The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘Not the Beatles,’ we said together.

  ‘Driving down London Road, giving them all a wave.’

  ‘Or two fingers. Yeah.’ There was a pause. ‘And then?’

  He wanted me to keep the conversation going. ‘Then if you wanted to show people what the car could do, you could . . . take it on the bypass.’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘And it would be the Animals on the wireless, singing “It’s My Life”.’

  ‘Yeah, man,’ he said in his put-on American accent, ‘that’d be great. Then where?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I couldn’t think. ‘You could drive it to court. You could park it outside, run up the steps, slam open the doors of the courtroom and tell them, “You can’t put me away, I’ve got a car that needs a lot of attention”.’

  ‘It ain’t funny.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ I’d spoiled it. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There was a silence and then a sort of gulp. I wondered if he was crying. He coughed. ‘So anyway, I’m getting it. The car. From this Yank.’

  ‘I bet it’ll really suit you.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sounded so sad. ‘Fuck off!’ he shouted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not you, someone wants to use the phone. Will you come, then? Tomorrow morning. Ten thirty.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  From the front room the voices of the Red Army Choir rose to a crescendo of powerful harmony and now I felt a sob in my throat. They didn’t sing about religion, they sang about work and struggle, they sang together with enormous emotion and control, first whispering in a sort of chant and then bursting out into a glorious celebration of victory and justice. At that moment the music reflected my own feelings. I would go to court alone; I would support Tap in his hour of need. I would be there and he would know it, and he would turn and see me and be uplifted by my presence.

  *

  Grey clouds hung low in the sky and cars had their headlights on as they swished by in the rain. I ran up the steps of the Shire Hall. I scanned the list of cases. There was Tap’s name, R v Tappling, 10.30 in Court Two, but beside it there was a note in blue pencil, ‘Adjourned till 2’.

  Four hours! I decided I’d go to the library for a while, and then I’d go to the Orpheus.

  As I came out of the Shire Hall, Mick Flynn was walking past the Saracen’s Head pub with his mate Jeff. As they came towards me Jeff said, ‘Watcha, Linda.’ He looked as if he was on his way to work, in white overalls and big boots that were streaked with rain and dust. ‘You didn’t come for the trial?’ Mick said.

  ‘Yes, he rang me last night.’

  Mick sighed. ‘It’s not happening.’

  ‘I know. It’s been adjourned till two o’clock.’

  ‘It won’t be happening today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jeff said, ‘I’ve got to get off to work. All right, Mick?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be all right. I’ve got Linda with me now.’

  Jeff ambled down New Street.

  ‘So what’s happened?’ I said.

  Mick lifted his head. ‘He nicked a car from some Yank.’

  ‘Nicked it?’

  ‘There was a chase.’

  ‘But he was buying it, last night.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t buy it. And then there was an accident.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Not him,’ Mick said. ‘He crashed the car, the car turned over and he knocked this lady down. Then he got arrested. Half past eleven last night.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Was it an American car?’

  ‘Yeah, apparently,’ Mick said.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  Mick almost drawled, ‘He broke his leg.’

  I took a breath. An image of a crash flashed into my head, the crack of a bone. I couldn’t understand his expression, he looked so serious.

  ‘The lady he knocked over didn’t make it,’ Mick said. ‘It was a pensioner. She’d just got off the bus. He knocked her flying.’ Mick almost spat, as if he was reliving his own stupid crash. ‘She’s dead.’

  I looked at Mick, but I wasn’t seeing him; I was seeing Tap in his new powder-blue car, his American dream come true, cruising down the highway, murmuring in an American accent, flicking cigarette ash out of the window, listening to the radio, tapping out the rhythm of a song on the steering wheel. And then what? Catching sight of the police in the rear-view mirror, and speeding up? Did he skid? Did he see what was happening?

  ‘Where is he?’ I said. ‘I ought to go and –’

  ‘He’s in hospital, under arrest.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘His mum rang me. No one can see him.’

