The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  There were so many dangerous possibilities. We were near the door that led to the car park, near the bottled beer that I suspected was Peter’s source of alcohol and near the ladies’ toilets. Any of the guests could come down at any time, looking for something, and find us all. I didn’t want to be an alibi.

  Sylvie and Bob sank down onto two beer barrels, staring into each other’s eyes. Bob was breathing heavily. He bent towards her. They were almost close enough to kiss.

  I snatched my beret from the pile of crisp boxes and threw it in the air, trying to fill up the lobby, to hide her costume and high heels and his long legs in the American trousers.

  I heard Sylvie say, ‘Why are you here?’ It came out like a sigh.

  ‘I couldn’t just let you do it.’

  ‘Well, you’re – you’re late. Why weren’t you at the registry office?’

  ‘Yeah, you should have come to the registry office,’ I said, but they turned and stared at me.

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’ He sounded angry and there was a line of sweat on his top lip.

  ‘What could I do?’ I hoped Sylvie was not going to cry. Her eyeliner would run, she’d wipe it off, then she would look pale and washed out and everyone would know something had happened.

  ‘I thought you said he was weak,’ Bob said.

  ‘He is,’ I said.

  They turned towards me.

  ‘He wouldn’t dance with you,’ I gabbled, ‘and then he just charged off.’

  ‘He’s tired,’ Sylvie murmured.

  ‘But it’s your wedding day,’ I said.

  ‘Sylvia!’ It was Uncle Peter at the top of the stairs, shouting. ‘Someone needs to cut the bloody cake.’ He peered across the banister. ‘Sylvia?’

  ‘She’s got something on her skirt,’ I said primly, to his reflection in the mirror. ‘I’m just cleaning it off.’

  ‘Want a hand?’ He laughed.

  I pulled my hanky from my sleeve. I waved it at the mirror. ‘It’s beer,’ I said. ‘Someone spilled beer over her. Was it you?’

  He stepped back guiltily. ‘Anyway, what are they doing back there? Tell them they should wait till they get to the honeymoon suite.’ He belched, and the smell of beer and vomit floated down the stairs. I moved towards the bottom step, waving my arms as if he was a sheep or a chicken that had strayed from its pen.

  He was staring at me. ‘What’s happened to your hair? What’s happened to your hat?’ Then he sang, ‘She wore a re-e-e-ed hat and . . .’ His voice swooped and faded as he lurched back into the upstairs room.

  Sylvie and Bob were standing with their backs as close to the wall as they could get. ‘You’d better do something quick,’ I said, pushing my beret onto my head, ‘because if you don’t, they’ll – they’ll . . . do something.’ And whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

  ‘What can I do?’ Sylvie whispered.

  ‘You better spill some beer on your skirt,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t mean that, chicken. Anyway, aren’t you meant to be cleaning it off?’

  ‘But there aren’t any marks or anything.’ Sandra should be here, helping me sort this out. We should be doing this together, removing stains, creating stains.

  ‘No one’s going to care about that,’ Sylvie said. Absently she brushed her skirt.

  Bob put his hand to her face and twisted it towards him. ‘You’ve got two choices,’ he said. He was almost talking into her mouth.

  ‘I know that!’ she sighed, but then her voice dropped even lower. ‘My darling, I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered. ‘Do this!’ Bob said, and as the sound of voices singing ‘Why are We Waiting?’ floated down the stairs, he leaned forward and put his mouth on hers. She shook her head, but he kept kissing her and slowly she slid her arms round his neck. I stared into the mirror at their reflection, willing everyone to stay upstairs.

  Sylvie pulled back, but her arms were still round his neck. ‘What now?’ she said. She sounded tired, almost drunk.

  Bob slid his hands down her body. Sylvie shuddered. His arms were about her waist. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he murmured.

  She was silent.

  ‘You want to stay with him?’

  ‘No, yes, oh, I don’t know,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’ He leaned towards her again, tenderly, as if she were a frightened animal. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know!’ she shouted, sobbing into his face.

  ‘What don’t you know?’ It was Kenny, walking in through the front door, into the lobby, his face pater still, his eyes glittering. Uncle Peter reappeared at the top of the stairs. He was with Tommy. ‘Sylvia?’ Peter shouted.

  ‘What don’t you know?’ Kenny repeated, staring at us all.

  For a moment no one said anything. So I said, ‘She doesn’t know what Bob’s doing here.’

  ‘I know what he’s doing here!’ Kenny said loudly, his voice high. ‘He’s ruining my wedding day. He’s sticking his – his damn warmongering Yankee nose in where it’s not wanted. Get out!’

