The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  It was the first time I’d been to a register office wedding. It felt strange, like sitting in my dad’s office – yellow walls, green lino, hard chairs. Perhaps it was better to get married in church.

  There was an almost embarrassed feeling in the room. Hardly anyone was there, even though Mrs Weston worked in the shop and knew practically everyone on our estate. Kenny sat at the front wearing a brown corduroy jacket and brown tie, tapping his foot nervously. A short bearded man who looked so like him it had to be his brother sat next to him. I was sitting with Mansell on my lap and Sandra next to me, behind two empty chairs. Sylvie’s mum, nervously playing with a pair of white gloves, sat with the uncles and aunt and nan. My mum and Mrs Brady sat together. Further back were a few people I assumed were from Kenny’s side, and that was it. Even Sylvie’s friend, Janet, had written to say she couldn’t come because she was working away.

  There was a bustle at the back of the room and Sylvie and Mr Brady walked in. Sylvie was wearing a two-piece suit which was just too big for her, and the black slingbacks we’d decided on together. Her hair was backcombed into a defiantly high beehive with a black hat pinned onto the side. In her hands she clutched a small posy of rust-coloured chrysanthemums. Mrs Brady murmured, ‘A black hat!’ and glanced at me, as if I’d given Sylvie the idea that black was a wedding colour.

  Sylvie turned and handed the flowers to Sandra and the ceremony began. Mrs Weston remained perfectly still throughout and so did Mansell, watching his mum with big serious eyes. Sandra stared straight ahead, holding the chrysanthemums. I was the one who wanted to cry. I was thinking over the last year, meeting Sylvie and Mansell, and all that had happened: the gas, the tears, Bob and the great love story. I thought about Tap, sitting in his cell with his broken leg. I thought about Ray moving to London. Then I thought about the fun of the pantomime and the inspiration of the CND group and how much I was enjoying French this year, and I thought about what Sylvie had said, that I was going to move on. And I would.

  When the registrar said, ‘If any man present knows any just cause why these two should not be joined together, let him speak now . . .’ there was a hush, as if we were all holding our breath, and I had an image of Bob turning up at the back of the room and shouting something terrible and wonderful. Sylvie turned, as if she wanted him to be there too. She gave a gasp and I thought she’d seen him, but she was laughing. She waved her fingers at Mansell but then she seemed to have trouble with the expression on her face. The registrar gave a little cough and Sylvie turned back and he started speaking again, more quickly now, as if he knew what the risks were, and Kenny put the ring on Sylvie’s finger and they signed the register, and they were married.

  Sandra and I ran outside with Mansell, struggling with our umbrellas, and threw confetti over everyone as they were leaving. Mr Brady took some photos, herding people together, shouting at them to smile. He took a photo of Sylvie and Kenny alone together, side by side, hardly touching, hardly smiling, and then we had to get out of the way for the next wedding.

  The reception was in a room at the Golden Fleece. We hunched against the rain, crossing the road, past the posh toilets, round into Duke Street and through the double doors into the foyer. People shivered and shook their umbrellas, then climbed the stairs to the large function room, where two lonely round tables had been set up. Mum wasn’t coming to the reception; she said she had a meeting. I wondered if she’d nipped up to the room earlier and seen the plates of ham salad already wilting on the paper tablecloths.

  There were handwritten place cards by every plate, making sure everyone sat where they should. ‘She obviously thought there might be trouble,’ Sandra murmured. On one table sat Sylvie, Kenny with Mrs Weston, Mr and Mrs Brady and Kenny’s relatives. Sandra and I were sitting with Sylvie’s family. Sylvie had told us to be extra nice to her Uncle Peter because he was still annoyed she hadn’t asked him to give her away. Mansell sat in a high chair between the two tables with a plate of mashed potato in front of him.

  Sandra said, ‘I like what he’s having.’

  The room was quiet as two unsmiling girls circled the tables, pouring tea from large aluminium teapots. Sylvie’s Uncle Peter looked round the room. ‘Is this all they could afford?’ he said loudly.

  ‘Hush!’ said Rita.

  ‘If I’d known it was going to be this small we could have had it in our front room.’ He looked at his cup of tea.

  ‘And spent the rest on a decent drink,’ Sylvie’s Uncle Tommy said.

