Mary said he’d gone to his evening class.
Dad smiled. He looked at Mum and she smiled back at him. Then they both went on eating and took no more notice of me. This made me feel bitchier than ever. I said Vlady’s my favourite brother (or sister, if you see what I mean), but that’s not to say I can always stand him being so clever and hard-working and everything Mum and Dad want, that I’m not.
“Him and his evening classes!” I said, sneery. “Big deal!”
“At least he’ll have something to show at the end of them,” said Mary.
“He shows off enough without another of his bits of paper,” I said.
“He does not show off!” said Lily. “Not like you with your silly trips that you’re not even going on!” And she stuck out her tongue at me and went nyeeeeh! Easy to see she’d have curled up and died of envy if Dad had said yes. The way I felt then, I’d’ve liked nothing better than to see her curl up and die, so I just gave her another slap.
So then she let out a squawk and Mum turned round and slapped me, which gave me a good reason to start shouting and carrying on as loud as I could. Dad stood it for about one minute and then he got up, picked up his plate and carried it off to eat his dinner in the front room.
“There now! You’ve driv’ your poor father away from his own table!” said Mum. “You bad girl, you! Go away from us yourself, eat off the floor like the little wild animal you are!” And she snatched my plate and put it down on the floor in the corner.
I was beyond everything by then. I stamped on the plate and broke it.
Mum burst into tears.
I ran out into the street, leaving a trail of my dinner from my shoe across the floor to the back door.
I was shaking and crying. I didn’t know how it had all happened. I was sorry. Of course I was. But I couldn’t feel it yet. I just felt everything was against me. I stamped along, thinking, Trust Dad to make an idiot of me by not letting me go! I suppose he don’t trust me. It wouldn’t matter him not trusting Kev if he trusted me. I didn’t need treating like a bit of fine china. I could look after myself! I wouldn’t have done anything silly. Not me. I wasn’t asking for trouble, anyway I didn’t want them all talking about me behind my back the way they do about Karen, saying she’s a slag and all that – not me! What did Dad think? I knew what he thought: he thought I was stupid, he thought a person who hadn’t got a head for school had no head for living. That was his big mistake.
I found I’d walked to the tube. I stood outside, wishing I’d brought my money so I could get in a train and go somewhere. Where, though? Up West? Part of me wanted to, but another part was scared. But I had to do something. I couldn’t just trail home.
I thought of going to Kev’s house. It was him I wanted, more than I wanted anyone else anyhow, but I’d never been to his house – he’d never asked me – and this wasn’t the time to begin. I started walking slowly, still away from home. Let’s see, who else was there? Karen? You’re joking! For a minute I thought of Darryl. He’d been nice that morning at school . . . but I’d never thought much of him till then. Anyhow I didn’t know where he lived.
Well, what about Connie?
She lived quite near. I decided to chance it. She was a girl after all. No one could think anything about me going to see her. I turned down her street, and in a few minutes I was ringing her bell.
She answered it herself. She was all got up in her black gear. Always gave me a jump when I saw her, so different from at school, with her dyed black hair and those thick rings round her eyes. She looked a bit tense, I thought. But she smiled when she saw me.
“Hallo, Tracy! What you come for?”
“I had a row at home. I – I thought you and me might go out.”
“Yeah? Good idea. Where?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, do I? Don’t you know a place?” Connie’s the kind of person you expect to know everything.
She didn’t say anything for a bit, just stared at me. Then she said, “Yeah. I’ve heard of one. Never been, though.”
“Where is it?”
“Down Camden Town.”
“Go on – that’s miles.”
“Don’t you want to, then?” I thought she looked disappointed, so I said, “Don’t mind. Only I’ve got no money.”
“I’ll lend you.”
Connie’s always loaded. Her dad’s in the car trade and makes a bomb. That’s how she gets all her gear. She got given moon-boots for her birthday – forty-five quid, fur inside and pony-skin out. You know what she did? Sold them again – advertised them in the local paper – and bought a pair of German parachutists’ boots from a surplus store. You wouldn’t think there’d be German parachutists with size 5’s, would you? And with what was left over – well, some of it anyway – she went down the Portobello and got herself all new gear, second-hand. Wet-look jeans and army battle-jackets and string vests, the lot. Dyed everything black that wasn’t black already, and then had her hair cut and dyed again at a really good unisex place.
She didn’t waste any time now. She yelled over her shoulder, “Mum! I’m going out with Tracy!” A sharp voice from the back of the house yelled back: “Yeah, you go, Connie, go quick, go on!” Somehow it gave me the shivers, that voice, it sort of cracked on the word “quick”. Like she couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
Connie grabbed her coat and got some money out of a handbag that was hanging over a post at the bottom of the stairs.
“Is that your mum’s bag?” I whispered. The house was so quiet now her mum’s voice had stopped that you had to whisper, somehow.
“Yeah. She lets me take whatever I want.”
“And she lets you go out at night, just like that?”
“Course. She knows I can look after myself. Anyway it’s safer out than in, some nights.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Nothing, I’m joking. Come on.”
That’s the sort of parents to have, I couldn’t help thinking.
We walked quickly to the tube, and Connie bought two returns to Camden Town.
We didn’t talk much on the way. A lot of people looked at Connie. I felt dull beside her – nobody looked at me. Once I said, “Don’t you mind ’em all staring?” She shrugged. “Let ’em look,” she said. “They can look but they mustn’t touch.”
London’s so big. Every tube station lets out on something different. Our station at home’s like a country one, almost, but Camden Town was like another world. Not a very nice world either. Five roads led off from the place we came up at, and every one looked grottier than the last.
“Where is it, then – this place?”
“I haven’t a clue. We’ll have to ask.”
She tried to stop passers-by, to ask the way – but you should have seen how they dodged her! They’d walk straight towards her, and then, when she tried to speak to them, they’d swerve round her in a half circle and hurry on without looking back. About four different women did that.
“Try a man,” I said at last.
“Not me. I might get done for soliciting.”
“What’s that?”
She looked at me, surprised. “Don’t you know? Stopping men on the streets to get ’em to come home with you.”
“Oh,” I said.
Well, I didn’t know, did I? I sometimes think Vlady’s right about me when he says, “It’s not so much you’re stupid, you’re just plain ignorant. Why don’t you ask what things mean if you don’t know? You’re just not interested, that’s why!” But that wasn’t why. I was scared people’d laugh. Even Lily laughs at me sometimes when I don’t know a word. Well. At least Connie hadn’t laughed.
She was trying another woman, younger this time. And this one stopped.
“The Music Mill? Some sort of club, isn’t it? I think it’s up that way, on the left,” she said, pointing.
We said thanks and walked on. I said to Connie, “Did you notice how they all shied away from you?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“You scare them.”
“I want ’em to be scared,” she said.
“Why?”
“Let ’em keep their distance.”
“But then, when you need them – like just now—”
“Oh, you’ll always find someone. The posh trendies’ll talk to anyone. They’d talk to you if you was rolling in the gutter stoned out of your skull, waving a knife and dressed as Dracula.”
We walked on through the crowd. Everyone took one look at Connie and either smirked or gave us a wide berth. When I looked at some of the types, I began to see what she meant. I wondered what sort we’d meet in this place we were going. I was a bit nervous, to be honest, but I wasn’t going to let Connie see that. She didn’t seem to have a nervous nerve in her whole body.
5 · The Music Mill
We came round a bend and there it was – only we didn’t recognise it at first because we’d neither of us thought it’d be so big. I thought it was a bingo hall. It was a big, tall building with lots of fancy-work on the front, and a marquee like a cinema, and wide steps going up to a row of glass doors. It was lit up, and lots of kids were going in. There were all sorts, mods, skinheads, punks, and some that weren’t anything interesting at all.
At the door was a big fellow. He looked us over as we came up the steps, then he stopped us.
“You girls by any chance under age?”
“Course not! Well—” said Connie. And then she boxed clever. “I’m eighteen, but she’s not, not till next week.”
He looked at me. “Oh go on then,” he said. “I won’t keep her out for a week. Don’t draw attention to yourselves, that’s all.” And he waved us on.
The week’s programme was stuck up on a poster outside. That night’s group was called Dirty Linen. Giggling a bit, we went to the box-office and paid. £1.50 each and no readmission, so we had to enjoy it.
Inside there was a kind of lobby where lots of boys were playing the pin-tables, but we didn’t stop there. Next – another lobby, this time with snooker. We could hear the music getting louder. We pushed open some swing doors and found ourselves in a kind of hall. It looked more like a cinema than a dance club. It had red walls and green floors and lots of decorations, all looking old and crumbly, with a few posters and pictures stuck around as if they’d been there years and nobody’d bothered to take them down.
There were several levels, big balconies sticking out, and little ones at the sides for just three or four people. On the ground level, there were alcoves with sofas and tables in them, and railings to lean against and to separate the people watching or eating from the dance floor. That was an area in front of the stage. On the stage was the group, playing away very loud, five of them. Only a few people were dancing so far, the rest were standing or sitting or strolling around.
Up at the very back was a bar, or two rather, one for food and one for drinks. We drifted up there first. There was a menu at the food one written in big chalk letters, with joke-things like Pink Floyd Burgers (with tomato ketchup) and Blondie Burgers (with yellow mustard) and Cool Cat Burgers (with salad). As far as I could see they were all pretty much the same, though some of them cost more.
“Can we have something?” I asked Connie. “I’ll pay you back.” I was half starved. After all, most of my dinner was spread out on the kitchen floor.
“Sure. Do you want a drink? We’re not allowed really, that’s why they got that bloke on the door.”
“I only want a Coke anyhow.”
We got our Coke and burgers – I had a Clash Burger; same as the others really but I was gone on the Clash then – and took them to one of the sofas and sat in a corner of it to eat. I had eyes everywhere, just taking it all in. The music was too loud for talking. There were loads more people coming in every minute.
“How long does it go on for?” I yelled at Connie.
“I don’t know. Till late.”
“How’ll we ever get home?”
“Oh, get away, Tracy! We only just got here. Enjoy yourself.”
I wanted to – I really did. But how? I mean, it was fun just being here and seeing it, but to really enjoy it you’ve got to take part. Taking part meant dancing and for dancing you need a boy.
Not that there weren’t plenty about. All shapes, sizes and colours. Some nice-looking ones, and all.
“What you think of the caryatids?” Connie asked me suddenly.
I looked at the group, bashing away – two electric guitars, a sax, trumpet and set of traps – funny mix in a way; lots of beat and noise but nothing special. Good enough for dancing though, if only someone’d ask me. “They’re not bad,” I said. “I like less beat and more tune myself.”
She looked at me, and right off I got that prickly feeling you get when you’ve made a tata of yourself. “Hang about,” I said, “aren’t they called Dirty Linen?”
Connie pointed. “The caryatids are them,” she said.
I looked. She was pointing at some big men’s figures, statues, very muscly and with curly beards, holding up the little balconies on the side walls. I hadn’t even noticed them till then. I felt a proper idiot, but at least she hadn’t laughed or said, “Fancy not knowing that!”
“This was a theatre once,” she said, “or maybe a music hall. Nice one too, by the looks of it. Bit run down now – seen better days. Pity. Still, at least they haven’t pulled it right down and built something horrible instead.”
I sat there not talking. I liked Connie. I was grateful she’d brought me to this place when I was miserable. But I’d suddenly remembered all those O-levels. It set her apart from me somehow.
I hardly noticed when this boy sat down next to me on the sofa until he started chatting me up in a break in the music.
“Haven’t seen you two here before.”
“We’ve never been here before, maybe that’s why.”
“Great, eh?”
“It’s all right,” I said, trying not to sound bowled over.
“What’s your name? Mine’s Gary Sharp.”
“Tracy Just.” I pronounced it like the English word, not “Joost” which is a short form of Dad’s Polish name. We all use that because no one can pronounce the long form.
“And who’s your friend?”
I kind of introduced them. He kept staring at Connie. He wore old-fashioned flared jeans and a black wet-look jacket with lots of stickers on it. Not what you’d call a raver, but he wasn’t bad. He chatted me up for a few minutes and offered to buy us Cokes. I opened my mouth to say yes but Connie nudged me.
“That’s all right thanks,” she said. “We just had one.”
The band started up again and this Gary hesitated. Something told me he wanted to ask Connie to dance, but in the end he asked me. He led the way down the stairs and onto the dance floor and we did some pogo. I don’t like trying to talk while I dance (how can you?) but he kept sort of shouting questions at me through the throb and the blare. Finally I stopped dancing and said, “I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Can’t we just dance?” That shut him up till the break. Then as we walked back up the stairway he said, sarky, “Can I talk now?”
“Now I can hear you,” I said.
“Is your friend a real punk? Or is it just a front?”
I stopped dead and looked at him. I’d never thought of it like that.
“I dunno. You better ask her yourself,” I said – and then could’ve bitten out my tongue. Because of course that’s just what he wanted to do. And for the next hour he sat between us on the sofa with his back turned to me, talking to Connie.
I got fed up with this finally and wandered away. I wished I had some money. I was still dead hungry and I didn’t like to ask Connie for more. For once I wished I smoked. If you’re on your own and feeling awkward at least it gives you something to do with your hands. A guy near me saw me looking at his fag and offered me one, but he looked a bit of a creep so I said, “No thanks.” I don’t really like the taste anyway.
“Oh go on – you know you
want one. You won’t drop dead from your first puff, you know, whatever the government health warnings say.”
I was bored. That was the trouble. You’ll do anything to stop being bored. I took one and he lit it. I puffed on it, trying not to inhale. Just the same I got tears from trying not to cough. This boy was watching me.
“Call that smoking?” he said. “You’ll never get the big C. like that you know! Take a real drag.” He showed me. As if I’d never seen anyone smoking before! Karen’s been at it since she was about twelve. And Kev smoked every day, on his way to and from school. He was getting a real addict. His breath smelt sometimes, though I didn’t like to mention that. He might have got hurt and stopped necking.
“It’s no good,” I said. I looked round for somewhere to put it out.
“Just drop it on the floor,” he said. I looked at my feet. The carpet, or whatever it was, was littered with ends. I tried to drop it but it was like the spray-can on the bridge. My hand kind of wouldn’t open. I was seeing our carpet at home. Sean dropped a butt on it once. Just once.
“– Or, here – give it to me. Pity to waste it.” And he took it and pinched it out with his fingers. Then he put it back in the packet. “Want to dance?”
And how. But I didn’t know about with him. Funny thing, attraction. He wasn’t any worse-looking than Gary, but somehow he didn’t turn me on. He had a real flat brush-cut on top and long hair at the back, and an earring, and a T-shirt with I’m for Two-Tone written on it. I looked at his face quickly to find just something I could like. Well. His nose was all right. But is a nose enough?
Still, he had legs and arms. He wasn’t asking me to marry him.
“I don’t mind.”
“Come on then.” We started off down the steps and he stopped. “Want a drink first?”
I was going to say no, but he was already making for the bar. He came back a bit later with two glasses of beer.
“I’m sorry, I don’t like beer,” I said. I thought, That does it, he won’t dance with me now, he’ll think I’m a right nutter.
But he didn’t mind. “All the more for me,” he said, and, opening his mouth, poured down first one half-pint and then, while I stared, the other. I’d seen them doing it on telly once, but never in real life. “So what would you like instead? A short?”
Writing On the Wall Page 4