The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘I thought you lost it again.’

  ‘Did I? Oh yes.’

  ‘And then you had your night with . . .’

  ‘With Bob, my night of passion. Of course! I had quite forgotten I’d told you about that.’ She sighed.

  ‘And he gave you some money.’ Surely she remembered. It was her story.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s right. Now this part has got some fashion in it,’ she added. ‘Quite a lot, actually.’

  ‘Go on, go on,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ Sylvie said. She put her head back and closed her eyes.

  *

  In the morning over breakfast – very nice sausages, I remember, and very, very good crisp fried bread, Janet asked her aunt’s advice as to where we might buy a dress that was a little out of the ordinary, something with a bit of style, for a special event I had coming up in Chelmsford. Janet kept smirking, and her aunt looked at us suspiciously, but eventually she said she knew a shop that might sell the sort of outfit we were after, although it was rather high-class.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Janet.

  It was a hot day. Janet and I pushed our way through the crowds in the main road, the tourists wandering aimlessly, eating candyfloss and licking sticks of rock. We had something very important to do. The thought of it made us laugh. Thinking back, I suppose I was a little hysterical – the memory of the night before, the things he’d said, it was all so wonderful. We couldn’t find the road. It took ages, up and down, round and round. I was sweating. Finally, we turned into a shadowy dark street.

  ‘Here we are,’ Janet said, stopping outside a door that looked like the door to a house, not a shop.

  ‘Are you sure?’ There was no one in the street; it all felt unreal.

  ‘It’s high-class,’ Janet said. ‘That’s what they’re like. In you go.’ She gave the door a push. The bell pinged and we were inside.

  ‘I need a dress,’ I said to the assistant.

  ‘It’s got to be glamorous, and she needs it for tonight.’ Janet sat down in a small, ornate armchair and crossed her hands over her stomach. She looked much more confident than I felt.

  The assistant hesitated. We must have looked a sight, our faces so red and our hair all windswept. This was a very swanky establishment.

  There wasn’t much of anything ready-made. I tried on a dress. It was grey, and it was too big.

  ‘You look like an elephant,’ Janet said.

  I tried on two more. They were black. Janet shook her head. ‘Sorry, doll, you don’t look what I’d call gorgeous in those.’

  The assistant pursed her lips. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have.’

  ‘How much money have you got, Sylvie?’ Janet asked.

  I pulled out the handful of notes from my bag.

  The assistant’s eyes widened. She said, ‘Ah, well. Perhaps we have another dress. A lady was meant to be picking it up last week, but she didn’t come. It may fit you.’

  It was blue, sapphire blue. I slipped it on. The heavy crepe fell over my hips, skimmed my knees. I looked at myself in the mirror and I was transformed. I looked lovely. Down to my ankles, that is. ‘I haven’t got the right shoes,’ I moaned, looking at my feet, which were very dusty.

  ‘How about these?’ The woman produced a pair of high, strappy gold sandals. I slid them on, and my goodness, the difference they made. My legs looked two feet longer and very, very slim.

  Janet put her head on one side. ‘Turn round . . . Sylvie, you are gorgeous. Just right.’

  The dress was 18 guineas, the shoes were 25s 11d. We scrabbled in our purses for the change for the last four shillings.

  ‘So you’ve paid for some of it yourself, which means you’re not exactly a kept woman,’ Janet said, putting the penny change in her bag.

  I have to say that I could hardly tear myself away from my reflection, and I took the dress off very slowly and carefully.

  ‘You look like the cat with the cream,’ Janet said. I was smiling to myself, thinking about him, his face the night before, what his face would say that night when he saw me.

  When we got back to the boarding house, I scurried upstairs with the expensive carrier bag while Janet told her aunt that we hadn’t seen anything we liked. If she’d suspected I was going out that night in an expensive dress she might have asked too many questions. If she’d thought I was going out with one of her lodgers, she might even have stopped me going. That’s what it was like in those days.

