The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Val and Noelle were leaving and I ran over to them. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘You were beautiful,’ said Noelle. ‘Particularly the singing.’

  ‘It was fab,’ Val said. ‘Will you be strong enough to come into work tomorrow, or have you got a date with Hollywood?’

  ‘I’m accepting no offers tonight,’ I said. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Mrs Grenville came across, buttoning her coat. ‘We enjoyed it very much. Didn’t we, Jeremy?’

  Jeremy frowned. ‘I liked your plastic mac,’ he said.

  I smiled. ‘See you on Sunday.’

  I walked over to the side of the hall where Sandra was waiting for me. But I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to stay in the half-magic that was left of the pantomime.

  ‘I didn’t know your part was going to be so big.’ Sandra lowered her voice. ‘I was so embarrassed. Sylvie was laughing like a hyena all the way through.’

  ‘She did that on purpose. I was pleased about that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to sit next to her.’

  A little girl who had been a Dancing Broomstick in Cinders’ kitchen came up to me, still in her besom costume. ‘Bye, Linda, see you next term,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘OK, Libby, have a nice Christmas.’

  ‘Thank you. And you.’ She slid away.

  Ruth Danes, the Head Girl, came past. ‘Well done, Linda, you were great.’

  ‘Thanks, Ruth.’ She would never normally talk to me.

  Sylvie appeared. ‘You were wonderful, my girl.’ She paused. ‘Kenny says shall we go to the Compasses for a celebratory drink?’

  I didn’t want to go there, either. I looked at Sandra. She frowned.

  ‘OK, chicken,’ Sylvie said. ‘Enjoy your night.’ She and Kenny walked off, arm in arm.

  ‘That Kenny,’ Sandra said. ‘What does she see in him?’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ I said carefully.

  ‘If you say so, but imagine kissing someone with a beard.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Sandra looked at her watch. ‘Come on. If we’re lucky we might get a lift.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘Cooky had to work late but I said if he was outside your school at half past ten he might discover the secrets of the Orient. Well, the secrets of our estate. Some of them.’

  My eyes flicked down to her left hand. There was no eternity ring on her third finger.

  Everyone had gone. Mr Wallis the caretaker was limping round the hall, rearranging chairs. ‘I like Dudley Moore,’ he said as he passed us. ‘You weren’t bad.’

  Sandra and I walked out of the school, arm in arm, singing, ‘I’d love you on a scooter if your hooter didn’t make me break my heart’, which was a song the Beverley Sisters sang in Act One of the pantomime. I still felt drunk with the play. People laughing and laughing. Charlotte and I harmonising to ‘Poison Ivy’. A perfect day.

  And now it was the start of the school holidays, it was only a week till Christmas and I had an idea that I knew where I was going. I wanted to be an actress. I would apply to drama school; perhaps I’d even try for RADA, like Cray had said. I would be famous.

  As we got to the road, the lights of the Corsair flicked on. The car rolled towards us. I said I didn’t want a lift, I’d walk home. ‘Sure?’ said Sandra.

  ‘Yes.’ I grinned.

  She frowned. ‘Are you all right? You’ve not taken a few purple hearts, have you?’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ I said. ‘Goodnight.’

  I walked up to our house, round the side to the back door and into the kitchen. ‘Better a Lambretta, than a carriage for a marriage’, I sang to Judith, who was making a cup of cocoa. It was the song from the last scene.

  ‘Well, after the pain of tonight’s rendition of “Poison Ivy”, I am happy to announce that I don’t need to listen to your singing anymore,’ she said.

  ‘Are you leaving home?’

  ‘No. Come into the front room.’

  It was a record player, in square brown leatherette. ‘Dad bought it for all of us for Christmas.’

  ‘But we haven’t got any records,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what you think, but James, who is so boring in your eyes, brought round this.’ It was an LP of the Supremes.

  Carefully she took it out of the cover and then the inner sleeve. She turned a knob with a click, slid the record onto the turntable and gently put the needle in place. The echoing handclapping which was the start of ‘Baby Love’ filled the room.