  Bob stood where he was. He seemed almost relaxed.

  Kenny looked at Sylvie. ‘Sylvie,’ he whispered imploringly.

  Sylvie’s eyelids fluttered.

  Kenny turned to Bob. ‘I said get out.’

  ‘I heard what you said. I’m not going anywhere. Not unless she comes with me.’

  With a loud noise that was a sort of shriek, Kenny lunged towards Bob, but Bob stepped backwards, just as Peter half-fell down the stairs and grabbed at Kenny’s arms. The force of Peter’s movement pulled both of them to the ground into a puddle of beer from Peter’s bottle. Tommy slid on top of them.

  Bob looked at Sylvie, then down at Kenny struggling to get out from under Peter and Tommy. ‘Is that what you want?’ he said.

  ‘He’s – he’s confused,’ she said, shaking her head.

  Mrs Weston appeared on the landing and looked at us all. A spasm of anxiety distorted her face, but she took a deep breath as if she realised the situation had gone beyond the power she might exert as the mother of the bride. ‘Sylvie,’ she begged, ‘they’re ready to cut the cake.’

  Sylvie stared at Bob.

  Peter and Tommy pulled Kenny to his feet. His tie was askew and one side of his shirt untucked. ‘Smarten up now, Kenny,’ Mrs Weston said with a half-laugh. ‘Mr Brady’s waiting to take the photographs. Sylvie.’

  Sylvie turned. She looked at me and breathed, ‘Thank you, Linda. You’ve been wonderful. But Mansell and I couldn’t live with such turbulence.’ And with a straight back she moved through the lobby and up the stairs. Kenny hurried to catch up with her.

  At the top of the stairs she glanced over her shoulder for a second. Then she disappeared through the doorway. There was the sound of cheering.

  Bob and I were left in the lobby. I turned to him and as I watched, tears welled in his eyes and ran down his face.

  I pushed my hanky into his palm. It was my favourite, the hanky Sylvie had given me for my birthday, the two deep red roses in the corner like bloodstains in the soft white cotton. ‘Keep it,’ I said.

  He looked at his hand. The handkerchief fluttered to the ground.

  I bent down to pick it up, casually, as if I hadn’t meant to give it to him.

  He sniffed. ‘I’ve got a Caddy outside,’ he said. ‘Belongs to a guy on the base. Do you want to go for a ride?’

  I did, I did, even if I was second best and even though he was American. I shook my head. ‘I’d better go back,’ I said, tucking the handkerchief up my sleeve. ‘I’ve got to . . . you know.’

  He looked at me but I knew he wasn’t seeing me. He shrugged his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets and silently he walked out of the door.

  I stood in the corridor. The words of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ drifted down the stairs.

  ‘Hello!’ It was Ray, walking out of the public bar. ‘Look at you, all dolled up. Where’s the wedding?’

  I pointed. ‘Up there. Wh
at are you doing here?’

  ‘Having a farewell beer with my boss. You look like you could do with a drink.’

  ‘Do I? I’m supposed to be a sort of bridesmaid. With Sandra. It’s not going all that well.’

  ‘Sandra can cope on her own for a few minutes, can’t she? Come and have a drink.’ He gazed at me. ‘That’s a lot of backcombing,’ he said. ‘Are you swopping sides?’

  ‘No. I’m like you, I’m moving on.’

  He smiled. ‘You know, London’s not that far from Chelmsford. You could come up and I could show you the sights.’

  ‘I was just thinking that myself,’ I said. I linked my arm through his and we walked into the saloon.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks go to the following:

  To all the people who over the years have read chapters and given me their feedback and support and in particular John Petherbridge, sadly missed tutor at City Lit. To Christine Wallace for being such a good and loyal friend. To Christine Wilkinson for her support and her eye for style. And to Roy Kelly, a poet who helped me out at the drop of a hat.

  Again, to all the mods in Chelmsford who made life in the Sixties so exciting and so much fun, particularly Mick Flynn, whose character cried out to be in the book.

  I also want to thank my agent Annette Green and every-one at Bonnier Zaffre who all worked to make The Saturday Girls possible, including Eli Dryden, Sarah Bauer, Jenny Page and Francine Brody and, in particular, Tara Loder, for all their work and support.

  And as ever my greatest thanks to Caroline Spry, for her love, confidence and encouragement, without which, none of this would be possible.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Elizabeth Woodcraft was born and grew up in Chelmsford. She became a mod at thirteen, and worked in the local Milk Bar. She then took her suede coat to Birmingham University, after which she taught in Leicester and Tours in France. Moving to London, she worked for Women’s Aid, an organisation which supports women who suffer domestic violence. Her experiences there led her to become a barrister.

