Patsy chewed her lips, avoided my eyes, and tried mopping up the Babycham with her hankie.
‘Patsy!!!!’
‘She’s a hairdresser. At Lynette’s Salon. In Ashworthy.’
I clung to the edge of the trestle table. And exhaled. My heart was thundering in my ears. ‘And Mike… Mike – um – knows her…’
‘Yes.’
I leaned down. ‘How well does he know her, Patsy?’
‘Oh… they’re just – um – friends… she’s – um – nothing. I mean – oh, Stella – forget it. For God’s sake don’t tell Mike – he’ll… oh, shit.’
‘I won!’ Mike said happily as he emerged from the pub. ‘Best of three! Drinks are on Sam so he’s at the bar now – and being a bad loser…’ He stopped and looked first at me, then at Patsy. ‘What the hell is wrong with you two? Had a row?’
‘Congratulations on winning the darts match,’ I smiled glitteringly at him. ‘And who’s Bernice Perkins?’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Mike glared at Patsy. ‘You told her? You stupid big-mouthed cow!’
‘Thanks,’ I said, blinking back tears and swallowing the bile that was gathering in my throat. ‘Well done, Mike. Now there’s no need to go through the third degree. No doubt Bernice is as small-minded and boring as you are – so you’re well-matched and I hope you’ll be very happy together. Goodbye.’
I turned away and started to run down the lane that led to the main road and home.
‘Stella!’ Mike’s voice followed me. ‘Stella! Please! For God’s sake – don’t go! Come back – listen – she’s nothing – it meant nothing! Stella!’
‘Go to hell!’ I howled. ‘Go to bloody hell!’
‘Stell?’ Dad looked up from his paper as I hurtled through the back door and into the kitchen. He moved one of the cats to one side and stood up. ‘God, Stell, are you ill? What’s happened? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing…’ I muttered. ‘I’m fine, Dad. Just fine. I’m going upstairs.’
‘You’re crying, are you in pain? Have we got the pills you need? Your mum’s out – Townswomen’s Guild – it’s the miniature garden in a saucer contest tonight and she’s done Versailles. Oh, Stell, love. Come here…’
He folded me against him. He smelled of home, of safety and happiness. I burst into tears against his old, worn jumper. Two of the dogs tried to join in.
‘There, lovie, there…’ Dad held me like he had when I was little and had woken with a bad dream. ‘You cry it out. Do you feel really ill? I can get a hot water bottle.’
I cried some more and snuffled incoherently into his chest.
It was over. Me and Mike. My first – my only – proper relationship. Finished.
I told him. I stumbled over some of the words but he got the gist.
‘Right,’ he said, gently disentangling himself. ‘Now, you sit down here… there… and I’ll make you a cup of coffee with milk, and we’ll have a splash or two of rum in it, and then we’ll talk about it again. Ok?’
Obediently, I sat at the kitchen table. The cats twined round me, the dogs sat at my feet. The kitchen, cluttered, scruffy and in need of decorating, was like the most fabulous place in the world. A haven. Gradually, gradually, the tears subsided.
The pains in my stomach were now replaced with a massive ache in my heart. It really did hurt – right under the ribs. My heart was broken… well, badly bruised anyway – but not quite as much as my pride.
Mike had found someone else. Someone better than me. And everyone knew about it – everyone except me. Oh, the humiliation…
I knew I’d never trust another boy as long as I lived.
Stella’s Diary
August 22nd 1968
The mid-morning bus from Harbury Green to Ashworthy seemed to be taking ages, dawdling through the villages, stopping what seemed like every 30 seconds or so to pick up or drop off half a dozen women with children and/or shopping.
I’d taken the day off work today – not because I was ill this time, the pains had been dealt with by the trusty Feminax the minute they reared their head – but an official day’s holiday, because there was something I had to do. I’d dressed very carefully in a rainbow print floaty mini-dress and my long white boots. I’d even done the sequins.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Mike since the break-up – and I’d had a week of very mixed emotions: suddenly crying for no reason and then being swamped by a feeling of relief that it was over – because I’d always known it would have to be over at some point – then crying again because it had been so lovely to start with and I’d miss him being around and feeling lonely and sad. Then getting really angry and hurt because he’d been two-timing me – and then the tears started all over again…
Mum and Dad had been great, and Vix had managed to hide her delight that Mike, the weasel, was out of my life, and say all the right things and be lovely to me.