  After the evening meal, I walked down the stairs, my raincoat draped over my shoulders, covering the dress. Janet walked behind me. We said goodbye at the door, grinning like mad at each other. We’d said I was going out with a friend from Chelmsford to a youth club she knew. Janet was going to put her aunt’s hair in rollers as a treat for letting us stay in her boarding house for such a reasonable price. I felt a bit guilty that I was having all the fun and Janet kept staying in. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Auntie and I have got all sorts of excitement planned. After the hair-washing, we’ll have a few rounds of gin rummy and a little whist. We might even play for money. It will be our very own casino, right here. Sure you don’t want to stay?’

  At nine o’clock I walked into the pub, my raincoat over my arm, conscious of the dress moving with me, making me graceful, gliding. My hair was pulled back, all shiny and, what do you call it? tumbling down to my shoulders. I could feel people’s eyes on me as I approached the bar. I glanced round the room, smiling at everyone, heady with anticipation, then turned back to the barman. He studied my face with approval, I felt, and my smile got even wider. ‘You’re the lady who was in here last night, aren’t you, with the Yanks?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re looking very nice tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I noticed he had a pound note sticking out of his shirt pocket.

  His expression changed. He frowned as he handed me a folded-up piece of paper. ‘I’ve to give you this.’ He almost spat the words, and I couldn’t think why. Did this man not like Americans? Did he think I was a loose woman? I looked at him. But he was polishing a glass, his face turned studiously away from me. I looked down at the folded piece of paper and I felt ever so slightly sick. I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever was in the note. Slowly I opened it and I read the words:

  I’m sorry, honey, we have to go back to base. You were great. I’ll remember you. B

  I looked up at the barman. Now he was wiping the counter, but glancing at me, not really looking. He said, almost to himself, ‘Yanks, eh?’ I was having difficulty breathing. Then he said casually, ‘Do you want a drink? On the house?’ He was so kind, the tears almost spilled over. I shook my head, I couldn’t speak. I turned and left the pub, trying to keep at least a little smile on my face. I put the raincoat on and dragged myself back to the boarding house. I walked upstairs to the room, kicked off the shoes and ripped off the dress.

  Janet came in. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I know.’ Twenty minutes after I’d gone, she said, the Americans came down to pay their bill. Her auntie nearly died. The Americans were peeling off the pound notes, and there she was with a scarf tied round her head, hiding four rows of rollers.

  I laughed. ‘Tell her she needn’t have worried.’

  ‘I’ll tell her she should have charged them twice as much.’ Janet straightened the gold shoes and put them neatly beside the wardrobe. She came and sat on the bed and put her arm round me. She said, ‘Can I borrow the dress for my sister’s wedding?’

  I smiled, but tears were rolling down my face.

  *

  I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear that it had ended like that. I was furious. ‘But how could he? You and he . . .’ I looked at Sylvie’s face, but she seemed calm, just picking a bit of fluff from her skirt.

  ‘These things happen.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  I didn’t know what to say. ‘Janet sounds nice,’ I said weakly.


  ‘Janet’s been with me through thick and thin.’

  ‘But when was this?’ I said, keeping my eyes on my stitching. Sandra’s comments were playing in my head.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother trying to do the sums, you’ll only get a headache,’ Sylvie said. ‘But yes. Bob played his part. And now there’s Mansell, and for that we must all be truly grateful.’

  The way she said it, I wasn’t sure she meant it.

  ‘I have to say that,’ she said, as if she’d read my mind, ‘or people think I’m a terrible mother. But if things hadn’t happened the way they happened, and if he hadn’t been born, well, he wouldn’t have been born.’

  ‘But did you see Bob again? Does he send you money? For Mansell?’

  ‘Bob? He hasn’t got any money.’

  ‘I thought all Americans had money – even in the war they were giving everyone nylons and chewing gum, weren’t they?’

  ‘I think that, relatively speaking, those weren’t expensive. And Bob was what they call white trash. He lived in a trailer. A caravan. A lot of poor Americans do it. Being in the Air Force was a great thing for him. Any spare cash he had he sent home to his dear old mom. That’s what he said, anyway.’

  I was so confused. Was Bob a good thing or a bad thing? He was an American serviceman, but he was poor and he loved his mum. Did Sylvie like him or not?

  ‘Why don’t you care about . . . Mansell’s father?’