  Elizabeth Woodcraft’s other published work includes A Sense of Occasion – the Chelmsford Stories, and two crime novels, featuring barrister Frankie Richmond – Good Bad Woman and Babyface. Good Bad Woman was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey Award for Best First Crime Novel, and in the US won the Lambda Literary Award.

  She lives in London with her partner.

  Contact her on www.elizabethwoodcraft.com

  Follow her on Twitter @lizwoodcraft

  Welcome to the world of Elizabeth Woodcraft

  Keep reading for more from Elizabeth Woodcraft, to discover a recipe to create your own sixties classic and to find out more about what is coming next . . .

  We’d also like to introduce you to MEMORY LANE, our special community for the very best of saga writing from authors you know and love and new ones we simply can’t wait for you to meet. Read on and join our club!

  www.MemoryLane.club

  Dear Reader

  The Saturday Girls is a book about the sixties and I’ve been writing it, on and off, for about thirty years. At first I wrote it simply because we had such a good time in the sixties – the music, the clothes, the coffee bars. But then I realised that there weren’t many novels about mods and even fewer about mod girls and I wanted to write a book that would tell their story. I kept a diary throughout those years, full of embarrassing entries, as you can imagine, but also with some comments about the outside world. I also kept scrapbooks – mainly pictures of the Beatles and Del Shannon, but a few postcards and clippings from the Essex Chronicle about the groups who were coming to the Corn Exchange. All of that helped me recreate the atmosphere.

  I had to put the book in context. We were still close to the Second World War, and its effect continued to be felt. Rationing had only just ended. My mum still thought of eggs as luxuries. It was only in 1963 that National Service – the call up for all young men – finally ended. But people were earning a bit more money, the Welfare State was giving us all free medical and dental treatment. The country was recovering. That was the backdrop for the book.

  I wanted to recreate the excitement of going to Southend or Romford or even Oxford Street, to Martin Ford or C&A, to buy mod clothes. The boys were buying parkas and the scooters to go with them, but girls were buying straight skirts, that we wore below the knee, and twin-sets in deep mod colours – bottle green, navy blue or maroon. For some of the more well-off mods, fashions came and went quite quickly, but people like me and my friend Christine had to save up for weeks, and then buy clothes that were going to last. And that’s something I’ve tried to show in the book.

  We had to be very careful about what we bought. There was no Instagram in those days, no computers, no mobile phones to give us up to the minute information. We had to rely on television and newspapers. Our family got a television in the late fifties and at first we only had BBC (yes, one single channel). We got ITV just in time to watch Ready Steady Go! the mods’ programme that was on at 6.30 on Friday evenings. And it was Ready Steady Go! that gave us all our ideas on fashion, shapes, styles and haircuts, as well as showing us the new dance steps.

  Looking back through my diaries of those days, remembering each individual song, each joke, each film, there is so much more to say about those early sixties years. Which is why I’m really pleased to be able to tell you that there is another book on the way.

  I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing about that exciting period in British history.

  Best wishes

  Elizabeth

  Angel Food Cake Recipe

  A little taste of heaven – much tastier than Viota sponges

  125g self-raising flour

  300g caster sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  12 medium, free-range egg whites

  1 teaspoon cream of tartar

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

  Icing sugar to decorate

  1. Heat the oven to 180°c (160°C fan oven) or gas mark 4. Grease a 25cm angle cake tin.

  2. Sift the flour with 150g of the caster sugar and save for later.

  3. Either by hand, or using a mixer, whisk the egg whites until frothy.

  4. Add the cream of tartar, lemon juice, vanilla extract and ½ teaspoon of salt then continue beating until the mixture forms peaks. Then, whisk in the rest of the sugar slowly until the mixture is shiny and firm.

  5. One spoon at a time, slowly fold the sugar and flour into the egg mixture, taking care not to lose the air.

  6. Pour the cake mixture into the cake tin and bake for around 40 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean. Turn out the cake and sprinkle with the icing sugar. You can also add fruit or jam to serve.

  7. Enjoy!

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Zaffre Publishing

  This ebook edition published in 2018 by

  ZAFFRE PUBLISHING

  80-81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE

  www.zaffrebooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Elizabeth Woodcraft, 2018

  Cover design by Debbie Clement

  Cover photographs © Colin Thomas; Shutterstock (all other images)

  The moral right of Elizabeth Woodcraft to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978
-1-785-76443-1

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-785-76442-4

  This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd

  Zaffre Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre, a Bonnier Publishing company

  www.bonnierzaffre.co.uk

  www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk