. Silence fell and one or two looked surprised as I walked through the door.

  ‘You haven’t all got to do poems, have you?’ I said. It could take hours; there was bound to be someone who’d recite the whole of Hiawatha or The Pied Piper of Hamelin. I slunk to the back of the room and sat down.