‘K’niver drag?’
‘Aw, righto.’
‘Move over, Danny.’
Sue and I glanced nervously at each other and now and then stole glimpses of Danny, Kim’s brother. His face remained blank and impartial. The noises in the back grew more frantic as the love scene on the big, white screen climaxed.
A few days later, Bruce stopped ringing me up. This meant I was dropped. Sue confirmed it at school.
‘Hey Deb … Bruce told me he doesn’t want to go roun’ wiv you anymore.’
10
dropped
GETTING drunk was the coolest thing to do. Smoking Marlboro didn’t impress anyone anymore. We’d never touched alcohol before, but Tracey and Kim had been drunk three times. So we parted with our precious pocket money and Strack bought the stuff.
That afternoon after school, Sue and I met Steve Strachan in the church yard. We gave him ninety-nine cents each and ordered two bottles of Brandivino.
We could hardly eat our peas for excitement. When Mrs Knight looked the other way, we scraped our mashed potato into the compost bucket.
‘What’s the time?’ I asked.
‘We’ve got to have some milk before we go.’
‘Yuk. What for?’
‘If you drink it before, you don’t spew after.’
‘How come?’
‘It lines your stomach or something … here yar.’ Sue handed me the milk jug.
That night we roamed Oleander Parade clutching our bottles, looking for a secluded hiding spot. We didn’t want anybody’s mother to see us.
Across the road from our jazz ballet teacher’s, we camped on the strip of cement driveway, between a Kingswood and a Monaro. We guzzled the stuff, daring each other on.
Then it was off to the party.
By the time we reached Waratah Street, we were well and truly plastered. We crawled along the well-shaven lawns to Number 32—Vicki Russell’s fourteenth birthday party. The whole gang was there; trying or pretending to be drunk. We staggered into the centre of the party. They were all watching TV. Bruce was there too, nursing Kerrie in the armchair. It freaked me and I ran outside.
Danny found Sue and led her out into the back room.
‘I wanna watch TV. Come on Danny, I wanna watch TV.’ Susan drawled.
Danny laid her down on the old couch. He had other ideas. Dave Deakin barged in.
‘Do up your fly,’ Danny whispered, taking charge of the situation.
‘What? What’s going on?’ Sue murmured into the cushion.
‘Bruce’s here and Deb’s freakin’ out,’ Dave said. ‘She’s pissed. You better get her Danny.’
David and Danny came to find me. I was lying in the driveway, yelling at people as they stepped over me.
‘I’ve got m’ rags! I’ve got m’ rags!’
‘Shut up! Stop shouting.’
‘I’ve got m’ rags Dan!’
I was petrified now that he dropped me, that Bruce would tell all the other guys that I was too young and too tight. I was trying to prove I was grown-up.
In those days, if you were thirteen and didn’t have your periods, you weren’t grown-up. I didn’t have my periods so I wanted everyone at Vicki Russell’s party to think I did.
At half past eight, Danny’s father drove us home.
Mrs Knight opened the door in her pyjamas.
‘I think they’re ill,’ said Mr Dixon.
We were drunk at seven. We were home in bed by nine. Mrs Knight undressed us and filled us up with soda water. ‘Someone put something in our drinks,’ we explained. The buckets by our beds soon over-flowed. Later that night, in simultaneous moments of agony, we met each other in the bathroom. We took it in turns to spew and then sat on the cold bath tub.
‘I feel terrible.’
‘So do I.’
‘So much for the milk.’
Danny was worried about Sue and me getting a bad name. It was okay for girls to get drunk, but only if they had a boyfriend. Surfies would never touch someone else’s chick, but a single drunk girl was an easy lay.
Danny couldn’t have his girlfriend associating with a potential moll. So he brought down his best friend—Garry Hennessey. Hen had just broken it off with Vicki ’cause she two-timed. He asked me to go round with him that night. And from there on it was another cute little foursome. We did everything together.
Usually we had nowhere to go. We either hung out at the bowling alley, sneaked into the pub—dressed up and drastically under-aged, or sat around Miranda Fair Shopping Centre—especially on Thursday nights. Everyone went up there. It was just a big, lit-up, out-of-the-rain place where we could all meet. You had to keep your eyes peeled for the security guards though. They’d ‘move you on’ and chuck you out if you couldn’t prove you’d bought something. We would have ‘moved-on’ gladly, if there’d been anywhere to ‘move on’ to. We slouched around Grace Brothers Camellia Court all night or hung out at the bus stops out the front. There were heaps of us. The girls checked out the guys and the guys checked out the chicks. Everyone was in their best Levis. Eyelashes freshly mascaraed, hair brushed …
‘Goodday Cheryl … how’s Wayne?’
‘Oh, Hi! Good. Real good. How’s Danny?’
‘Good. What are you doing up here?’
‘Oh … Ar … Oh, I had to get a pair of sandals … What are you doing up here?’
‘Oh … Ar … Oh, I had to come up with Debbie to get her blue angora off lay-by.’
‘Oh …’
No one would ever admit that we went up there ‘cause there was nothing else to do.
‘Guess what?’
‘Wot?’
‘Guess who I saw lookin’ in the window of Angus and Coote?’
‘Who?’
‘Danny. I reckon he’s gettin’ you a ring …’
‘Ya never …’
‘I deadest did …’
‘When?’
‘Just then.’
‘Oh … he can’t be.’
‘He is! How long’s he bin goin’ out with ya? Three months?’
‘Three months and two days.’
‘Well, ’bout bloody time.’
Getting a friendship ring was the biggest thing in a girl’s life. If you had a ring you were a top chick. Girls rushed up to you every day at school.
‘Give us a look. Oh … Is it eighteen-carat?’
‘Yeah, have a look.’
‘Oh gee, he treats ya good. It’s bewdiful.’
‘Yeah, he treats me roolly good and stuff.’
‘How long have you been goin’ round with ’im now?’
‘Three months, two weeks, four days and um … what’s the time? … two hours.’
‘Whenja get it?’
‘Saturday night.’
On the way home from your boyfriend’s place, just after he’d given you a ring, you’d pause under the street light and examine it. Was it eighteen-carat? … Phew.
By day, we were at school learning logarithms, but by night—in the back of cars, under the bowling alley, on Cronulla Beach, down behind the Ace-of-Spades Hotel, in the changing rooms of the football field, or, if you were lucky, in a bed while someone’s parents were out—you paid off your friendship ring.
Cheryl Nolan, one of the top chicks, got a ring every few weeks from a different boy. That’s why she was a top chick. She had a horse and was a good screw.
‘I think he’s gettin’ me one,’ she said to me.
‘How do ya know?’
‘’Cause Vicki saw him goin’ to Miranda Fair, by himself on Thursday night. He must be.’
The guys slouched around in big, blonde groups, up against railings and shop corners. If your boy-friend was there, you didn’t hang around him ’cause he was with his mates. You stayed with the girls and walked around on parade, going from the Fashion Wheel Boutique to the Igloo Deli to the Fashion Wheel Boutique to Surf Dive and Ski.
If your boyfriend had just dropped you, it was easy to find someone else u
p at Miranda Fair. It was a cool game of checking out and chasings.
‘Hey Sue … who’s that over there?’
‘Where?’
‘The one with the long blonde hair.’
‘He’s in Spotty’s gang.’
‘Hey, walk over with me.’
‘Na.’
‘Go on! We’ll pretend we’re lookin’ in the record shop.’
‘Well, do I look all right?’
‘Yeah, check him out will ya? What a doll.’
We sauntered over, casual as hell, with all eyes on us. When there were no boys that we fancied, which was rare ’cause usually we fancied anything with blonde hair and Levis, we bitched about our girlfriends.
‘Oh, check out what Vicki’s wearing. She saw me up here buyin’ me black Californians, so she went out and bought exactly the same thing.’
‘Small weak act.’
‘Yeah, she’s a two-faced bitch.’
‘Yeah, ’cause she was going roun’ with Garry for two months and he was roolly wrapped in ’er, and she was two-timing him. She had a ring and everything. I dunno what he saw in ’er.’
‘God, she needs a new head … oh, gidday Vick. What are you doin’ up here?’
The big time was when someone’s parents went away for the weekend. We’d then have a whole house to ourselves. Beds. Television. Telephone. Record player. Fridge. Vacuum cleaner. It was just like being in a big doll’s house, and that’s exactly what we did—play house.
Occasionally Garry Hennessey’s parents went to Hawaii or somewhere. Then everyone in Sylvania lived at Garry’s place for the weekend. The old gang. Johnno and the boys. There was no one to hassle us and plenty of food money, which Garry spent on beer and cigarettes. The boys sat around drinking, smoking, playing pool and cards.
When they felt especially energetic and the surf was bad, they donned their wetsuits for a quick skin-dive in the sewer canals of Sylvania Waters. After a few hours they retrieved such treasures as rusty refrigerators, mouldy dragsters and their pride and joy—prams. They dragged them back, showed them off and chucked them back in.
Us girls pottered about in the kitchen. We spent three hours making a White Wings packet cake, to get the boys’ attention, and it took them three seconds to eat it and forget about us. We were left with crumbs, cracked egg shells and a huge mound of washing up. But we didn’t even mind that. We were playing mother.
We bustled them into the bathroom and bathed their injuries. Invisible scratches and tiny bruises were drowned in Dettol and dabbed with Savlon. Cotton wool, Band-aids and layers of crepe bandages made us feel important.
Rainy weather weekends were the best. If the surf was flat and it was freezing cold, the boys didn’t go to the beach. Then, for a whole two days we’d have them to ourselves.
One Saturday, after a breakfast of pancakes smothered in sugar and margarine, we raced down to Hen’s in the rain. Sue was supposed to be sleeping at my place and I was supposed to be sleeping at Sue’s.
This day it was really teeming. As we were running past the fortieth two-storied, red-bricked, imitation Spanish monstrosity, a big, white double garage door growled open.
‘Ey.’ It was Deak’s house. ‘Debbie and Sue.’ We turned around. ‘What are yews doin’?’
‘Goin’ to Hen’s,’ we bellowed. ‘His olds are away.’
Through the pouring rain we could see three blurred, blonde heads hanging out of the garage door. They called us in for a fag. We dripped our way up the driveway. There was Dave, Strack and Johnno.
Because it was raining they were in Dave’s dad’s garage playing ping-pong and scrounging cigarettes.
After a Marlboro each we hit the road.
‘See yas there later,’ they called out after us. ‘We’ll spread the word!’
For the rest of the way we planned how to get the boys’ attention once we got there. We’d tried making cakes. We’d tried dancing, singing and the silent treatment. We’d tried everything … the boys kept playing pontoon. There was only one thing left to do …
‘Deal us in Danny.’
‘K’niver cig Jacko?’ I asked, under the strain of the game.
‘Rack off.’
‘Scab.’
The card table was littered with encrusted plates and cold, half-eaten meat pies.
Sue and I pulled out our pocket money and started laying heavy bets. ‘Twenty cents.’ We didn’t have a clue how to play.
‘Hey! Where’s me dollar note gorn?’ I jumped up in defence.
A dollar was a hundred dollars in those days. The boys smirked; they’d passed it round to Jacko.
‘Come on. Who’s got it?’
‘That’s weak. That’s really weak,’ said Sue, sticking up for me.
‘Come on. Give it back. Who’s got it?’
Jacko started laughing.
‘Jacko!’ I whinged, snatching at his wrist. ‘Come on Jacko. Stop being weak.’ It was no use. Jacko was a scab. I sneaked off to the kitchen.
Returning with a milk bottle, I crept up behind him and dripped three drops of water on his scabby old head. I’d gone too far. In a flash Jacko was up, brandishing a full family-size tomato sauce bottle. It splattered bright red on pale blue. All over my brand new, hot-from-Miranda Fair angora jumper. My jaw dropped. The boys gaped at me in silence I went upstairs to have a shower. It was in my hair and everything.
‘Now, mind the door,’ I stressed to Sue. ‘Don’t let anyone in.’
Sue kept a foot under the door as I washed the angora jumper. As the tomato sauce went down the drain, we bitched about Jacko. Boy, was he a scab.
‘Good head he’d have for sure.’
‘Yeah, mint of the brains.’
Downstairs we could hear the boys laying on the heavy.
‘Watcha do that for?’ said Hen, my boyfriend.
‘Pretty weak Jackson.’
‘Oh, small scab Jacko.’
‘She asked for it but!’
‘Oh, and she did for sure,’ said the Hen.
I hauled on one of Garry’s jumpers.
‘Oh, it’s so big. The arms keep falling down.’ Hee, hee.
‘Hey, Debbie,’ ventured Jacko, outside the bathroom door.
‘Yeah?’
‘Wanna fag?’
‘Yeah.’
He was forgiven.
We spent the afternoon in the bathroom getting ready. We plucked away all our eyebrows and shaved the bottom half of our legs.
The boys were out buying the grog and cigarettes for the night.
By nine o’clock the party was raging. The word had got around. Everyone was there. The telephone kept ringing, the record player was booming and the front door kept opening as more and more people poured in and the tide in the liquor cupboard went out. When it got late enough we tried playing real mothers and fathers. Not that it ever worked all that well. Everyone sat around cuddling, kissing and cracking on to each other.
Sue and I were desperate romantics. We were always trying to get the boys to say what they said on Number 96…
‘It’s you! You’re the one!’
‘Kiss me … Kiss me, darling.’ (heavy passionate breathing)
‘And when we get older, there’ll be just you and me. Forever … Together.’
The most we ever got out of Danny and Garry was an occasional grunt and a friendship ring.
To encourage them a little, I put on our favourite single, ‘Tickle Me’, by Pat Boone. Everyone else left the room. We were with our boyfriends … alone.
With the help of half a dozen cans of beer, Sue and I induced them to tickle us on the floor.
‘Oh! Danny! Don’t!’
‘Stop it Garry!’ Giggle, giggle, giggle.
We writhed and squirmed in delight on the shaggy carpet.
Danny leant down and whispered in Susan’s ear. ‘Comin’ upstairs?’
‘Whadaya want?’
‘A root.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
So she tho
ught about it. She rolled over next to the speaker and with Deep Purple blaring down her earhole, she thought about it.
‘Comin’?’ He led her by the hand up the stairs and into Garry’s bedroom.
He undid her black cords. He unbuckled his belt. He lay on top of her, and snorted. She tensed as his hand slid under the elastic of her best underpants. The room was silent. Danny knew two things about making love. Tits here. Cunt there. You make a grab at one, then a dive for the other.
Suddenly it was all too much for her. She collected all her morals and movie lines.
‘Is that all you want?’ She jumped up, zipping her fly. ‘Huh? … Ar … Na.’
I had been lurking around outside in the corridor. ‘What happened?’ I asked as Sue rushed by.
‘Nuthin’.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ll tell ya later.’
Garry led me into his room. He turned off the light and we lay on the already dishevelled bed.
‘Can I?’
‘No. I’m on m’ rags.’
I wasn’t, but it was a good excuse.
I met Sue in the TV room.
‘What happened? asked Sue.
‘Nuthin’.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Nuthin’.’ I replied.
‘Well, didja?’
‘What?’
‘Didja let him?’
‘Did you?’ I retorted.
‘Na. He only wants me for one thing. He’s a user.’
‘Oh, he is not. What about the ring?’
‘What about your ring?’
‘Oh look, he roolly loves you. He’s stoked in ya. No bull. Kim was tellin’ Cheryl the other day that Danny told Dave that he’s gettin’ ya an engraved bracelet.’
‘Oh, deadset?’
‘Yeah, deadset.’
‘I’d better make up,’ Sue softened.
‘Yeah. He’s rapt in ya.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Ya gonna let him now?’
‘I dunno. I’m sick of it. What if I get pregnant?’
‘Ya won’t. Ya can only get pregnant on the days ya got ya rags. Trace told me.’
We never thought much about getting pregnant. We didn’t know anything about it. We didn’t do sex in science till third form. It was too heavy to really think about. It just made good gossip when a girl disappeared from school for a few days. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but Tracey …’ It was okay if a top surfie chick had an abortion. She handled it and never talked about it. That made her even cooler. But if a moll had one everybody knew and she was always crying. That made her even slacker.
Puberty Blues Page 5