Playing Around

by Gilda O'Neill

‘Mikey?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sounded put out. ‘That you, Guv?’

  David’s jaw was rigid. ‘I need you over at the office.’

  ‘But, Guv—’

  ‘I’ve got a job for you. Be over in Greek Street in fifteen minutes or I’ll be all upset and think you don’t want to work for me no more.’

  David knew that was enough of a threat. Even for a hard little bastard like Mikey Tilson.

  Mikey Tilson, the bloke who David was now sure was shafting him in more ways than one.

  As they whizzed their way along Goresbrook Road, heading for the A13, Angie breathed in great gulps of air and was sure she could smell the sweet scent of the bright flowering bulbs that swayed gently in the spring breeze in the neat little front gardens behind the privet hedges.

  She had nearly swooned when Martin told her she could either lean back and grip on to the chrome luggage holder behind her, or lean forward against him and put her arms, tightly, round his waist. She had, of course, opted for leaning back, although she had regretted it immediately. So, when Martin stopped the scooter on the corner of Flamstead Road for her to take off the helmet – just as he had promised! – she resolved, just as soon as they were mobile again, to hold on to him rather than on to the cold metal.

  But Martin didn’t seem in any immediate hurry to be on their way.

  ‘Mind if I have a quick fag first?’ he asked her a bit sheepishly, stowing away the helmet. ‘I know I’m nearly twenty and shouldn’t give a damn about what Mum says, but you know what she’s like, she could nag the Krays into going straight.’

  He offered Angie the packet of Player’s No 6, but she shook her head.

  ‘I think she means well. She’s just being kind.’ She stared down at her feet while Martin lit his cigarette and then took a deep lungful of smoke. ‘I wish my mum would show a bit more interest in what I do.’

  Martin took another drag. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, Squirt, not having someone wanting to know everything you’re up to every minute of the night and day. It’s bad enough having to live at home still, without having a jailer thrown in for good measure.’

  Angie’s head snapped up. ‘Do you want to leave home?’

  ‘Are you kidding? The other students are all having a great time living up in London, and I’m stuck down here in Dagenham. Why wouldn’t I leave?’

  ‘So why haven’t you?’ Angie had to struggle to keep her voice steady.

  ‘That’s easy.’ He looked at her, eyes narrowed against the smoke. ‘Mum says they won’t help me any more if I do, and that would mean using the money I earn working at the petrol pumps for living on.’ He tapped the toe of his desert boot on the footrest of the scooter, then smiled wryly. ‘And then I’d have to sell the scooter and I wouldn’t be able to buy any more new clothes. Shallow, eh?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re a good kid, Squirt.’

  Angie glowed under the light of his praise.

  ‘But I am shallow. I really care about that sort of thing. Sometimes I feel right out of place at college. Sort of separate. The other students are so different from me. And not just in the way they dress. But the way they talk and …’ He blew a plume of smoke down his nostrils and laughed, not entirely convincingly. ‘They should see me when I’ve got my full mod gear on, eh? They wouldn’t know what had hit them.’

  He dropped the cigarette butt into the gutter and ground it out under his heel. ‘I’ve wondered, you know, if I should try to be more like them. The other students. The way they do things. I’m just as clever as they are, but I don’t really—’ He stopped mid-sentence. ‘Hark at me, going on to my little sister’s mate, like she was Sigmund Freud or someone.’

  Angie frowned, wondering what this Sigmund Freud looked like. Knowing her luck, she probably had squeaky clean hair and a really fashionable pair of trousers.

  He nodded at the Lambretta. ‘Come on, Squirt, let’s get the wind in our faces.’

  Angie climbed aboard. ‘He must be nice, though.’

  ‘Who?’ Martin shouted above the noise of the revving engine.

  ‘The boy who’s lending you the books.’

  Martin turned his head to check the traffic before pulling out into the street. ‘He, Squirt, is a very nice young she.’

