The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘Linda,’ I said. He crowed and clapped his hands. ‘Mama.’

  ‘Linda,’ I said. He didn’t understand the concept. I looked over at Mrs Weston and pointed at the pram. She smiled and nodded at me.

  During our walk, Mansell sat up and looked at dogs and gurgled at trees and grizzled till I gave him his bottle, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Without thinking I wheeled the pram back into the Crescent. I hadn’t seen Sylvie since the day I’d seen Bob, and Sylvie had behaved so oddly when Kenny was there, making comments about glasses and politics. But I realised I wanted to see her, even if she made me furious. I wanted to talk to her. I needed to talk to her.

  She answered the door in a petticoat and her old brown cardigan. ‘I was just having a little nap. So you’ve come at the right time for a cup of tea.’ She looked at my face. ‘Are you all right? Come in, let’s put the kettle on. You can give Mansell a bit of banana.’

  I sat down with Mansell on my lap while Sylvie made the tea. ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  I wanted to tell her everything about Sandra, but her mum worked with Sandra’s mum. I wanted to tell her about Bob and Wethersfield, but I didn’t dare. I said nothing.

  ‘What is it?’ Sylvie said.

  It was too much. She was being too nice. ‘It’s Sandra,’ I said. ‘She’s eloped.’

  Sylvie’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Well!’ she said. ‘Who with?’

  ‘Danny, of course,’ I said.

  ‘When did she go?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘And you’re not going with her?’

  ‘I wanted to, but . . .’

  ‘Yes, I don’t think three is a good number at an elopement,’ she said. ‘Does her mum know?’

  ‘No. You won’t tell her, will you? You won’t say anything to your mum?’ Even as I said it, I wasn’t sure I meant it.

  Sylvie looked at me doubtfully. ‘On condition that you keep me posted about what’s happening, my lips are sealed. Tell me as soon as you get any news. Give or take a few hours of sleep, of course. Or if you’re at school.’

  ‘It’s the summer holiday. Till September. She’d better not be away that long,’ I said. ‘She’s coming back. She said she’s coming back.’

  ‘Oh, chicken,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you try and stop her?’

  ‘I did, but she was so excited and thrilled. She bought her trousseau and a wedding ring and everything.’

  Sylvie’s eyes widened. ‘She bought the ring?’

  ‘And there was a parcel.’

  ‘A parcel?’

  ‘There were two. One she gave to Danny. Your Uncle Peter saw her and told her dad . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So that’s what that was all about.’

  ‘The parcels came to our house, because all her letters come to our house.’

  ‘I see. What was in them? The parcels, mean’

  ‘I don’t know, but it must be something illegal.’

  ‘And what happened to the second one?’

  ‘Sandra’s got it. I tried to give it to him and the police arrived. I could have been arrested. Now she won’t give it to him till they’re married.’

  ‘And you think . . .?’

  ‘I think he’s only saying he’ll marry her because of the parcel. What if the police find them before she gives it to him? She could go to jail.’ I wanted her to say I was being foolish and that the parcel was probably nothing illegal at all.

  ‘That all sounds rather unsatisfactory.’ She gazed at me. ‘They came to your house.’

  ‘They had to, because of her mum and dad.’

  ‘But parcels! That’s a bit naughty of her.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘But she’s my friend.’

  ‘There comes a time when friends have to part.’

  ‘I know that too,’ I said sadly. ‘I think we’ve both been thinking that. We’ll probably go to separate prisons.’ I wanted to cry.

  ‘Oh, cheer up, chicken. Now then, have you told anyone else?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, you’ve told me now. I won’t tell anyone, unless you want me to. But I will keep your story here.’ She put her hand on her chest. ‘So you can relax.’

  ‘But what if . . .?’

  ‘We will cross any bridges that need crossing, when and if we come to them.’

  I knew she was just saying that. I knew that her having my problems in her heart didn’t actually make them disappear. But I felt better. I felt lighter. ‘And there’s something else,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s about that day we went to Wethersfield.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well – we asked about Bob.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I was trying to find him for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You were afraid you’d lose the baby because you didn’t have a husband.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘You said. That day, after you . . . after you tried . . .’

  ‘Oh yes. I was very sad then. But I don’t . . .’

  ‘And then he came to your house.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘But you were out, and he left.’

  ‘Oh, that’s typical. But chicken, I knew where he was. He knows where I am. He writes to me about once every two or three months. A postcard. Once he even sent a letter. Oh, and that awful Valentine’s card we laughed about.’

  ‘We didn’t! You didn’t say it was from him. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important to you, chicken. Or perhaps I didn’t want it to be important.’

  ‘Of course it’s important. Why do you always say that? Mansell’s important, so his dad’s important.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t think so at first, that’s for sure.’

  ‘When did you tell him?’

  ‘Almost as soon as Mansell was born. It seemed only right he should know. I hadn’t seen him for a little while.’

  ‘How did you know where he was?’

  ‘I went to the base. At Wethersfield. There was a dance, and I went with Janet. I’m sure I told you that part.’