I didn’t expect to hear from Mike again. Neither of us was on the phone at home, and he lived and worked on the other side of Harbury Green so we could always manage to avoid one another. And it wasn’t as if we’d left records or books or anything at each other’s houses. No, it was over. A clean break. I’d had a boyfriend and now it was over and I was single again. It would all be ok. That’s what I kept telling myself.
It didn’t always work.
However, I did convince myself that all I needed now was for the forthcoming appointment at the Churchill to say that there was a miracle cure for my messed-up innards, and without the pains and the worry, I’d be footloose and fancy-free and able to start a whole new stage of my life.
Well, that’s how it would go if I was writing a story – I had a feeling it probably wasn’t going to be that easy in real life.
The bus eventually pulled into Ashworthy’s market square, and I stood on the cobbles, taking deep breaths of the hot, summery air and looking at everyone bustling around in their bright summer clothes. But I wasn’t here to sight-see or enjoy the view – no, I was on a mission.
I headed away from the town centre, past the cinema where Mike and I had watched Up the Junction so recently, and into one of the side streets. Lynette’s Hairdressing Salon was right at the end, taking up two shops fronts and gaily painted in pink and white.
I took a deep breath. I’d told no one what I was doing or where I was going – I knew Mum and Vix would have tried to stop me – but for me, it was the right thing to do.
I pushed open the door. It pinged with a little bell and, as I stood at the desk, a middle-aged lady, all big auburn curls and pink nylon coverall, bustled towards me.
The salon was hot and sweet-scented and very busy, with at least half a dozen hairdressers, all young, all dressed in mini-length pink nylon, either washing or curling or cutting hair, or checking how their clients were doing under the hood dryers.
‘Good morning,’ the middle-aged lady, whose name badge pronounced she was indeed Lynette, beamed at me. ‘And how may I help you? Do you have an appointment?’
And yes, she did look slightly askance at my shock of coal-black, layered, back-combed, spiky hair.
‘No,’ I smiled at her. ‘But I’d like to make one if that’s possible.’
‘Yes, yes of course. Have you been to us before?’
‘No, but you come highly recommended by a friend of mine.’
Lynette beamed even more as she reached for the huge desk diary. ‘Wonderful – we do appreciate word of mouth recommendations. Now – what were you thinking of having done – and when would you like to come in? And do you have a particular stylist in mind?’
‘Well, my hair’s such a mess, I want a complete change. And yes, I do have someone in mind.’ I crossed my fingers. ‘Actually, my friend’s hair was so fab that I hoped I could have the same hairdresser for mine?’ I gave a little laugh and shook my head. ‘I mean, look at it – it’s going to take some work… I wonder if she’d have time to advise me now and then I’ll make the appointment?’
‘Yes,
yes, of course. A good idea.’ Lynette continued to look ecstatic at new business. ‘Do you know her name?’
‘Betty… um… Beryl… no! Bernice! That’s it… Bernice…’
‘Oh, yes – Bernice is very good. Very good indeed. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you – I’ll see if she can give you a few minutes to discuss the appointment.’
And Lynette wobbled off towards the back of the salon.
I could feel my heart thundering and my palms were sweating.
And then – there she was.
Bernice.
Undulating towards me in her micro-mini pink nylon overall. She was pretty. In a plump and blurred sort of way. And her hair was very blonde and piled high on top of her head with artfully-arranged tendrils snaking down either side of her face. Her eyeshadow was blue and her lipstick sugar-pink. She was probably my age but looked older. Like Patsy. I was sure they’d get on like a house on fire.
For a moment as Bernice approached the desk, smiling a rather vacuous but sweet smile, I wondered if she’d know who I was. I was pretty sure if she knew about me then she’d know about my wacky hairstyle and the sequins. I’d given her the chance...