  Jill Walker was wondering how all this had happened to her. Here she was, on a Sunday afternoon, ironing in the semi-darkness because she couldn’t afford to waste the electricity – Of course I can manage, Mummy – in a dingy basement room in a house that she shared with two miserable biology students, who were more interested in things in jars than in going out anywhere. There was a world outside that everybody said was ‘swinging’; but she had yet to see any evidence of it. To think she had actually chosen to live here: to leave her family, her friends and the beautiful Sussex countryside, and to come to London to study economics because everybody said what a fantastic place it was. Well, she had yet to see what was so fantastic about it. In the six months or so that she had been here, what had she seen? The Mile End Road, damp washing, and nasty things in formaldehyde left on the bathroom shelf. Oh, and don’t forget the library, she’d seen that as well. Totally thrilling.

  She blew out a long puff of air and smacked the iron down on the board in frustration.

  What a swinger she was. They should do a feature on her in the papers.

  She picked up the iron again and posed like a fashion model. ‘Miss Jill Walker of Twycehurst’, she said, simpering into an imaginary film camera, ‘is taking London by storm. You will have noticed the faint sheen of grease on her hair that she has tried to disguise with a sprinkle of talc. This is not due to the lousy hot water supply in her flat, but is a statement of the very latest style. Soon, every dolly bird will be wearing theirs just like it. Probably even greasier and positively caked with powder! Asked about her constant appearances at all the trendiest nightclubs, on the arms of Mr David Bailey, Miss Walker replied—’

  The sound of the doorbell – even that had a dull, monotone buzz – jolted her back to reality. ‘Coming,’ she said, hurriedly getting rid of the pose and the iron.

  She opened the door, forgetting, as usual, her mother’s anxious warnings about the supposed terrors of city life and her instructions that she should never, ever, do so without first peering through the letterbox to find out who was there.

  ‘Hello. Er …’

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘Yes, Martin. Of course. Er … Hello.’

  ‘I came about the books?’

  ‘Books?’

  After a few moments’ awkward silence, it dawned on Martin, that George, the bloke in his group who had assured him that Jill had every book anyone could possibly want – she was loaded apparently, a rich farmer’s daughter – and that he, George, had asked her personally if Martin could borrow some of them and she had said ‘Why not?’, was maybe exaggerating a little bit. Or, more likely, he was a bloody, rotten liar who had just put him, Martin, in a really embarrassing situation. He’d kill the lying toe-rag when he saw him on Monday.

  And then there was all that petrol he’d used. He could have put that towards the blue checked Ben Sherman shirt he’d set his heart on.

  ‘Sorry, Martin, you’ll have to explain.’

  Martin ran his fingers through his short fair hair. ‘It was George.’

  ‘You’ve lost me already.’

  ‘Red-haired bloke, bit of a know-all.’

  Jill was none the wiser. ‘Look, why don’t you come in and have a quick cup of coffee? I could do with a break.’

  Martin was sitting in a battered utility armchair, with threadbare upholstery and a broken spring, by a spitting, feeble gas fire, sipping chalky instant coffee, facing Jill Walker, who was perched on a similarly dodgy chair. And he was in heaven.

  He had known her for less than ten minutes, but Martin had decided that Jill Walker was the nicest, sweetest, funniest girl he had met in his entire life. Not exactly the prettiest maybe, although
she certainly had something really special about her: a lovely face, rather than a beautiful one, and flicked-up, dark hair that was sort of cute, like Emma Peel’s in The Avengers. Gorgeous. But whoever she looked like, she was definitely the nicest, and poshest, girl he had ever met. And she also owned more books than anyone he had ever met before either, although she seemed to think she had hardly any compared with what she was used to at home. George appeared to be right about one thing at least: Jill Walker was obviously loaded.

  ‘Honestly, Martin, take them.’

  He looked at the pile of books at his feet. ‘But you might need them.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Jill curled her legs under her, and took another mouthful of coffee. ‘I’m thinking about changing courses. Probably colleges as well. So I’ve not bothered even starting the latest essay.’ She flashed her eyebrows. ‘Or the one before that.’

  Martin felt as if he’d been pole-axed. This wasn’t right, he’d only just met her and she was clearing off.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he said feebly. ‘Why?’