  ‘No. I would have remembered. You certainly didn’t say you’d seen Bob there. Or anywhere, apart from Great Yarmouth.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I? He was there. For a moment or two it was quite civilised. He’s a very good dancer.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s a very good dancer?’ I shouted.

  ‘He dances well. Why are you so upset?’

  I gulped. ‘It’s because I feel so stupid. We went up to Wethersfield. We got hauled in front of some general. Sandra ruined her stockings.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ She put her arms round me and pulled me to her. She rocked me back and forth. Her breasts were going up and down as she tried to control her laughter.

  ‘But what are you going to do?’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean? Nothing. I have Kenny.’

  ‘But what about Bob? Doesn’t he deserve some consideration? For Mansell’s sake, if for no other reason.’

  ‘The question doesn’t arise,’ she said crisply.

  ‘But I thought that’s what you wanted. To be with Bob. The way you told the story.’

  ‘That’s because it’s a good story. I like to tell it. Not everything in it is absolutely true. But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

  I felt young and stupid and clumsy. I felt I was ten foot tall and weighed twenty-five stone and filled up the kitchen with my stupid clumsiness. I stood up to go.

  Sylvie followed me into the hall.

  I put my hand out to open the door, then, ‘No!’ I said, ‘No, it’s not just a story. You loved Bob.’

  Suddenly it felt like a dangerous thing to say. A strange look passed over her face, as if she was seeing something far away. She said nothing. We stood in silence. I didn’t know what I expected her to say, but I didn’t want to leave until she’d said i
t.

  She took a breath. ‘All right, yes, I loved him. And yes, I suppose I still do. But I was pregnant, Linda! You can’t talk about love when you’re pregnant. You have to talk about a house and clothes and baby food.’ Her voice trembled. ‘And when you’ve had the child, you need security and someone beside you.’

  ‘I think that’s second best,’ I said.

  ‘Oh Linda, don’t say that. I’m doing what I can.’

  We stood in the hallway looking at each other. ‘Kenny’s a good man,’ she said gently. But there were tears in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 24

  Without Sandra

  THE WEEK DRAGGED ON. When Mum got in from work on Tuesday I was watching Five O’Clock Club on telly. Although Five O’Clock Club had been a programme that gave the Beatles one of their first TV appearances, it was a children’s programme and I didn’t normally watch it. Mum said, ‘Why are you lolling about looking so miserable?’

  ‘No reason. I’ve got nothing to do. Sandra’s gone away.’ I sat up straight. ‘To stay with a friend,’ I added quickly. ‘For a few days.’

  ‘Well, if you really are at a loose end, why don’t you go to the CND meeting tonight? You enjoyed it last time, didn’t you?’

  ‘Is there a film?’

  ‘No, it’s a talk tonight, Helen Grenville was saying.’

  I sighed.

  ‘I think it’s Pat Arrowsmith. She’s one of the founders of CND. She’s a good speaker, I’ve heard. She doesn’t just talk about nuclear disarmament. She’s been to prison for her beliefs, and I think she’s even been force-fed, rather like the suffragettes. So she talks about prison conditions, too, which should interest you.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘No, it’s our Women’s Fellowship meeting tonight. And anyway, it’s being organised by the Youth CND group, so I don’t think they’d appreciate older folk.’

  ‘So I’d have to go on my own?’

  ‘Well, you know where it is, and you’re sure to know one or two people.’

  ‘Yes, people with beards. The question is, do I want to know them?’

  ‘Don’t be so silly. Lay the table.’

  As the tablecloth billowed across the table, I remembered the Aldermaston march. I remembered the singing and the banners, and the feeling of everyone fighting for something they believed in, the sense that I might be part of something that was actually making a difference. I thought of the conversations we’d had, about politics, but also about music and even telly. I remembered the jokes, the laughter. I wanted to have those conversations regularly, not just once a year on the march – I wondered if going to the Youth CND meeting would be like that.

  *

  I caught the bus into town. During tea I’d thought about what to wear. I was always pleased with how I looked as a mod, but I didn’t always fit in. I had decided to wear my big thin black jumper and my brown and white dogtooth check skirt. Combined with my moccasins, I felt I was still being true to mod, but not too mod. And I thought the duffel coat was sensible.

  The Friends’ Meeting House was in Rainsford Road. When I got off the bus at the bus station, I stood uncertainly on the pavement. Suddenly I really wanted to turn left, stroll into the centre of town, along London Road and slip down into the Orpheus, say hello to a few people, buy a glass of milk and put ‘Hi-Heel Sneakers’ on the jukebox. But I knew I had to move on. I had at least to try something different. This could be a new part of my life. Perhaps it was only because Sandra had gone that I could do this.

  I turned right and walked towards the low neat modern building that was the Friends’ Meeting House.

  I walked up the steps and into a wide, light foyer which seemed to be full of beatniks. The men all appeared to have beards. The girls all wore sloppy jumpers, but not like mine – theirs were thick and patterned, not thin and plain. There was a lot of backcombed hair. It was like the back seat of the coach to the Aldermaston march.

  As the doors closed slowly behind me the conversation in the foyer stopped and everyone turned to look at me.