  I didn’t want to be out here in the rain. I wanted the safe darkness of the Orpheus. I wanted Blond Don to dance round the corner. I wanted someone to shout out, ‘Hey Brenda, give us two coffees.’ I wanted a good, loud record on the jukebox, the trumpet blast of ‘Harlem Shuffle’, to drown out the clamour of questions in my head.

  ‘Let’s go up to Snows,’ Mick said. ‘I’ll buy you a glass of milk.’

  ‘All right.’ I felt such an idiot. I thought I was going to save Tap, but he was nothing to do with me; he had a whole other world. Sandra was courting strong. New young mods were parking their scooters in the street outside the Orpheus and Mick Flynn was going to Snows. Even Sylvie was getting married. Everything was changing. I had no choice; I was going to have to find another life for myself. I felt something like relief. It was time to move on. I was free to move on.

  I left Mick in Snows and caught the 52 to the bottom of Sperry Drive. As I approached the shops, I crossed over into the Crescent. Sylvie answered the door. She looked at me questioningly, and it felt awkward, remembering how we parted on Christmas Day, and I hadn’t replied to the wedding invitation. But then she smiled at me and my face crumpled.

  ‘Linda, lovely, what’s happened?’ she said.

  ‘Tap’s killed someone,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Oh my Lord come in.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘Mansell’s having his nap.’ We crept into the kitchen.

  As she made tea I told her about Tap and the car, the police chase and the accident. She poured out two cups and sat down. She asked me how I felt. I said, ‘I feel really sad, as if he’s the one who’s died.’ It was comforting to talk about him with her. I told her about the Fred Perry, about the phone call where we’d discussed the powder-blue American car and how he’d put on his American accent. ‘But now I feel almost relieved,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to worry about him anymore. Is that terrible of me?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I think it’s quite appropriate. And you’ve been very good to him. He was lucky to have you as a friend.’

  I looked at her, being so kind and thoughtful. I said, ‘And Kenny’s lucky to have you.’

  ‘That’s a nice thing to say.’ She took a mouthful of tea. ‘I’m going to marry him.’ She hesitated. ‘I think I rather want to.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want Bob?’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s a job where persistence will be an admirable trait. But don’t let Kenny hear you. He worries. About Bob.’ She shook her head then briskly stood up and said, ‘I think I can hear our boy. Let’s go and find him.’

  *

  We were in Sandra’s bedroom, sitting on her bed. It was New Year’s Eve, but neither of us wanted to go out.

  I told her about Tap, and she was shocked and sympathetic but said in her view I was better off without him. She had brought up her mum’s catalogue and was flipping the pages to find the ring section.

  ‘Ooh, not wedding rings,’ she said, and quickly turned the page. ‘No thanks. Wonder what sort of wedding ring Sylvie’s going to have. A curtain ring, probably. Or a Polo, the mint with a hole. She’ll say, “It’s white gold, you know”.’

  ‘She doesn’t talk li
ke that,’ I said.

  Sandra had also been invited to Sylvie’s wedding because she was my friend. ‘And because I babysat before you did,’ Sandra reminded me. Mr and Mrs Brady had been invited because Mrs Brady worked with Mrs Weston.

  I gazed at the glossy page of rings. ‘She says Kenny’s a good man,’ I repeated. ‘And she needs security.’

  Sandra snorted. ‘Has he still got that beard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a lot to pay for security.’ She put her finger on the picture of an eternity ring she liked. ‘What do you think about this one?’

  It was marcasite. I didn’t like marcasite. I’d thought she didn’t either. ‘Mmm, not bad,’ I said. It was nice to be with Sandra again, laughing and gossiping like the old days. I was pleased she was coming to the wedding. Things were changing, but perhaps some things could stay the same.

  CHAPTER 32

  Resolutions

  ON THE FIRST SATURDAY OF THE New Year I was at work in the Milk Bar. Sandra and Cooky were in London, choosing an eternity ring. She’d decided against the catalogue versions.

  It was a bit like déjà vu, being in the Milk Bar, worrying about rings and Sandra going to London, but it was different. Cooky wasn’t going to abandon her.