  Her smile lit up her face. ‘Sounds pathetic, but I’m lonely. I just haven’t settled in here.’

  He wanted to say: You’re lovely. How can you be lonely? Instead, he said: ‘You’ve met me now.’ He hid his fluster at his own boldness in a careful study of his coffee mug.

  ‘That is so kind, Martin. Thank you.’

  Say something else. Quick. ‘Er, must be nice living in a flat,’ he busked. ‘Independence and all that.’

  She grimaced around the room. ‘If this is independence, I don’t think it’s all it’s made out to be.’

  Martin grinned back like a ninny. She was smashing.

  ‘Maybe if I had a chic little bachelor-girl flat in Chelsea? What d’you think?’

  ‘No! That’s miles away!’ He had blurted out the words before he had registered what he was actually saying. ‘From college, I mean.’ He stood up clumsily, gathering the books into an untidy heap. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Jill. And, really, thanks a lot for these.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  She followed him over to the door. ‘Maybe it might be worth starting those essays after all.’

  He spun round to face her, shedding a heavy volume on the basics of macroeconomics at her feet.

  She bent down and retrieved it for him. As she returned it to the toppling tower in his arms, she looked up into his eyes.

  Martin gulped. ‘I could help you if you like. With the essays. You know, to say thanks for the—’

  ‘Coffee?’ That smile again.

  ‘Yeah. And the books.’

  ‘I’d be really grateful. Thanks.’

  As she reached round him to open the door and her hand brushed his arm, Martin felt giddy from her touch and the smell of her standing so close to him.

  ‘Perhaps we could meet up?’ she suggested. ‘Tomorrow? At college?’

  Martin nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sure. Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then.’

  Martin backed up the basement steps, smiling down at the wonderful girl smiling back at him. Was this really happening to him? A girl with her own flat?

  It was a dream come true.

  Chapter 2

  SARAH PEARSON FUSSED around, arranging a box of jam tarts and a packet of chocolate Swiss rolls on a doily-covered plate. She had already emptied a tin of salmon on to a serving dish and, along with a bowl full of salad, Sarah was satisfied that she had created a perfect Sunday tea, with all her granddaughter’s favourites.

  She looked out of the kitchen window at the bright, clear sky and, knowing it wouldn’t be dark for a good few hours, smiled happily. It was a treat now that spring was here at last; seeing blue skies made her feel as if a lid had been lifted and she could breathe again. And it was good to see the railings along the balcony looking smart after their fresh coat of paint.

  The council hadn’t done too bad a job in doing up the old flats: nice big windows, an Ascot heater in the tiny new bathroom they had put in, and a back boiler in the fireplace. But the best thing about the refurbishment of Lancaster Buildings was that it had saved the residents from having to move into one of the tower blocks that were all they seemed to build nowadays.

  Sarah carried the food through to the front room, and placed it, just so, on the lace tablecloth. She might have lived on the fourth floor of a tenement block in Poplar, but Sarah still liked everything to be nice: spotlessly clean, and with all her things around her. And things were what Sarah had plenty of. Every flat surface, and every inch of cabbage-rose-patterned wallpaper, was covered with some little knick-knack, souvenir, or framed photograph, most of which were shots of a self-conscious-looking Angie that Sarah had snapped with her Box Brownie.

  At the sound of the doorbell chiming its jingly greeting, Sarah snatched a hurried look in the mirror, patted her immaculately set hair, and hurried through to open the front door.

  ‘My little Puddeny Pie!’ She threw open her arms in welcome. ‘Come and give me a great big kiss.’

  ‘Hello, Nan.’

  ‘Come in. Come in. Take your cardie off, sit down and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea. And there’s a bit of salad and a few cakes if you’re feeling hungry.’

  Sarah poured a generous measure of thick, sterilized milk into her cup and added two heaped spoons of sugar from the stemmed cut-glass bowl – a permanent feature on the dining-room table ever since Angie could remember – and then topped it up with dark orange, scalding tea. Then settled down into her armchair, as Angie perched on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘You sure that’s all you want to eat, love?’

  ‘I’ve had loads, thanks, Nan.’