  ‘It’s not me who doesn’t care, it’s his father who . . . who doesn’t show his feelings.’

  ‘But what if Mansell wants to know him?’

  ‘Well, that might be a hard one. His dad is very good at making himself scarce. As you see, I have very little company. Except for you, of course, and I wouldn’t be without that. If his dad wants to know Mansell when he’s older, I shan’t stop him. But basically, children need the people who love them and care for them. It doesn’t have to be their parents. It could be like the children of the kibbutz.’

  I didn’t know what a kibbutz was. It sounded like a made-up word. It sounded mad.

  ‘Naturally,’ Sandra would say. ‘That’s because she is mad.’

  But today she didn’t look mad; today she looked thoughtful and lovely.

  ‘So would you have given him away? To be adopted?’

  ‘No! A kibbutz isn’t about giving children away, it’s about the community caring for them. I’ve seen it in action. In Israel.’

  ‘Abroad? Did you go there? Have you got a passport?’

  ‘All these questions! No, I didn’t go there, I saw a film. So I didn’t need a passport. But the kibbutz system works very well. It’s a shame we don’t have them here. I was, in fact, under a lot of pressure to give Mansell away. People said he’d have a better life if he was adopted, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘Do you think he would have been better off adopted?’ I said, before I realised what I was saying. ‘Oh, I mean, I didn’t mean he’s not well off . . . he’s . . . he’s growing so well.’

  ‘What does it mean? Better off,’ Sylvie said thoughtfully, taking my question as just a question. ‘Materially, yes, he might have been. But he’s not adopted, and he never will be.’ She looked over at Mansell. ‘He’s mine.’

  Quietly I folded up the dress and put it back in its bag.

  ‘Well, what an afternoon!’ Sylvie said. ‘We’ve talked about a lot of things, haven’t we? But I’ve rather enjoyed it.’

  I looked at her. We both had tears in our eyes. ‘So have I,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the advice. About the Visiting Order.’

  Sylvie took the bag and held it against her. ‘I don’t think I said anything you hadn’t already thought yourself,’ she said. ‘I know it’s a tricky one.’

  I picked up my coat and walked to the door. I realised I felt better than I had for a long time.

  CHAPTER 16

  A Day Out in London

  SANDRA WAS WEARING HER CREAM straight skirt and her bottle-green twinset. I was wearing my straight grey skirt and my twinset because Danny had called us his cousins, which meant we were technically sisters, so we ought to look as if we were related. But this was just for the train. To get Sandra in the mood. I wasn’t going to the prison.

  She came with me to Oxford Street. She wanted her hair done and she didn’t know where else to go. There was a place called Chez Janine that we’d noticed before, at the top of a narrow fire escape in an alleyway near Oxford Circus. I left her climbing the metal stairs while I went into British Home Stores and looked at nightshirts.

  When we met up again I hadn’t bought a nightshirt but she’d had a lot of backcombing done. It was a beehive.

  ‘My friend Sandra, the rocker,’ I said.

  It looked surprising, but I knew why she’d done it.

  ‘He’ll like it like this,’ she said.

  There was still time to spare – she wasn’t due at the prison until two o’clock – so we decided to have egg and chips in Littlewoods.

  We put our trays on the table and hung our coats carefully over the backs of our chairs.

  Sandra leaned across the table for the tomato sauce. ‘I want to get a new suede,’ she said. ‘They’ve got some really good navy-blue ones in Sacks and Brendlor’s. It’ll go nicely with Danny’s leather.’

  ‘If he’s ever out long enough for you to walk down the street together.’ I was irritated. She kept looking at her watch. She was yearning to get to Wormwood Scrubs. ‘Why do you want to get engaged to Danny, anyway? He’s in and out of prison like a bad game of snakes and ladders. And you can’t really call him a mod. He’s never had a scooter, and he hasn’t got a car except the ones he nicks. He hasn’t even passed his driving test. And look at all the backcombing you’ve had done, just for him.’

  She pointed her knife at me. ‘You think too much about mods. It’s not just about that, you know.’ She put down her knife and fork. ‘All right, this is why I like Danny.’ She held up her hand and pointed to her fingers in turn. ‘One, he’s different, he’s beefy and strong. Two, he’s exciting. Had you ever been in an Austin Seven before? No. Have you ever had a letter from a boy in prison? No. And – newsflash – I’m not going to end up marrying someone who wears glasses.’

