The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘Spam and pickle.’ It was her usual.

  And I had mine – corned beef and tomato. I knew they’d be squashed and a bit soggy, even now, which made them delicious and chewy and I couldn’t wait.

  Sandra and I had never really talked about CND, but this year Sandra had said she wanted to ban the bomb and she’d like to come on the march and Mum said she could. She’d told Danny, and she said he was enthusiastic. She’d thought he might be jealous of her doing things he couldn’t do because he was inside.

  ‘He’d never go on a CND march,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  Something in the back of my mind told me that wasn’t logical but it was like chewing gum, stretching and popping in my brain and I couldn’t work it out.

  Mum had first gone on an Aldermaston march in 1958. Aldermaston was where research into nuclear weapons was carried out. I’d known about the H-bomb and the A-bomb for years, particularly about what happened to Japan in August 1945, when the Americans dropped A-bombs onto Hiroshima and Nagasaki. We had discussions round the tea table and we had CND leaflets, but the books on our bookshelves were the most informative. The description of the effects of the bomb had stayed with me – the noise, the flash, the people falling in the streets, the outline of their bodies left on the ground, how some seemed all right and then when they were touched their skin came off like gloves. Like gloves.

  Mrs Grenville from the CND group was standing on the pavement by the coach counting everyone in.

  The coach wasn’t empty because they’d already picked up people from Witham and Boreham. We found a seat in the middle of the coach, and I let Sandra sit by the window as this was her first time on the march.

  The Spratts, the Van Gazen family, who Dad called the Star Gazers, Mr and Mrs Germaine, Beryl and Jeremy Husband – most of the Chelmsford CND group – clambered onto the coach. Ken and Robert Sadd were already sitting at the back. Ken and Robert were beatniks who lived near Boreham. Everyone knew that Robert fancied Judith. When she got on the coach he waved wildly at her. I found it hard to believe that people could like Judith, but he had a beard so he was clearly desperate. Judith sailed smugly down the aisle of the coach to join them, followed by her brainy friend James, who was frowning but trying to look nonchalant.

  People settled themselves into seats. Mr and Mrs Germaine argued softly about putting their rolled-up macs in the rack above. Some Labour Party members were laughing, telling them to hurry up, comrades. The coach was almost full.

  Mrs Grenville was beckoning urgently down the street. It was Ron Bales and Ray. Ray was wearing a faded navy-blue donkey jacket with the collar up. They spent five minutes on the pavement arguing with the driver to open up the luggage compartment on the side of the coach so they could put the banner in.

  ‘If you want to go and sit with him, that’s all right,’ Sandra said, ‘I’ll have this seat all to myself.’

  ‘Not likely,’ I said. I knew she didn’t really mean it. And nor did I.

  Ray walked down the aisle towards us. He nodded at me and hesitated as if he was going to say something. Perhaps he’d say he was sorry about the row; that I was right, it was nothing to do with him, and I’d say, that’s OK, tell me some more about the rules of football. Then a girl’s voice called, ‘Hey, it’s Ray!’ and he shook his head and walked on to the back of the coach.

  ‘Who was that, calling out?’ Sandra said. ‘You might have a bit of competition there, Lin.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. I willed myself not to turn and look but Sandra swivelled round and stared over her seat at the back of the bus. She shrugged. ‘Can’t see. Fingers crossed, though.’

  Mrs Grenville stepped up into the coach and counted everyone. ‘There’s just one more to come,’ she called, frowning down at her list. Some people at the back were rumbling the tune of ‘Why Are We waiting?’. Mrs Grenville took a step down and hung out of the coach door, looking anxiously along the street. ‘Oh, here we are! Quickly!’

  ‘You never said she was coming,’ Sandra said.

  I shrank into my seat. ‘I didn’t know!’

  Sylvie clambered up the steps into the coach. She was wearing her maroon coat and her hair was pulled back into a pony tail. She didn’t look too bad, not showy, not extreme, but she shouldn’t have been there. Mrs Grenville was smiling at her, checking her name on the list. ‘Better late than never,’ she said, patting her arm. Sylvie looked down the aisle of the coach, frowning slightly. Ken Sadd shouted out, ‘There’s room at the back for a little one,’ which I thought was uncool for a beatnik. But Sylvie gave a big smile.