  Sarah sipped her tea and frowned. Angie was never exactly a chatterbox, but she was being so quiet it was ridiculous, and she’d hardly touched her food. Sarah tried to sound casual: ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Still seeing that … What’s this one called?’

  ‘Chas.’

  ‘That’s him. What do you think of him? Another five-minute wonder?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘You seem a bit down, pet.’

  Angie shrugged. ‘There was a sort of misunderstanding, Nan, that’s all.’

  ‘Had more words indoors? Your mum swinging the lead again?’

  Angie chewed on her lip.

  ‘I’m not making excuses for her, darling, but she’s sort of got into a habit. She’s made not doing anything for herself a way of life.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘I blame myself. When she had you I made such a fuss of her. Looked after her like she was an invalid.’

  ‘Did having me really make her so ill?’

  ‘No, love. Not ill. Look, don’t let’s talk about that now. Tell me how you’re getting on at work. What have you and that Jackie been up to?’

  ‘I should be going soon.’

  ‘Why don’t you phone her? Jackie. She can run along and tell Mum you’re staying with me tonight. We could have a game of cards. Rummy. You always enjoy that.’

  ‘I’d like to, Nan, but I’ve got work in the morning, and I’ve not got any of my things with me.’ Angie stood up and listlessly pulled on her cardigan.

  ‘OK, pet.’ Sarah went over to the window that took up almost the whole wall behind the ornament-covered Formica-topped bar that she had recently had installed in the already crowded room.

  She looked out at the darkening sky. The deep blue was studded with pinpricks of light, the terrestrial stars created by the lamps which glittered amongst the forests of derricks and cranes lining the nearby docks. There would be no foghorns on a lovely clear night like tonight.

  She pulled a cord and the pink, nylon velvet curtains closed with the satisfying swish that always made Sarah smile. Who ever would have thought she would have had curtains that drew themselves? That Doris Barker came up with some things.

  Sarah smoothed her hand lovingly over the fabric, sending out a crackle of static. ‘You promise me you
’ll be careful going home, babe. There’s some funny blokes about, you know. Blokes what try and take liberties with young girls.’

  Angie’s breath came out in a little snort. ‘Who’d want to take liberties with me?’

  The wonders of her curtain track forgotten, Sarah spun round to face her granddaughter. ‘What did you say?’

  Angie stuck out her bottom lip. How could she ever have dreamed Martin was interested in her? Whatever would he say if he found out what had gone through her stupid, thick mind?

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘Well, not exactly pretty, am I? Not exactly a fashion model or someone a boy would—’

  ‘You listen to me, young lady. You’ve got a lovely face and a beautiful little figure.’ Sarah put up her hand to silence her granddaughter’s protestations, then marched across the room and fished out a tartan zippered shopping bag from behind her chair. From its depths she pulled out a fat, leather purse. ‘Angela, it’s your birthday next week.’ She flipped open the purse and took out two five-pound notes. ‘I want you to take this.’

  ‘But, Nan—’

  ‘No buts, you just do as you’re told.’ She thrust the money into her granddaughter’s hand. ‘And don’t tell your mum you’ve got it.’ Sarah knew her daughter too well. ‘Now, you wait there.’

  Sarah disappeared into the front bedroom, the room Angie had never known her grandmother share with anyone, her grandfather having died years before Angie had even been born.

  ‘I got some things for you. Off Doris,’ Angie heard her call from the depths of the wardrobe. ‘I was saving them for next week.’ Sarah’s voice grew louder as she straightened up and came back into the living-room. ‘But I’ll give them to you now. To cheer you up.’

  In one hand, Sarah held one of the crocheted flying helmets that, suddenly, no self-respecting dolly bird could been seen photographed without, and, in the other, she held a black leather box.

  ‘Here.’ She put the box on the mantelpiece. ‘Let me put this on for you first, and you can open that in a minute.’

  Angie stood in front of the chimney breast, staring into the brass sunburst-framed mirror, while her grandmother pulled the hat, with some difficulty, firmly on to her head, and buttoned it tightly under her chin.