But she was either a very good actress or she had no idea at all about who I was. She wasn’t showing any signs of recognition. Mike had clearly not bothered to describe me to her. I obviously wasn’t that important.
‘Hello,’ she smiled at me. The sugar-pink lipstick was also on her teeth. Her accent was pure Berkshire. ‘Lynette says you’d like me to do your hair…’ She stared at it. ‘It’s a bit weird… did you do it yourself?’
‘I did. It shows, doesn’t it?’ I managed a little laugh. ‘But now I’d like it done properly. A complete change. Maybe go blonde or have a perm or something.’ I crossed my fingers even more tightly. I was actually quite amazed to find that I didn’t hate her. ‘I’ll leave it you.’
Bernice giggled. ‘Well, I do like a challenge. I don’t think going blonde would be a good idea on top of all that black dye – maybe we’d have to strip it out over several appointments… a perm might be quite nice though… now, when would you like to come in?’
‘As soon as possible, please.’
Bernice hauled the big desk diary towards her and flicked through to the pages with her name on them.
I swallowed and leaned forward. ‘How about one day next week?’
‘Oh – I’m so sorry…’ she smiled hugely at me. ‘I can’t do next week at all. I’m going on holiday.’
Walk away now, I told myself. Walk away now.
I didn’t.
I smiled. ‘Oh, you lucky thing. I’ve heard Polperro is fab at this time of year.’
The sugar-pink mouth gaped.
I sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t want you or anyone else to do my hair. I love my hair. I just came in to give you this
– you’ll need it far more than I do…’
And delving into my bag I dropped the Woolworth’s wedding ring on to the diary page.
Frowning, she looked down at it and then up at me.
‘Oh…’ the penny dropped. ‘You’re…’
‘Yes, I am. Goodbye, Bernice. Enjoy playing at being Mrs Metcalfe – and good luck. You’ll probably need it.’
Before she could say anything else, I pinged my way out of the door. And then I ran away from Lynette’s Salon and towards the bus stop without looking back.
Renza’s Diary
August 29th 1968
Scott’s first letter was written on the 16th, telling me how much he missed me, how much he loved me, and that he’d gone to the local pub with Mo to drown his sorrows, and how the band had had a big fight when Joss couldn’t get into the flat one night and smashed the door down in his temper.
He said that he was worried about the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia and spoke of the riots in Paris by students or something, and he promised undying love, making me more miserable and hating this God-forsaken place even more. He sent me his new address as they were moving the following weekend to Leighton Buzzard.
I wrote back the same day, pouring my heart out to him, how thoroughly miserable I was and how I was missing him so much I couldn’t eat or sleep properly. I felt totally bereft. I told him we were on a ‘full alert’ because of the Russians and things were pretty scary, but not to worry, we had nuclear missiles if we were attacked. I’m sure that comforted him as much as me.
I told Scott I haven’t seen many young Germans living locally, everyone seems so old, dressed mostly in black, and miserable looking. Mum says the youth have left for the cities and work opportunities. I wrote that I knew he’d be happy to know there weren’t any boys here to tempt me. There’re mostly young army families here, with their little kids, and a few Ministry of Defence families like ours, but no-one around my age.
I told Scott the flats we have are on top of each other – on one side of a little green with other quarters opposite. A few steps lead up to the green from the street where other army families live in proper houses. In the war the village had been flooded by the RAF bombers known as The Dam Busters, with their bouncing bombs. I remember seeing the film. It must have been terrifying. Every building in the village has water marks where the river had risen up the walls. I told Scott I found it a depressingly grey place, lacking in any sort of life and he should look up the local dams in Britannica.
Most families go to the Mess for Sunday lunch and they usually show a movie in the afternoons. They showed two on Sunday. I’ve seen The Sound of Music – not my thing at all, and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner with Sidney Poitier. I love him. It’s something to look forward to I suppose, as long as they don’t show old fogey films.