  ‘Nor am I! I don’t know anyone who wears glasses.’

  ‘Not yet. But you know you will. You’ll go off to college and meet lots of interesting people. Danny’s the most interesting thing I’ve bumped into since I fell over next door’s sausage dog. I know that’s not saying much, but we do live in Chelmsford. And,’ she held up her hand again, ‘three, four and five – he’s a good kisser.’ She crowed with laughter.

  ‘But you could do it too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go to college.’

  ‘Yeah, my mum and dad are likely to let that happen.’ She picked up her knife and fork.

  ‘Or, I don’t know, come up here to London, to get a job. I could go to college here. We could share a flat or something. That’s what Cray’s going to do. Lots of people are doing that now. Do you really want to get married to a jailbird? You could do loads of things. You could get a job in one of the big hotels, on the reception desk.’ Sandra knew that was a job I’d quite like myself. ‘Or what about working in Carnaby Street? You’d probably get the clothes cheaper. They like people who chat. You chat. The Beatles might come in.’ I was seeing the life we could have, swinging London girls in fashionable clothes, jumping onto a red London bus to get to work. There were so many possibilities.

  She shook her head. ‘I like our life in Chelmsford. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was true, I did like our life.

  ‘Well, then.’

  I knew I couldn’t have both. I didn’t know what to think.

  ‘What time is it?’ Sandra said.

  *

  I said I’d walk her down to Tottenham Court Road Underground station.

  We stopped at a kiosk on the way for her to buy some cigarettes and chocolate. As we got to the
Underground, she said, ‘Oh, come with me. I can’t go on my own, they’ll ask me where you are. We do look like sisters, and that eyeliner makes you look much older.’

  I’d known all along she’d say this. And I had sort of known all along that I would go with her. She needed me to go with her, and I wouldn’t have known what to do on my own for three hours.

  Then she added reluctantly, ‘And Danny asked me specially to bring you, in the letter. He underlined it.’

  ‘He underlines everything.’ But I was pleased.

  We got on the Central Line train and travelled to Shepherd’s Bush. The platform was dark and grimy, and the tunnels on the way out were long and empty. I wasn’t sure it was worth it.

  ‘Wormwood Scrubs?’ said the ticket collector incredulously, when Sandra asked the way. ‘Wormwood Scrubs? It’s not here.’ He laughed, looking across at the ticket office, and said loudly, ‘Why would anyone think Wormwood Scrubs is at Shepherd’s Bush?’

  I could see Sandra thinking, Because that’s the postmark on his letters. But she said nothing. I was thinking, We don’t have to go, we can’t find it, we don’t have to go.

  ‘You’ve got to get off at East Acton if you want to go to Wormwood Scrubs.’ He was still laughing. The laughing was a bad omen. He knew who we were. He could tell we weren’t sisters, he knew we weren’t going to visit our cousin. He was enjoying our stupidity. ‘East Acton is two more stops.’

  Sandra said, ‘Well, give us our tickets back, then, so we can go there,’ as if it was his fault we’d got off too early. ‘Cheek,’ she said, and I felt better.

  East Acton wasn’t underground at all; there were trees and gardens. And signs to the large grey stone prison. We followed a trickle of women with children in pushchairs through a narrow side door.

  As we handed in the Visiting Order I remembered the chocolate. As well as the two packets of cigarettes, Sandra had bought Danny a large liqueur chocolate wrapped in silver paper, laughing, saying, ‘He’ll get a surprise when he eats this.’ And I had laughed too, thinking I wouldn’t be there, imagining the look on his face as unexpected alcohol dripped down his throat. Now we were inside the prison walls. We were taking alcohol to a prisoner, which had to be illegal, and we weren’t related, to him or to each other, and despite everything she had said, we probably were underage to be visiting a prison. What if they searched us and found the chocolate? What would they do to us? What if they separated us and grilled us? What would Sandra say? What would I say? Would they keep us in Wormwood Scrubs, or would they haul us off to a women’s prison?