  ‘How come he’s given you the Supremes?’ I said. ‘I thought he liked folk.’

  ‘He says they’re very good.’ She held out her hand and we started jiving in a clumsy, mismatched way. We’d just decided to do the hand jive when the phone rang.

  ‘It won’t be for me. Everyone I know has gone off somewhere lovely for the holiday,’ Judith said, dramatically. ‘It’s only me left in this dreary little town.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me hold you back,’ I said. ‘This dreary little town might be less dreary if you went with them.’

  The phone kept ringing. I answered it.

  The line crackled and I could hear the sound of people shouting and laughing, then Sylvie’s voice came down the line. ‘Ah, you’re at home, Linda! So now I must ask you, would you like to come round to our house for a Christmas drink on Christmas Day? All the family are coming, including the Braintree crowd, so it would be rather nice if you could be there too.’

  I took a breath. There were a million reasons why I would not like to go round to their house on Christmas Day, and not just because I didn’t really want to be in the same room as her Uncle Peter. Christmas Day was so lovely and special. Waking up early to find a pillowcase full of presents at the foot of the bed, and then going downstairs to open our big presents, a different armchair for each of us, spilling with gifts from the aunties as well as from Mum and Dad. And then handing out the presents I’d bought and painstakingly wrapped in the gold and red cellophane paper I’d sent off for with Vim coupons. Spending the morning trying on new clothes, reading new books and writing with new pens on new stationery. Then Christmas dinner, chicken and roast potatoes and brussels sprouts, and Christmas pudding with sixpences. And Christmas Top of the Pops while we were eating.

  ‘I suppose I could come in the afternoon.’ There was always a lull in the afternoon till Uncle Don came up with our Christmas annuals, although this year I had asked for a copy of Bonjour Tristesse, in English, that Miss Harmon had mentioned in class, because Honey, my magazine, didn’t have an annual.

  ‘Do you think you could come in the morning? Because it is going to be quite an important day and the morning is – is the special part,’ Sylvie said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come and you’ll see.’

  I told Mum, thinking that she’d say no, you’ve got to stay in and be with the family, like she did when I asked if I could go over to Sandra’s on Sunday mornings. But no. ‘Of course you must go,’ she said. ‘She’s had a very tough year.’

  ‘So have I,’ I said to Judith. ‘Nobody’s coming to see me.’

  ‘That’s probably because there is no one who wants to come.’

  CHAPTER 30

  Christmas Day

  MRS WESTON, WITH A RED, cooking face, wearing one of her pink work overalls, let me in. She walked into the kitchen and, alone, I stepped into the living room. It was hot and crowded and full of cigarette smoke. Kenny was there, sitting on one of the hard kitchen chairs, his banjo propped up against his leg. I’d forgotten about the banjo. Sylvie’s Auntie Rita and Uncle Peter, in a check shirt with all its buttons, sat smoking in the armchairs. Her nan and Uncle Tommy, from Braintree, were on the settee. Sylvie, in her old brown cardigan and black skirt, stood by the sideboard, with Mansell squirming in her arms.

  Everyone stopped talking as I came into the room. ‘At last!’ Peter said. ‘Now perhaps we can get on wi
th the show. Ooh, fancy shoes. Have you just come out of Emergency Ward 10?’

  ‘It’s called fashion,’ I said. I was wearing my new Christmas outfit, grey skirt and white broderie anglaise blouse, with my moccasins. ‘Mod fashion.’

  ‘Thank God for rockers, then, that’s all I can say. At least with a winkle-picker you can poke someone’s eye out. Moccasins!’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Rita said.

  I perched on the arm of the settee, feeling showy and new and out of place.

  Sylvie passed Mansell to me. ‘All right, chicken?’ she said. I nodded.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re here.’ She put on a yellow frilly apron and brought a plate of mince pies from the kitchen and handed them round. Every time she passed Kenny, she touched his hair or plucked the sleeve of his jumper. Once she trailed her fingers across the strings of the banjo, and a small plinky-plonk sound followed her round the room.