  ‘And where’s the music?’ Peter said. ‘No bloody music? Who has a wedding reception like this? I’ll tell you. Someone who’s . . .’ He put his finger to his head and twisted it, making a stupid face.

  ‘She wanted a quiet wedding,’ I said hotly.

  ‘Oh yes? This ain’t a quiet wedding, love, it’s a lively funeral. Or are you and your friend offering to do some dancing for us later on? I bet you two can shake it about a bit.’

  He had salad cream on his tie.

  ‘A black dress is a funny thing for a wedding, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘But you know what they say about red hats . . .’

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Rita said, and slapped his arm.

  ‘Red hat and no knickers!’ He roared with laughter. I tried to stop my hand touching my hat to check it was still on straight.

  Peter sat back in his seat and slid his thumbs under his braces. ‘Anyway, I heard you’re a bit of a radical, Linda, like Silly Sylvia there.’ He snorted. ‘Ban the bomb and all that, eh? Are you going to do a sit-down protest for us? Oh, look at her face – you could stop a bomb with that.’

  Tommy laughed.

  ‘Wouldn’t need the four-minute warning if we had Linda around,’ Peter said.

  Tommy roared.

  ‘Who pulled your chain?’ Sandra said.

  ‘Now, now,’ Peter said. ‘You know your trouble, missy, always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’

  Sandra and I frowned at each other. I could see her rubbing her eternity ring.

  ‘We are not bridesmaids,’ I said stiffly. ‘We are unofficial assistants.’

  ‘Bridesmaids,’ he said.

  When we got to the toasts Mr Brady thanked everyone for coming, and spoke about Sylvie being a catch for any man. Peter shouted, ‘If you say so, mate.’ Mr Brady asked us to raise our glasses in a toast, but there were only the cups of tea. I stood up and pulled Sandra to her feet and then other people slowly followed and the words, ‘The bride’ rippled unevenly round the room. As we sat down, Kenny rose, tugging a piece of paper from his pocket. His hand was trembling so much he almost dropped it. Peter groaned. ‘Two of a kind,’ he whispered loudly. ‘God help the children.’ I looked into my cup and felt Sandra nudge me under the table with her foot. Everyone else on our table laughed.

  Kenny stammered through his speech. He thanked everyone for coming. ‘Anything for a free meal,’ Peter called, staggering to his feet. Kenny thanked Mrs Weston and Sylvie. ‘No, thank you,’ Peter shouted, halfway out of the room. He was going down to the bar. Kenny finished with a long joke about a bride and groom on their wedding night, that ended with boiled eggs. We’d all heard it before on the Billy Cotton Band Show, but everyone laughed and clapped politely. Peter appeared through the door with two bottles of beer which he raised, as Mr Brady asked us to stand to toast the happy couple. Then the tables were cleared and moved to the side. People sat round the walls of the room, while one of the sulky waitresses circulated with a tray of coffee.

  In fact there was music – Kenny had organised a record player. ‘Oh, very modern,’ Peter murmured as Kenny lugged it into the room. ‘I suppose we should be pleased it’s not him playing a zither.’ Kenny’s brother was in charge and had a small stack of records. He flicked through them nervously then dropped a record onto the turntable. It was the Bachelors singing ‘Charmaine’. Everyone except Peter was looking over at Kenny and Sylvie, smiling and nodding, dipping their heads towards the empty centre of the room. And I, too, wan
ted Kenny and Sylvie to step onto the dance floor, to swirl and swoop about the room, smiling at each other, being in love and happy, but the music played and Kenny and Sylvie sat still, talking.

  ‘I wonder why you’re keeping us all waiting,’ Peter bellowed, almost in time with the record. Kenny looked up, his face pale, and suddenly he rushed towards the door to the toilets.

  ‘Perhaps he’s realised he shouldn’t have married her,’ Sandra murmured. ‘Or it was the ham salad.’

  The floor stayed empty.

  Kenny came back into the room, walking slowly across the floor to where Sylvie and Mrs Weston sat. Sylvie stood up, but Kenny flopped into a chair, his head in his hands. Sylvie looked at him. Absently she slid her right foot out of her high-heeled shoe and rubbed it along the back of her leg.