  ‘Have we got to march with her?’ Sandra said.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why she’s here.’ I felt sick; I was the one who gave her the idea.

  Sylvie was coming down the bus.

  ‘Don’t look, don’t look,’ I hissed. ‘Look down. Down!’

  ‘Hello, Sylvie,’ Sandra said loudly.

  ‘Hello Linda, hello Sandra,’ Sylvie said, and carried on walking.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Sandra said.

  ‘But did she hear? Did she hear me? Oh no.’ I wrapped my arms round my stomach, doubled up with guilt.

  Sandra twisted round again, gazing at the back of the coach. ‘No, she’s saying hello to a load of people. She’s sitting down between the one who shouted and some thin bloke with a beard. Oh, they’ve all got beards. Nice.’

  ‘What’s wrong with us, then? Why doesn’t she want to sit with us?’

  ‘Because we haven’t got beards. And there’s no room. I thought you said she didn’t have any friends.’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘Well, she’s laughing and joking like she’s known them a hundred years.’

  I looked round. Sylvie was comfortably squashed into the back seat with the beatniks. Ray was sitting three places away.

  ‘Let’s have a sandwich,’ Sandra said.

  As the coach drove along, I heard Sylvie laugh a lot. I thought I heard Ray’s voice. Someone took out a guitar and someone had a banjo, and the back of the bus erupted into song, ‘Ban Ban Ban the Bloody H-Bomb’.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but it’s only half past seven in the morning,’ Sandra said.

  ‘Is Judith playing?’ I asked.

  Sandra squinted at the back of the coach. ‘No, it’s that grammar school bloke of hers. I suppose he has to have a guitar because he’s only got half a beard.’

  ‘Judith says he’s got a lot of brains.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make it better?’

  They were singing ‘It Takes a Worried Man to Sing a Worried Song’, driving along the A12, just past Romford, and it was getting a bit much. Sandra said, ‘If I’d known there’d be singing I might have brought my transistor. Remind me why we’re here – tell me your story about the bomb.’

  ‘That wasn’t about the H-bomb, or even the A-bomb. And it’s not my story.’

  ‘It was about a bomb, and we’re against all bombs, aren’t we? In case anyone asks me.’

  ‘No one’ll ask you. They’ll assume.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  I told her the story of the German bomb that flattened the house that my mum and her sisters had been sleeping in, in 1940. It killed her mum and dad and her sister Honor, but all the other girls, my mum and my aunties, were pulled out of the rubble without a scratch.

  ‘That was so sad,’ Sandra said. ‘That could have been your Auntie Sheila, or your Auntie Rita.’ Sandra knew my aunties, like I knew hers. ‘Why haven’t they banned all bombs already? If they’d done it before the war you’d have grandparents.’

  ‘But I probably wouldn’t have come from Chelmsford.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t be on this coach with this lovely singing. They really should have banned the bomb when they had the chance.’

  We got to West London at about nine o’clock. We were joining the march which had started on Good Friday. We would mar
ch into Trafalgar Square for the rally at two in the afternoon.

  As we stepped off the coach, Ron Bales was carefully unrolling the banner, watched politely by the two Star Gazers that Mrs Grenville had enlisted to carry it. Ray sloped off with some of the Boreham people. Sandra said, ‘Why don’t you say something to him?’

  ‘There’s nothing to say. Anyway, he’s gone now.’

  ‘Run after him.’

  ‘Yeah, that would look good.’

  One of the Star Gazers climbed into the belly of the coach to find the banner poles. He and his brother slid them into place, in the loops on the sides of the banner. They staggered a little as they lifted it up. It was black and white and read CHELMSFORD CND, WORKING FOR PEACE.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind carrying that,’ Sandra said.

  I looked at her. She obviously hadn’t been on a march before. ‘It’s really heavy,’ I said. ‘When it rains it gets heavier and if the wind blows, look out. You almost get blown away because it hasn’t got any holes in. And why is that? Because Robert Sadd is artistic and didn’t want holes in it.’

  Witham had their own banner which said WITHAM AGAINST THE BOMB.

  ‘Ours is better,’ Sandra said.

  ‘But theirs has holes in.’