Going down the steep cobbled streets is horrid, and Mum makes me walk behind her as she’s embarrassed at the way the old women lean out of the windows shouting and laughing at my fashions. I’m only wearing what everyone in England wears: minis, midis, maxi dresses and hipster trousers. Nothing radical. The locals are openly hostile to the families, and I told Scott that’s because I’m creating a spectacle of myself with my fashions according to Mum. He’d laugh at that I’m sure. It had to be my fault.
It’s a good job we can go into Dortmund to shop at the NAAFI a couple of times a week, because I remember little German from the last time we lived here, and Mum’s never been good with languages, so shopping locally is not on. I can imagine Scott laughing when he reads about the German drivers who take us to NAAFI. They keep asking us to buy them coffee, cigarettes, and booze. Apparently it is still rationed in Germany. They drive like lunatics, just like those in Naples he told me about, hands waving all the time and turning round in the driver’s seat to chat, not that we understand half of what they say.
The Mess is open all day every day and every evening too. There’s always something on entertainment-wise and it seems a lot of men spend most of their time there when not working. Narnia’s Children would love the bar, I told Scott, all the drinks are really cheap. The building is where Goering used to give big Nazi speeches during the war. It’s creepy.
I’ve been given special membership so I can accompany Dad to events if Mum can’t – when Mum is in a huff more like – and so I can go into the Mess bar as apparently they’ll turn a blind eye to my age on Tombola and Quiz nights. Big deal. Mum and Dad let me go with them recently and one of the army wives babysat the kids. I’ll be turning into Darby and flipping Joan if I’m not careful. I don’t know if I can stand three years of this.
We’ve got TV here, but it is all in German of course. They seem obsessed with programmes about the war and concentration camps and stuff like that but I haven’t bothered with it much. Dad likes to watch it. I think it gives him an excuse to be on his own in the sitting-room, because Mum won’t go in there when it’s on.
Renza’s Diary
September 2nd 1968
Scott’s written several times so far. I love getting his letters and hearing all about Narnia’s Children and what they’re
up to. He sent me his photo in his last letter, taken in Madeira. He looked so sexy and handsome, I couldn’t stop looking at it. It’s under my pillow in a plastic sleeve and I kiss it goodnight before I go to sleep.
He also remembered to send me the tape recordings of the songs he’d written for me which I first heard in their flat. It makes me cry hearing them.
I sent him a copy of the photo I had taken for my ID card here. He said I looked gorgeous in it. The letters and photos serve only to enhance my misery and despair. I’ll wither away like the old people in the village long before I get to go home to England and Scott again. He will have found someone young, beautiful and trendy long before then. I’m doomed.
I must bore him to death with my letters telling him about the kids, the NAAFI and what’s going on in the Mess. I have such an exciting life in comparison to his…
Stella’s Diary
September 12th 1968
‘We’re going out!’ Vix bounced into our kitchen after a cursory knock on the back door. ‘And grab your brolly, Stella, it’s tipping down out there.’
The dogs rushed to greet her. The cats, curled in front of the coke boiler, didn’t bother. Mum and I had just finished tea. Dad wasn’t home from work yet.
‘Blimey, you’re drowned!’ I pushed my plate away. ‘And going out? Are we? Have I forgotten something?’
Vix shook off the raindrops and grinned. ‘No. Spur of the moment. Jeff’s doing overtime and I’ve got a bit of a treat in store for you. You do feel ok, don’t you?’
‘I’m ok. But I’m not sure about going out.’
‘Go on, Stell,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll clear the table and wash up. You run along. It’ll do you good to get out for the evening. You’ve been nowhere since you and Mike… well, you know…’
Yes, I knew.
‘Ok. Give me time to get ready and –’
‘You don’t need to get ready. You’ll be fine as you are.’ Vix eyed-up my boring work outfit of neat black skirt and cream blouse. ‘We’re not going far, and we’re not out to impress anyone, so no need for make-up or hair or anything like that either. And don’t ask me where – it’s a surprise. Just find your boots and your mac and your umbrella and we’ll be off.’
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