  For a moment it seemed there wouldn’t be any dancing at all, but then Mr Brady walked over and asked Kenny’s mum if he could have the pleasure. They did a funny kind of waltz and then Peter and Tommy joined in, doing the twist, holding the beer from downstairs, exaggeratedly moving their hips from side to side. It was so embarrassing that almost everyone rose from their seats and started dancing so they didn’t have to look at them. Mrs Weston danced with Mansell. Sandra and I danced together, our mod jive. It was nice to dance with her again, even if it was to the Bachelors. Peter called out, ‘Put some backbone into it, girls!’ Sandra stuck her fingers up at him, but down low, so her mum didn’t see.

  When the record ended, Sandra’s mum called her over.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Sandra said. But it wasn’t about the V-sign. Kenny had disappeared again. Mr Brady had looked in the toilets and he wasn’t there, and Sandra had to go and find him because she was the bridesmaid.

  ‘Unofficial assistant,’ I said.

  ‘I bet he’s having a fag in the car park,’ Sandra said as she walked down the stairs. I stood near the door, by a table full of empty cups.

  Peter twisted his way across the room. ‘Put on some Lonnie Donegan,’ he shouted to Kenny’s brother. He waved his Mackeson bottle towards the cups on the table. ‘Cheer up, mate,’ he said to me. ‘Help yourself to a nice cup of tea. Let’s all raise a cup to the happy corpses.’

  ‘We’ve had the toasts,’ I said. ‘And anyway, you’ve got a beer.’

  ‘That’s not all I’ve got, Linda.’ He smirked at me, swivelling his hips suggestively as if the thought of ‘Putting On the Style’ had put ideas into his head. ‘Come on, girl, here’s your chance.’ He tipped his head towards the dance floor.

  ‘What?’ Was he asking me to dance?

  He shrugged his shoulders and kissed the air towards me. ‘What do you mean, “what”? You’re the one with the red hat.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Oh,’ he whispered exaggeratedly. ‘Don’t you know? Haven’t they told you yet? Here, look, come outside and I’ll teach you about the birds and the bees.’

  Where was Sandra when I needed her? She probably wasn’t even looking for Kenny anymore. She’d probably walked out into the car park and found Cooky and gone for a drive.

  The record changed. It was ‘Blue Velvet’. Peter started singing, ‘She wore a . . . re-e-e-e-ed hat and no knickers.’

  ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ I said, and walked out of the room, pulling off my beret. The sound of Peter’s laughter faded as I stomped down the stairs and stepped into the dark space beside the public bar where they kept beer barrels and boxes of crisps. It was quiet and empty and I leaned against the wall and looked at my reflection in the peach-tinted mirror opposite.

  ‘Having a good time?’ The voice came from the far corner under the stairs. I peered into the gloom and made out shiny black shoes and beige cotton twill trousers.

  I stared at him.

  ‘The girl with the pram,’ he said. His voice was smooth and American.

  ‘The man in the street,’ I said.

  A small smile crossed his lips. ‘You’re not pushing the pram today.’ It was almost a question.

  I was about to reply that there was no need because Mansell didn’t go in a pram anymore, he had a pushchair now, and anyway he was asleep upstairs on his nan’s lap, but I realised the possible consequences of that. I shook my head.

  ‘So what are you doing down here on your own?’

  I would have told him about Peter and my hat, but I didn’t want anyone else laughing. ‘Getting some crisps,’ I said.

  ‘And where’s the beautiful bride?’

  Was that sarcastic, or did he really think she was beautiful? ‘She’s having her wedding reception,’ I said carefully. I was worried that he might get angry.

  ‘A reception?’ He looked puzzled.

  ‘You know, a meal, the party after the wedding.’

  ‘A breakfast.’

  At half past twelve? ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘that’s right. You can have breakfast any time you like in Chelmsford.’

  ‘Well, I guess if you have a wedding, you need a breakfast.’

  ‘I wish it had been breakfast,’ I said. ‘We might have got bacon and eggs instead of ham salad, and people wouldn’t have drunk beer.’ From upstairs there was the sound of someone singing the wrong words to Diane. ‘And we wouldn’t have had the Bachelors.’