  The mince pies were dry and had a strange aftertaste, and the coffee was very pale and tasted like hot water. Peter had a small bottle of something that he was pouring surreptitiously into his cup.

  I felt homesick, even though I was just down the road and I was only staying for half an hour before I went home for my dinner.

  Peter suddenly said, ‘Let’s have a cracker!’ It wasn’t how we did it at home. We didn’t have crackers till teatime. But it was something to concentrate on.

  Sylvie’s nan said, ‘Where’s my bag? They’re in my bag.’

  ‘It’s behind you, Nan,’ Sylvie said. She brought round the box of crackers, stroking Kenny’s cheek as he selected his. We pulled the crackers and everyone put on a paper crown and marvelled at their tiny plastic gift, then rifled through the crepe paper and the inner cardboard roll to find the joke.

  Her nan read aloud, ‘Why do bees hum?’

  Kenny said, ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Because they don’t know the words!’ Sylvie said. ‘We had that one last year.’

  Peter stood up, put his lighted cigarette behind his ear and coughed loudly. ‘What do you call a man with only one ball?’

  ‘You didn’t get that out of the cracker!’ Rita slapped his arm and pulled at him to sit down.

  Sylvie tapped the side of her cup with a spoon and said, ‘He-hem. Can we have a little hush? We have an announcement to make.’ She looked at Kenny and a sickly smile came over his face, and a weird sort of expression came over hers. ‘Go on, Kenny.’ She nudged him.

  ‘We . . . Sylvie and I . . . we . . .’

  ‘What?’ Peter called. ‘What’s going on?’ He turned to Rita. ‘She’s not having another one, is she?’ Rita shook her head sharply.

  Kenny looked at Sylvie.

  ‘Come on, mate. Then we can all go down the pub.’ Peter looked at me and winked.

  ‘You’re not going down the pub,’ Rita said.

  ‘Well . . .’ Kenny coughed. Sylvie stroked his arm encouragingly. ‘Today we’re . . . we’re getting engaged today, and we’d like to invite you all to our wedding.’

  There was silence in the room.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Rita wiped her hand across her face. ‘Well, I suppose it’ll keep that Bob at bay.’ Her voice echoed round the room.

  There was a pause, then, ‘Let’s have a party!’ bellowed Peter. ‘Let’s drink to the happy couple.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I said. I didn’t want to have to say no to Peter when he offered me a drink, as he surely would, and then we’d get into an argument about goody-goodies and probably my mum would come into it. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Sylvie walked me to the front door. ‘Oh, Linda, don’t look sad. I’m sorry Peter was so raucous.’

  ‘It’s not Peter,’ I said. ‘It’s . . . it’s your announcement.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh. But won’t you smile, just a little bit, and wish me luck?’

  I ducked my head away from her hand as she stretched to stroke my hair. ‘When did you decide to get engaged?’

  ‘The night of your pantomime.’ I should have gone for that drink, I thought.

  ‘And you and I had had that very helpful conversation about what one wants from life.’

  ‘Did we? Wasn’t that my life we were talking about? I mean . . .’

  She smiled dreamily. ‘And it was very nice to meet up with him again on the Aldermaston march.’

  The Aldermaston! That was months ago. All this time, Kenny could have been dealing with her and all her problems. I needn’t have worried. I could have been doing other things, spending more time with Sandra; I could have been concentrating on my schoolwork. Well, perhaps I had been doing a bit of homework, but I wouldn’t have been worried about Sylvie. She was always at the back of my mind: where was she? how was she feeling? was she safe? I had wasted my time.

  As if I’d spoken aloud, she said, ‘But he could never have looked after me like you do, Linda, chicken.’

  I pulled open the front door.

  ‘Oh, don’t go like this,’ she said mournfully. ‘I’ll tell you something special. Just you.’

  I thought she was going to say she wanted me to be a bridesmaid. That might, just might have made it all right.

  ‘You will be the first person to know the date of the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ I stepped petulantly onto the porch. Then I swivelled round. ‘If you love Bob, why aren’t you marrying him?’

  ‘Oh, Linda,’ she said. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

  ‘But how can you marry Kenny? He’s so – so –’

  ‘He’s serious, yes, but he thinks about things and he has a nice, quiet sense of humour.’

  ‘He must have, to wear those clothes.’

  She smiled, sadly. ‘And if I . . . if I have a husband, I’ll be Mrs Stable, the perfect mother. Mrs Sane and Serious.’

  ‘And Mrs Sadd,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘He asked me, Linda. Nobody else asked me.’ She gazed at me with that strange expression again.

  *

  I had left Sylvie’s earlier than I’d expected, so I walked round to Sandra’s. We had already exchanged gifts, on Christmas Eve. I had given her some earrings and she had given me a silver bangle. Now I told her about Sylvie’s engagement.

  ‘What did you say?’ Sandra said.

  ‘What could I say?’

  ‘Am I invited to the wedding?’ she said.

  ‘I hope so. I’m not going on my own.’

  *

  ‘You had a visitor,’ Judith said, as I walked through the front door. She was swaying up and down the hall with her new guitar, pretending to be a walking troubadour who knew three chords.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He left you this.’

  Judith handed me a smooth, pale blue envelope. I didn’t recognise the handwriting. ‘Perhaps it’s an early Valentine’s card,’ I said, hopefully, ripping open the envelope. Small pieces floated out.

  ‘That looks like confetti,’ Judith said.

  It was an invitation, on thick white card embossed with silver. ‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘Sylvie’s getting married.’

  ‘Bully for her.’

  ‘I bet Kenny brought it. She must have been feeling guilty.’

  Judith strummed a chord.

  I peered at the ornate silver writing. ‘Blimey! I’m not surprised it was hand-delivered.’ Judith looked up. ‘The wedding’s in three weeks!’

  CHAPTER 31

  Tap

  TWO DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS, Dad was in the front room listening to an LP of the Red Army Choir he’d bought himself as a Christmas present; Judith was in the bedroom, playing her guitar; Mum and Auntie Sheila, who was staying with us for a few days, were in the living room watching telly, eating the sweets that were left over from a selection box; and I was in the kitchen, cooking. I was making a cheap, egg-free pudding because eggs were expensive. Apple crumble didn’t have eggs.

  The mixture was just turning into crumbs between my fingers when the ph
one rang. ‘Telephone!’ I shouted. ‘Phone!’ The phone kept ringing.

  I walked into the hall, wiping my hands on the apron I was wearing. It made me feel like a different person, like someone sensible. I picked up the receiver.

  And yet still my heart thudded when a voice said, ‘Is that Linda?’ I had dreamed of Tap’s phone calls so often I knew who it was. And he had said my name. Now. When it almost didn’t matter.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘At least you’re in,’ he said.

  ‘Mmm. Yes, I am.’ His tone implied I was last on the list. I wondered who else he’d rung.

  ‘How you getting on?’ he said uneasily.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m just doing some cooking. How did you get my number?’

  ‘Phone directory.’

  ‘Really?’ He knew my name and my surname? Now?

  There was a pause. ‘You coming to the trial of the century?’

  ‘Which trial do you mean?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Your trial! When is it?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, I’m not at work this week,’ I said. ‘I’ll try and come.’

  There was a pause. ‘How’s the Mini?’ I said.

  ‘History. I’m about to get myself a new car. American. It’s a Corvette. Powder blue. Pretty flash. I’m getting it tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? It’s a bit late, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? It ain’t nine o’clock yet. Yeah, tonight’s the night.’

  ‘Will it be expensive?’

  ‘Depends what you mean, expensive.’

  I didn’t know what I meant. ‘So at last you’re getting your American car.’

  ‘What you talking about?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘You were going to get one from the base, weren’t you? A Chevy?’

  ‘Blimey, you’ve got a good memory. Nah, that fell through.’ There was silence.

  ‘So . . . so this one,’ I said. ‘Has it got those big wings?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I can see you driving round town in that.’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I can see you with the windows down,’ I said, ‘your elbow on the window, good music coming out.’