I whisked my pants up again, checking that my dress had not become wedged into them as well. I remembered seeing a woman come out of a pub toilet with her dress encased in her knickers and a beautiful trail of pink toilet paper flowing from her arse to the ground. I wondered, should I try to get sick now or after?
Back in the van, Bruce Springsteen is wooing us with ‘Darkness from the Edge of Town’. I am wondering how to make the move from the front to the back. Glancing casually behind, it looks so small all of a sudden. How are we both going to fit in there, never mind actually do it? Matt is kissing me. It’s not a romantic kiss. In fact it’s rather rough and unrhythmic. I try to get into the swing of it, but he is dancing to a different tune altogether. His French-kissing feels more like a mechanically faulted cement-mixer. Round and round he goes; where he stops nobody knows. I know it is par for the course, but it is doing absolutely nothing for my hormones, not to mention my jaws. I am bored and wondering still how we are going to manoeuvre ourselves without awkwardness. He takes the bait. ‘C’mon, let’s move into the back.’
We scramble over the seats, bumping heads and bruising thighs, and crash on to the floor laughing. I am lying uncomfortably with my head twisted against a spare tyre. I don’t care. Any minute now and the deliciousness will begin. I could almost hear the gentle groanings as our bodies twisted and turned in blissful union, and the choirs of angels burst forth in heavenly chorus. What actually happened was that Matt yanked my knickers down to my knees, entered me and it was all over in seconds. The only thing that burst forth was Matt. Prematurely, at that, and not even a hint of Aled Jones.
‘Fuck me’ he snorted in my ear.
Yes please, I thought.
Chapter 2
I never fully recovered from that encounter with Matt. It was one massive disappointment. I went home feeling dirty, upset and confused and spent the following week immersed in music and staying quiet, which I was prone to do anyway. Thank God, my parents didn’t seem to notice my mood change. It all seemed wrong. I didn’t want to feel that way. So I did the second thing that would become a character defect for life. I lied to myself. I did a good job of it too. Perhaps everybody’s first sexual experience was like that? Yes. That was the only thing I could think of that made two wrongs a right and brought me some comfort. It never occurred to me that Matt had been vastly inexperienced too. I carried on as normal. Living in my illusions. Isn’t that what the 1970s were made of?
Contrary to popular belief, the 1970s held two very different factions. I belonged to the ‘freaky hippie’ contingent. I was full of brotherly love, peace and Flower Power. My younger sister Rachel belonged to the ‘Boot Boys’ and ‘Skinhead’ gangs, who roamed St Anne’s Park, and frequently beat the crap out of each other. They expressed their feelings with lethal weapons such as coshes, chains and planks of wood. They sought out confrontation and acted tough.
At the same time, they wore Brut aftershave and Old Spice, which was a bit of a contradiction. They venerated Bruce Lee, and anything violent.
As far as fashion goes, they wore parallel trousers, preferably two-toned, with a waistband that could double as a scarf. There were pockets at the bottom of their trousers, and nobody knows why. Numbered T-shirts were also popular, especially 69 ones, as were the comical platform shoes and studded brogues — the more studs the better, as the noise was intimidating. Girls wore the ‘Midi’ hairstyle — remember Suzi Quatro? And in the height of it, tartan scarves were draped from the wrist, in honour of those wonderful Bay City Rollers. There was an imitation Bray City Rollers but they were beaten to a pulp too.
It was a crime for one gang to be seen with the other. For a long spell, I was in conflict as to where my loyalties lay. I sneaked in to see Saturday Night Fever and was wowed by John Travolta, but I never told anyone. I loved some of the ‘other’ music, and still do to this day, but was loth to admit it. In the end, I decided I was a full-fledged hippie and I never really departed from the beaten track again.
While my sister and her friends frequented discos such as The Blind, The Apartment and Club 74, me and my buddies visited Toners, The Baggot Inn, The Crofton Airport Hotel, McGonagles, The New Morans Hotel and the coolest joint of all, The Limit, in Clontarf. There had previously been an No Limit and, I was told, if you hadn’t been a member there, you were nothing.
The Saturday following my disastrous encounter with Matt, I qualified to become a member of The Limit. The lower the membership number, the better your status. I once met a guy who was member 34. All we were short of doing was taking out our prayer mats. I had spent the day doing the usual Saturday things. A typical Saturday always included a trip to The Dandelion Market at the top of Grafton Street. I had tried to forget about Matt but much to my amazement, I found that despite our bad experience, my feelings were still the same for him, and I had begun to blame myself. Another character defect that would bedevil me for the rest of my life.
I wasn’t too sure whether I could trust my friends with my secret. In those days, sexual conduct was coded into ‘The Seven Stars’ system. One, a kiss. Two, a French kiss. Three, a feel outside your bra. Four, a feel inside your bra. Five, outside your knickers. Six, inside your knickers. And Seven … well, you can guess the rest.
Nobody did the Seventh Star; if they did they never told me. If you didn’t do some of these you were branded ‘tight’; if you did you were ‘loose’. If you did the Seventh Star, you were nothing less than an out-and-out slut. I wanted badly to talk to someone, but just couldn’t summon up the courage.
I wandered around The Dandelion Market with my two best friends at the time, Jill and Karen. I bought a white grandfather shirt, two sizes too big for me, which was the correct size. Then I nipped into one of the Indian shops, my favourites, and bought some incense and patchouli oil, and a little leather sandal dangling from a choker necklace. I wanted to buy a pair of cowboy boots, but my parents refused to give me the money, so I bought a pair of desert boots, which were a perfect second choice.
I had £6 left and carefully perused the hundreds of LP’s stacked on table after table. I found Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy and carefully held on to the precious object all the way over to St Stephen’s Green. It was my first ever album and I was elated. I made sure everybody could see the silver cover, and turned it right side out.
In Stephen’s Green, the ducks looked starved. Karen called them like dogs. ‘Here, boy!’
We threw in our meagre handful of popcorn. I was reading the credits on the back of the Lizzy album. You had to drop the ‘Thin’ to be cool. Jill had scored some grass in the market, and wasted no time rolling up. I wasn’t really interested, as my experience of dope so far had only brought paranoia and nausea. I declined a blast as they passed it back and forth.
‘What’s up with you?’ Karen asked through clenched teeth.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you coming to The Limit tonight?’
‘Yep.’
‘You should be getting your membership card, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘Yep,’ Jill aped.
‘Shut up,’ I snapped.
‘What the fuck’s up with you? You’ve had a face on you all week.’
‘I told you. Nothing.’
Jill lay on the grass, breathing in the smoke deeply. ‘Fuck it, this is good stuff.’
‘Too right,’ Karen agreed. The pair of them were sighing orgasmically. ‘Sure you don’t want a blast?’
‘Yep.’
They were beginning to get on my wick. Jill began to sing Roxy Music’s ‘Let’s Stick Together’, one of our favourite songs. Often we would link arms and walk along the road singing it. Today, I didn’t want any loving camaraderie. Besides, I was stone cold sober. Jill and Karen were beginning to giggle. They were starting to get their words mixed up.
‘Hey. What’s that song by Rhyff Clitoris?’ Jill asked innocently.
‘Don’t you mean Cliff Richard?’
/> ‘Or that one by Bushy Kate. Oops. I mean Kate Bush.’
I opened a bag of Maltesers and they descended on me like vultures.
‘Oh man, I have the munchies. Shit, Jill, go and get some cheese and chocolate quickly.’
They devoured my sweets and went across the street to buy some more.
I lay on the grass, and thought about school. We had been ‘mitching’ on a regular basis. I had returned on the Monday, dreading it yet almost welcoming it at the same time. Anything to take my mind off Matt. I loved school. We always seemed to be laughing. The Head Nun complained that I laughed too much. She told me it would upset my father if she had to call him to come to the school about it. I never really fathomed the mysterious evil that was inherent in my merriment, for that was all it was, merriment, a sense of fun. The nuns couldn’t comprehend it, so they tried a different tack. Now I was ‘mentally unstable’ because I laughed too much. It was the best they could come up with.