  He grinned at me. ‘Bachelors always drink beer at weddings.’ He came and stood beside me. He pulled out a strange, soft packet of cigarettes, offering me one which I regretfully refused. He shook one out for himself then bent his head over his lighter. He turned his face upward, exhaling a plume of smoke, his profile outlined against the wall. His dark hair was brushed back from his forehead, his nose was straight, his mouth soft and full, and in a burst of comprehension I knew the whole story, how she met him and saw how beautiful and exotic he was, how she wanted him more than anything in the world, to be with him, play poker with him and then to . . . to make love with him. And I knew she really shouldn’t have married trembling, nervous Kenny; she shouldn’t be looking anxious and silent, she should be happy, she should have married Bob.

  ‘Her mom OK?’ he said, picking a piece of tobacco from his lip.

  ‘Yeah.’

  We stood in silence in the damp hallway, then the voice of Del Shannon came sobbing down the stairs. At last, a good record.

  I said, ‘Del Shannon!’

  ‘Yeah, right! You’re the Del Shannon fan.’ He smiled. ‘You know, I saw him once.’ He looked at the embers on the tip of his cigarette.

  ‘At a concert?’

  ‘No, in the street. In Jersey. He’d come to do a show, but I was just coming out of . . . Woolworth’s, I think, and he was there.’

  ‘How did you know it was him?’

  He looked at me as if I’d said, ‘Do you know what Elvis Presley looks like?’

  ‘I said, “Hi Del, how’s it going?” And he smiled, and I think he thought I wanted his autograph, but I didn’t, I just wanted him to know some people thought of him as a regular guy. I gave him a wave and I got in my car.’ Bob looked at me as if to see whether I was impressed.

  Woolworth’s made it a stupid story, but not going to the concert and not stopping for his autograph was cool, so I smiled.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ he said. ‘To the music of our favourite entertainer.’ I put my hat on a pile of boxes and he put his cigarette in his mouth. He took my hand and we did a slow jive, him squinting from his cigarette smoke and me trying not to grin as he pushed me round and pulled me towards him. Del Shannon was singing ‘Hats Off To Larry’, breaking her heart, saying they must part. It seemed wrong for a wedding day. But lots of things were wrong on this wedding day, and not just me wearing a red beret. Bob being here was certainly not right, not now, not at this stage. And I was dancing with him. Perhaps it was just that kind of day. I felt a curl of pleasure that he’d remembered who I was. For a split second of a moment I wondered if he might have come to the reception looking for me.

  But then, reflected in the peach-tinted mirror, I saw Sylvie walk down the stairs i
n her loose cream suit, heading for the ladies’ toilets.

  I thought I should do something. I should protect her from Bob. She was married now; he had no hope. I dropped his hand and stood in front of him, trying to hide him, hoping he merged into the dark wood of the staircase even though he was almost a foot taller than me. But Sylvie seemed to have a sense of him, his presence, his warmth, because as she walked towards us her eyes flickered onto his face. Her expression didn’t change. Had she been expecting him? Was that why Kenny was so upset? She gently shook her head, and then she barged into me, so I bumped into Bob, and she kept moving, pushing, walking forward, so that he and I stumbled backwards till all three of us ended up crouched in the gloomy shadows under the stairs, tipping against beer barrels and crates of Mackeson bottles. Pressed up against Bob I could feel the hard muscles of his chest under the cool, freshly ironed cotton of his shirt.

  Then she moved me aside and, in a strangled whisper said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Were you really gonna do it, get married without telling me?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You do have my son there.’

  ‘What do you care? Really. We never see you.’

  ‘I thought that was the deal. You could have told me about . . . about this. I found out from the woman in the bakery.’

  ‘Did you want an invitation? Would you have come to the ceremony?’ She said the word ‘ceremony’ as if she had no regard for it, as if we really had all been sitting in my dad’s office for half an hour.

  ‘I was outside your house at ten thirty this morning.’

  ‘We’d gone by then.’ The sentence ended in a sob. ‘I didn’t know where you were. I haven’t seen you for months.’ That wasn’t what she’d said to me.

  ‘I wasn’t that hard to find. You found the base easy enough when you wanted to.’

  She slapped his face. He put his hand to his cheek and looked at her.

  They seemed to have forgotten I was there. I made a move to go back up to the reception, but Sylvie grabbed my arm. ‘Linda, chicken, stay. You have to stay. You’re my alibi. Please. Keep watch.’