  I was still worrying about Sylvie. She hadn’t got off the coach yet. I felt responsible for her but I didn’t know what to do.

  Sandra said, ‘Why are we waiting? I want to start marching. Hup two, three, four,’ she sang, just as Sylvie came down the steps of the coach, laughing. She was followed by Ken Sadd, carrying the banjo.

  Sylvie gave us a little wave and they crossed the road and went into a café.

  ‘Is that how you ban the bomb?’ Sandra said. ‘Going for a coffee?’

  ‘If you do it peacefully,’ I said. ‘Perhaps they’re going to give out leaflets.’

  We could hear chanting and bands playing. The Star Gazers lifted the banner and the Chelmsford group stepped off the pavement in a higgledy-piggledy gang. The Witham group followed.

  ‘Aren’t we going with them?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘No fear,’ I said. ‘I’m not marching with my mum.’

  We stood on the side of the road, watching the march go past. A boy in a college scarf came up to us and said, ‘Avez-vous lu votre Peace News? Seulement neuf pence.’

  I laughed.

  ‘What’s he say?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Peace is cheap.’

  A boy in a duffel coat was weaving through the crowds handing out leaflets about a Regional Seat of Government. He put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Shhhh, it’s a secret.’

  You could tell the people who’d done the whole march because they looked messy and worn out. I felt too smart and out of place in my suede coat. I wanted to look tired and experienced.

  We walked along the pavement, overtaking Chelmsford, till we found a group with a jazz band. It was Ilford. We stepped into the road and joined them. Strangely, in this setting the jazz sounded just right, rousing and important, not like when Acker Bilk played on the Billy Cotton Band Show, when it was plump old people being self-satisfied. Behind their banner this group looked the same as the Chelmsford group, men in overcoats and tweed jackets, women in plastic macs and beatniks in donkey jackets and black jumpers. We were the only mods. After we’d sung ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ three times, Sandra said, ‘Do you think there’s another group, like Romford or Southend, that’s got a band playing more of a pop selection?’

  ‘You mean, one that sings “I Never Felt More Like Banning the Bomb”?’

  ‘ “Listen, Do You Want to Ban the Bomb?” ’

  ‘ “Needles and Bombs”.’

  ‘ “Anyone Who Had a Bomb”.’

  We had our dinner in Hyde Park. Sandra and I sat under a tree and took out what was left of our sandwiches.

  ‘They look like us,’ Sandra said. ‘Squashed and limp.’

  ‘And delicious,’ I said.

  ‘Shall we take our shoes off?’

  ‘We might never get them back on.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Sandra eased off her Hush Puppies. ‘Oh God, look at that.’ She had a huge blister on her heel. And another on the joint of her big toe. And one across the arch of her foot. Her feet were covered.

  I groped in my duffel bag for the little plastic pack of plasters that Mum had given each of us that morning. ‘If you had a few more plasters you’d look like the Invisible Man,’ I said.

  ‘If I was the Invisible Man I wouldn’t be here, I’d be in Wormwood Scrubs.’ She wiggled her toes. ‘There she is again.’

  Sylvie was walking daintily across the grass.

  ‘Do you think she’s been following us all the time?’ Sandra squinted at her. ‘She hasn’t got any shoes on.’

  ‘Nor have you.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sandra said.

  I was waving.

  Sylvie flapped her hand and tottered over. She was holding a pair of plimsolls. ‘Hello, girls, I wondered where you were,’ she said. ‘What a wonderful spread.’ We had laid the sandwiches out on the leaflets we had been given along the route. Sylvie sank to the ground beside us and lay flat on the grass. She closed her eyes. ‘I am exhausted. Thank goodness it’s lunchtime.’ She said that, but she didn’t have any food with her.

  ‘Do you want a sandwich?’ I asked her.

  Sandra punched my arm. I was letting the side down. She glared at Sylvie. ‘Didn’t you bring anything to eat?’

  ‘Actually, I’m not that hungry.’ Sylvie yawned. ‘We had egg and bacon earlier.’

  ‘Yeah, we saw,’ Sandra said. ‘We didn’t have time to stop off at cafés, we’re banning the bomb the proper way. Marching.’

  I still felt responsible. ‘Do you want an apple?’ I said to Sylvie.