  A girl I thought I recognised walked towards me, smiling. She was holding two glasses of water. ‘Linda? You’re Linda, aren’t you? How nice to see you.’ It was Olivia Pearson from school. She was in the year above me. I was surprised she recognised me. I knew her because she always looked very stylish in her school uniform; she managed to make her skirt swing really elegantly, and she had metal tips on the heels of her shoes that clicked in a really cool way when she walked out of assembly. She was wearing a straight black dress that came to her knees and thick black stockings. Her curly hair was pulled back into a pony tail. ‘This is your first meeting, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Come with me.’ As she spoke to me the conversation in the room began again.

  We walked into a large, light room. Olivia put the glasses of water onto a table at the front of the room, then guided me to a seat in a middle row and sat down beside me.

  She looked at her watch. ‘I think they’ll give it a couple more minutes. One or two haven’t arrived yet.’

  ‘Do I have to sign in or anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I remember when you wore your CND badge to school. I was really impressed.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve been hoping you would come to the meetings.’

  ‘But I haven’t seen you on the Aldermaston,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, that’s because I usually march with Hertford CND, because my sister and my dad live there.’

  I looked around the room. People were wandering in. ‘Do you think meetings like this can change things?’

  ‘If we didn’t have meetings like this we wouldn’t have the numbers of people that come on the march. It’s all about organisation. If we all do something, then big things happen.’

  A man with a thick black beard and black horn-rimmed glasses walked in with a woman in jeans and a big overcoat, with short dark hair. The man called the meeting to order, told us he was Don, the chairman of the group, and introduced Pat Arrowsmith.

  It was a small meeting – there were only fifteen of us – and there were empty seats in the front row. Later Olivia said that was an excellent turnout. Pat Arrowsmith didn’t seem concerned at the size of the gathering and thanked the group for inviting her. She spoke about Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the terrible long-lasting damage caused by nuclear weapons. Some things I knew already, other things were new to me: children being born with deformities, strange illnesses appearing in people who had been in the vicinity. Then she talked about being arrested and what prison had been like, not just for her as a political campaigner, but for the ordinary women prisoners. And she talked about what we could do – demonstrate, write letters, have discussions, if necessary get arrested.

  I was enthralled by everything she said.

  At the end of the meeting one or two people asked questions, about CND and whether the campaign went far enough. A girl with long straight hair asked whether CND was doing enough about the Vietnam War. Someone else called out that they were doing too much. Pat Arrowsmith answered carefully and said you couldn’t divide the two because of the power the Americans had in the world and in the arms race. There was a short discussion about unilateral disarmament, could it ever work and shouldn’t we push for all countries to ban the bomb, not just our own. Then someone at the back asked why were there always trad jazz bands on the Aldermaston march – a question I appreciated – and someone said it was because modern jazz wasn’t loud enough. Everybody laughed. Then Don closed the meeting and thanked Pat Arrowsmith, who had to leave to catch a train back to London to speak at another meeting.

  The time had flown.

  ‘I need a pint and a smoke. Let’s go up to the County Hotel,’ said someone in a tweed jacket with leather patches. He had been holding a pipe during the meeting.

  ‘That’s Guy,’ Olivia whispered. ‘He’s a poet.’

  A poet! Yet he looked so ordinary. Apart from
the pipe.

  ‘The one who made the joke was Greg. He’s got a Morgan.’

  ‘What’s a Morgan?’

  ‘It’s a crazy car, and it’s always breaking down and he’s always trying to mend it. He does tend to smell of oil and petrol. But he’s very good at offering lifts.’

  *

  The group of about ten people ambled up to the County Hotel, still talking about the meeting. I didn’t know if I was dreading the possibility of seeing someone I knew or if I was proud to be in this new group. I decided I rather liked it.

  ‘So? What did you think?’ Olivia asked as we walked into a small lounge area. ‘Will you come again?’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘I enjoyed it. It was . . . inspiring.’ I sat down beside her. Greg asked people what they wanted to drink. Everyone was reaching into their pockets or purses for money. ‘It was just what I wanted.’ I took out half a crown.

  ‘Put it away,’ Olivia said, ‘this one’s on me.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Sandra’s Story

  I WOKE UP WITH A START. What? What was it? My heart was beating like a Dave Clark Five record. What had woken me up? Was it Mum coming into the bedroom to have another go at me for arriving home late for tea? Or was it Judith, complaining I’d been wearing her skirt? Or was it Mr Brady, shouting from across the road that he knew Sandra hadn’t gone to visit Halina and demanding the truth?

  But it was the middle of the night. I could hear Dad snoring next door.

  I closed my eyes and curled into the blankets. Then something knocked against the window. It was something outside, in the back garden. It happened again, a tap tap on the glass. My heart thudded.

  ‘Judith,’ I hissed. ‘Judith.’

  ‘What?’ She turned over.

  ‘There’s someone outside.’

  ‘No there isn’t.’

  ‘There was a noise. In the garden.’

  ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘Not that noise.’

  ‘It must have been a hedgehog.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. Will you look out of the window and see?’

  ‘No, because I don’t care. Go to sleep.’