  Ray came in and sat on a stool at the end of the counter. He smiled at me.

  ‘Mmm,’ murmured Val, over my shoulder. ‘Lucky old Linda. Remember what I said. If you don’t want him, I’m standing right behind you.’

  ‘Careful,’ I said, ‘I might tread on your toes.’

  I picked up some cups that needed to go in the sink and walked towards him.

  ‘I heard about Tap,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ I looked at him. ‘Just don’t say I told you so.’ He shrugged, but at least he’d asked. ‘What do you want? To drink?’

  ‘Horlicks, please.’ He was drumming his fingers on the counter.

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded. As I measured the powder into the flask he said, ‘Any good New Year’s Resolutions?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I wanted to say, this year my resolution is to do more acting. I could become a star, go to Hollywood. It sounded mad, even to me. I couldn’t say it. ‘My resolution is . . . not to make Horlicks this year.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘I’m saving people from the taste,’ I said. ‘And the lumps. Don’t worry, I’m already making yours.’ I hooked the flask onto the whisking machine. He was still tapping out a rhythm. I turned to him. ‘Are you all right?’ There had to be a reason he’d come in. ‘What’s your New Year’s Resolution?’

  ‘To get going.’ He was smiling. ‘I’ve got an interview for a place in college.’

  I stared at him. That wasn’t what I’d expected. ‘You’re leaving the garage? You kept that under your hat. What subject?’

  ‘Engineering. I mean, I do it already in the garage, but I want to take it further. You know, making sure the scooter didn’t disgrace itself for your pantomime, knowing I’d put it together, understanding how it all worked. It made me think. I had a good time.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course, that was part of it. You both sounded so beautiful on stage.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to do art.’

  ‘In my spare time, maybe. I’ve got to earn a living. Keep you in the style you’ll be accustomed to.’ I shook my head. ‘But it is artistic. Smooth, logical, perfect. And if I can build a scooter engine, I can build other things, trains, aeroplanes, rockets. It just came to me. That’s what I want to do – engineering.’

  ‘Like me and acting. That’s what I want to do.’ There, I’d said it. Out loud. I looked round. The world hadn’t ended.

  ‘That’s a resolution! Go on the stage. You’ll be great,’ he said. ‘The Newsman Herald thought you were good. They even mentioned your name.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Yes. Sounds like you’re definitely on the way to fame and fortune.’

  He’d seen me act, so perhaps he knew what he was talking about. ‘You’ll be good, too.’ The scooter had been perfect on stage. ‘Where is it, this college? When’s the interview?’

  ‘Next week. It’s in London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Yup, if I get in, I’ll move up there in February. It’s a sort of apprenticeship. I’ll do day release in some of the big firms up there. Might even work on that new supersonic plane everyone’s talking about.’

  ‘And you can join the union,’ I said. I put his Horlicks in front of him and took his money. ‘Well, good luck.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t want him to go.

  Val came up behind me as I was spooning beans onto a plate for another customer. ‘So how’s lover boy?’

  ‘He’s going to engineering college.’

  ‘Mmm, good-looking and good with his hands. A perfect combination.’

  ‘He hasn’t started yet.’

  ‘Well, he’s been a good-looker for a long time. Give him my number.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’d better ask him out quick, then.’

  I laughed. I put down the spoon and turned back to Ray, just as he pulled open the door and disappeared into Tindal Street.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sylvie’s Wedding

  SANDRA HAD AN ALICE BAND with little lilac flowers and a square of net that she had bought in London for her elopement. It was not exactly a wedding veil, but it was something a quiet bride would have worn. She wanted to wear it at Sylvie’s wedding.

  ‘She’s going to wear a bride’s headdress,’ I complained to Sylvie. We were in her living room, considering her three pairs of shoes. Mansell was pulling himself up on the arms of the chair. ‘And she’s not the bride. You are.’

  ‘But I’m a bride who doesn’t really care about the veil,’ she said.

  ‘She’ll almost be a bridesmaid.’