  ‘Thanks.’ Sylvie took a bite and looked around her. ‘Oh, there they are. See you later, girls.’ She handed me back the apple and scrambled to her feet. ‘Oh, have this.’ She threw a bar of chocolate into my lap, and then ran across to where the Chelmsford group was entering the park.

  ‘So our apples aren’t good enough for her,’ Sandra said. ‘I thought you were going to ask her about her passport.’

  ‘Give me a chance! I’ll ask her next week.’

  Sandra looked at the chocolate Sylvie had thrown. It was a big bar, a sixpenny bar. ‘Make sure she doesn’t think that chocolate makes up for the money she owes you.’

  ‘She paid me back. It was another birthday present.’

  ‘Hanky and sixpence. Not bad. No wonder you don’t want to ask her difficult questions.’ I looked over at Sandra. She was lying on her back, gazing up. ‘There’s a lot of sky in London, isn’t there?’ she said.

  The last pieces of chocolate were melting in our mouths when the march began slowly shuffling back onto the road. We walked round the park to find the Chelmsford banner. Its poles were stuck in the grass, working for peace under a large oak tree. Ray was still nowhere to be seen. Judith’s friend James was playing a Spanish tune on his guitar, and Judith was sitting beside him, doing that fast-clapping thing, which was embarrassing. People were easing their rucksacks onto their backs and Mrs Grenville was picking up litter. There still weren’t any mods, but by this stage even the beatniks didn’t look too bad. Someone was wearing a beret, someone else had a PVC mac.

  ‘From a distance, if you ignore the old people, and almost close your eyes, Chelmsford looks all right,’ Sandra said. She still fancied carrying the banner and went over to Mrs Grenville. Mrs Grenville asked Ron Bales. I could see him nodding and grinning. Together he and Sandra carefully pulled the poles out of the ground. So now we were marching with Chelmsford.

  We walked down Park Lane shouting, ‘One, two, three, four, we don’t want war, five, six, seven, eight, we say negotiate,’ and Ken Sadd began a shout: ‘Yankee agressors,’ and the answer from the march came, ‘Out!’ ‘US in Vietnam,’ ‘Out!’ ‘Polaris,’ ‘Out, out, out!’

  ‘What’s Polaris?
’ Sandra asked me.

  ‘Something in Scotland, that they doo-na want,’ I said.

  ‘And what’s he doing?’

  Ken Sadd was holding hands with Sylvie. He wasn’t even one of the beatniks who looked all right.

  ‘I thought you said he fancied Judith,’ Sandra said.

  ‘That’s his brother.’

  Sandra shouted ‘Blisters!’ and everyone shouted ‘Out, out, out!’ and laughed.

  Mum said, ‘Linda!’

  We looked up at the people in the hotels watching us, and someone called up to them, ‘Ban the bomb! Join the march!’ Along Piccadilly we sang, ‘Och, och, there’s a monster in the loch,’ and in Piccadilly Circus, ‘It’s a long way to Trafalgar Square.’

  Sandra was still carrying the banner. ‘How much further?’ she said. ‘I’ve got blisters on my gloves. Next time I’m going with Witham.’ But she was grinning. She shouted, ‘What do we want? To get to Trafalgar Square! When do we want it? Now!’

  Suddenly I felt very happy. This was where it all made sense. This was what I wanted. Sandra and I, together on the march, agreeing about politics, not arguing about Danny. People being involved but funny, believing in something and doing something about it. And some of them were wearing really quite nice clothes. These were the people who would probably come into the Milk Bar, people who wore a CND badge, people who voted Labour. We might have conversations about books and music and Apartheid and pacifism. And Simone de Beauvoir. This was fantastic.

  Then Sandra started looking at her watch.

  Chelmsford limped to the end of the Haymarket and round into Trafalgar Square. The speeches had already begun. We were right at the back.

  Sandra handed the banner to Mrs Grenville. ‘We’re late, aren’t we?’ she said.

  I shrugged. ‘You never know what time you’re going to get to Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘I-I need to go to the toilet.’

  ‘But it’s Bertrand Russell.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The speaker, the man himself.’

  ‘Can you see him?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Can you hear what he’s saying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Read it in the paper tomorrow. I’ve got to go.’