That day, during our break, a gang had congregated in the school oratory, a tiny chapel that guaranteed privacy. The nuns were thrilled to bits to see so many of us go in and out. They had no idea of the ulterior motive behind our gatherings. It certainly wasn’t a spiritual quest that kept us coming back, but a rather old worn-out copy of Playboy.
‘Jesus, did somebody come on this fucking thing?’ said Maria Troy, most experienced and mature student in the sexual arena. I had never heard the word ‘come’ before.
I was dead impressed. Maria had gone all the way to the Seventh Star, and was entitled to use such expletives. She spoke openly about it. The whole school knew about Maria. She wanted it that way. Maria was constantly in trouble with the nuns. Sometimes I think she went out of her way to attract attention. It’s possible, of course, that she hadn’t had full sex with anyone, but she made a good job of convincing us.
Maria was sitting on the altar with her legs dangling over the side. Jill was lighting candles to beat the band, and Karen was sure she could find a way to get the wine out of the sacristy. Some other girls were huddled in a corner, eagerly lapping up every word from Maria’s mouth. She was reading an extract from the Playboy magazine’s so-called problem page. The problem had something to do with a man using fruit as a sexual aid, and how his partner was having great difficulty ‘accommodating’ it.
Like the rest of the girls I was perplexed, but too embarrassed to ask a simple question. Why in God’s name would anyone want a pineapple up there? Thank God I did not let my ignorance be known. There were plenty of other idiots to make up for my silence.
‘Imagine Danny coming up to me with an orange. You have your shite, I’d tell him,’one commented.
‘Your Danny’s a perv, he’d get up on a cracked plate,’ Jill answered.
‘What would you know, you wouldn’t get a ride in Leopardstown.’
‘Ah, you’re all fucking thick,’ said Maria with authority. ‘It’s supposed to be nice. Honest to God you’s know nothing,’ she finished, and climbed down from the altar and threw the magazine on the pew. They clamoured like children at a grushy. Maria left the oratory. No sooner had she closed the door than they tore her apart.
‘That one’s only a whore.’
‘Tart.’
‘A right slut.’
‘A brasser if there ever was one.’
‘The fellas have no respect for her. They only use her for the one thing, my ma told me.’
I looked out the side window of the oratory and saw the tainted Maria cross the school yard. She reached into her school bag and took out a small tube of Smarties. She looked lonely and sad and I felt sorry for her. I wanted to ask her questions about my experience, but I didn’t. I decided to wait until Saturday night, when I would see Matt myself, before I told anyone anything.
Now Saturday night was before us. On the way back down Grafton Street, Jill, Karen and I decided to go into Bruxelles for a pre-Limit drink. We pushed Jill in front of us first, because she had the roundest arse and the biggest tits, and always passed for eighteen. The jukebox was playing Al Stewart’s ‘Year of the Cat’. We sat sipping our jug of Sangria, a cheap and effective way to get drunk fast. By the time I got home, and had dolled myself up for The Limit, I was well on. I was in full battle dress for the evening. I wore a pair of faded jeans that used to be flairs; I had ordered my mother to turn them into straights. To my disgust, she had also taken it upon herself to mend the frayed ends, not understanding that they were supposed to be like that. Embroidered down the front of the left leg was Status, and down the right leg was Quo.
My white over-sized grandfather shirt looked cool, and I finished it all off with an embroidered sash, gathered through the loops of my waistband, and hanging groovily down the side of my hips. A touch of patchouli oil and the job was complete. I was massive.
It was utterly forbidden to arrive at The Limit any earlier than 10.30 pm, although the doors actually opened at 9.30 pm. I arrived at the entrance door, flanked by Jill and Karen who swayed unsteadily. I had temporarily sobered up. I had to get in there.