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s really only going to sit behind me. As will you. You’ll both be . . . what shall we say? Unofficial Assistants. Hooray!’ Mansell had staggered from the chair to the settee.

  ‘Except I shan’t have a veil.’

  ‘Linda!’ Sylvie said. ‘Surely you don’t believe in all that nonsense. I’m disappointed in you.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But still.’

  ‘And you’ve been such a help to me behind the scenes over the last few days. Helping with my wedding shopping, the lovely flowers. And then opening the replies to the invitations.’ There were hardly any flowers to organise, and almost no replies. ‘So you get the ultimate role of looking after Mansell. I really wouldn’t trust him to anyone else.’

  ‘Lin!’ Mansell shouted and threw himself at my legs.

  ‘But I’m wearing a black dress!’ I said. I’d used all my newly saved-up money to buy it. It was silky pleated Tricel with a white collar. ‘What if he’s sick on it?’

  ‘He won’t be, but there you are, Linda, you couldn’t really wear a veil with a black dress. That would send out the wrong message at a wedding, I think.’ She looked at me. ‘Although it’s a wonderfully individual colour to wear, of course, and only you, Linda, in my current circle of friends, would have considered such an original outfit.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have bought a black dress if I’d thought it would mess up my chances of being a proper bridesmaid,’ I sighed.

  *

  The day began in Wanda’s Hairdressers, Sandra and I sitting side by side under the hot heavy metal hoods, our hair in large rollers. As our cheeks reddened and a slight smell of scorching drifted through the air, we painted our fingernails with pink pearlised nail varnish, read magazines and shouted new fashion at each other. Every now and again Sandra looked at her new eternity ring, holding her hand out, moving it slightly so the crystal chips caught the light.

  ‘Right, you’re done.’ Wanda pulled back Sandra’s hairdryer and took her over to the mirrors. I watched Sandra’s reflection
as Wanda took out the rollers and began brushing her hair, pulling it back from her face, expertly twisting it into a shower of curls. Then she sprayed it with lacquer till it was hard. ‘There you are!’ she said.

  ‘Don’t forget this.’ From her bag Sandra pulled out the alice band. Expertly, Wanda clipped it into place. The alice band looked really nice, but Sandra’s eyes were gazing at something far away.

  It was my turn, and I slipped into the big cream leatherette bucket seat. Wanda unravelled the rollers from my hair. ‘It’s thick, isn’t it?’ she said.

  She looked anxious as I described my outfit to her. ‘So you don’t want it pulled back?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You don’t want curls?’

  ‘No.’

  Doubtfully she said, ‘Well, I suppose I can backcomb it.’ She turned to the woman she worked with. ‘I don’t know what else to do with someone who’s going to wear a red beret to a wedding,’ she murmured.

  We returned to Sandra’s house to get ready, moving carefully, holding our heads stiffly. In her bedroom I slithered into my dress. ‘Now who’s the rocker?’ said Sandra. We looked into her dressing-table mirror. My hair was huge.

  ‘Do this up for us,’ Sandra said. She was reaching behind her back, grasping for the zip of the lilac satin going-away dress she would have worn if she’d married Danny and had a reception and then left the reception to go on honeymoon. ‘I’ll never get another chance to wear it,’ she said. ‘I can’t wear it for Cooky, can I?’

  With the alice band of net and flowers, and the lilac of the dress, she looked strange and new and shinily lovely. ‘Danny missed a trick,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t say that. I can’t start crying yet, we haven’t even got to the wedding.’

  There was a sharp knock at the front door. It was my mum. We clattered out to the car, opening umbrellas against the drizzle. Mrs Brady sat in the front with Mum. We were going to pick up Mrs Weston and Mansell. Sandra’s dad was going in the car with Sylvie, as he was giving her away, there being no Mr Weston.

  ‘Didn’t her uncle want to do it?’ Mum said.

  Mrs Brady looked at Mum and said, ‘Drink,’ in a low tone that was audible to all of us, even with the windscreen wipers knocking back and forth in the rain.