‘I was told I could join up as a member after six weeks,’ I said matter-of-factly to the big burly bouncer.
The guy was enjoying his momentary power and authority. He was playing with my life, and knew it. After looking me up and down for what seemed like an eternity, he motioned to the desk on the right, where other new members were queuing.
‘Thanks!’ I squealed like a baby, and held up the precious piece of green cardboard displaying the number 4,938. It was official. I had arrived!
Inside the dark smoke-filled hall, everyone had their ‘spot’, a place where they hung out every week. New members tended to gather at the front, old fogies at the back, and especially reserved for VIP’s was the stage. The DJ in The Limit knew exactly what to play, when to play it, and how to keep us screaming for more.
While he was whacking them out, I wonder was he aware of the many innocents who lost their virginity beneath the turntable? My gang hung out on the right-hand side, almost in the centre of the hall. There were up to twenty of us on any given night. I left my duffel coat in the cloakroom, careful to remove the small baby vodka concealed inside. I bought a can of club orange, and disappeared into the toilet. Depositing half the orange down the loo, I topped the rest up with vodka. Karen and Jill were rolling up joints. The toilet stank of patchouli oil, black Moroccan and cider. To this day, I don’t know why the bouncers didn’t search us girls. Weren’t their suspicions ever aroused when we came in perfectly sober and went home legless with vomit matted in our hair?
‘Any sign of Matt yet?’ Jill asked me, her eyes looking like two UFOs from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t gone down there yet,’ I replied.
‘What’s the story anyway? Are you two getting it together or not?’ she pushed.
‘I’ll see tonight,’ I answered quietly. ‘I’m not sure he’s into me,’ I added, preparing them both just in case.
‘Don’t be a prick,’ Karen slurred, losing her balance on the cistern, and dropping her joint in the toilet.
‘Jesus, I’m wasted,’ she whispered.
‘We’re not carrying you out of here, like we did last week, Karen,’ Jill tried to sound all grown-up and responsible.
‘Jaysus, look at the cut of her, the head on it.’
I lowered the remains of the vodka. Already I could feel the warm glow engulf me, but I wanted more.
‘Jaysus, I’m wrecked.’ Karen slid down the wall and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
‘For fuck’s sake, get her out of here before the bouncers see her or we’ll all be thrown out,’ Jill said.
We propped Karen up between the two of us, and managed to pass the bouncers, looking like three very affectionate and amiable friends. Once at our spot, we dumped Karen like a sack of potatoes in a corner on the floor, and threw some coats over her.
Every week, Karen’s night began and en
ded in the same way. She got drunk, she got stoned, and then she got depressed, in exactly that order. The next day she would brag about how ‘wrecked’ she had been the night before, and how great it was. It must have been great; she couldn’t remember any of it. That was the ultimate proof of a good night out.
On the floor, the gang were simultaneously shaking their heads to Deep Purple’s ‘Smoke on the Water’. The sea of hair was making me dizzy. Together they stood in a circle in their own make-believe band. They played their imaginary instruments with surprising clarity. Our gang grew steadily as the weeks went by. Sometimes there would be twenty-five of us in a circle.
I clobbered the drums, someone else played a ripping guitar solo and Jill played the keyboard, note for note. A gobshite was asking Karen to dance. It didn’t seem to matter that she was unconscious.
In the distance, I saw Joe approach me. He had hung around in the gang for as long as I could remember. He had beautiful wavy fair hair down to his shoulders and large green eyes. We had taken to calling him ‘Jesus’ because of his hair. Secretly, I think Joe wanted to look like Clifford T. Ward but he couldn’t manage the locks. However, he made up for it all with a wicked sense of humour. I saw the hair before the face as he lurched forward wrapping his arms around me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked.
Please do not be nice to me. I will cry.
‘The usual,’ I sighed. I was trying to hold back but it was pathetic really.
The fast set came to an abrupt halt and the DJ started to play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ by Led Zeppelin. Now I had a genuine reason to cry, so I let rip.
The House that Jack Built Page 2