Joan
Carnaby Street was her favourite place. London was so different from Manchester. Things were happening here. Young people everywhere, parading the latest fashions, having fun. Jobs were there for the asking, if your boss got up your nose you could just walk away, there was always something else available. Joan had already had two. The first in a record shop, a place she loved because she could hear all the latest records, but the manager had wandering hands and bad breath and she got sick of his attentions.
There were plenty of dishy young men in London looking for a good time, money in their pockets. She got countless invitations but she turned them all down. She still felt uncomfortable about what had happened. She didn't want anyone to know she had stretch marks, silvery threads that meandered across her belly, and although she sometimes felt aroused she had no desire to sleep with anyone. The woman who had cavorted on desks with Duncan and then gone home and pleasured herself was a stranger. Like a flickering home movie from someone else’s life; she had withered and died as Joan’s baby had grown and been born. Occasionally Joan wondered whether she would ever want to do the normal things again. Settle down, get married, have a family. It all seemed so stuffy, really.
Her friend Frances had got married and moved to the outer suburbs with her new husband. Frances had given up work and become a full-time housewife. Joan couldn’t imagine it. Be like being buried alive.
Her second job was with a record company. They needed someone to run the office. The place was crazy, an endless stream of hopeful youngsters ringing up or turning up, climbing the rickety staircase to the two-room let in a Soho backstreet, clutching song sheets or guitars or letters from the school music teacher. The place was owned by Roger, who had minor connections to royalty and no need to make any money from his hobby. He talked endlessly about the new sound, about rivaling the Shadows, about platinum discs and breaking America. As it was, the only success the outfit had was with compilations of ballads, Russ Conway style.
Joan had her black hair cut short, a stylish cut with a straight fringe. She bought false eyelashes and practically glued her eyes shut on the first attempt. She got dark eye make-up and white lipstick at Biba and saved from her wages to get a second-hand Singer sewing machine. All the dresses in vogue were simple shapes. She ran up an A-line in geometric material from the market and a dress with the empire bust line in gorgeous purple paisley for a fraction of the cost.
Roger liked her to look groovy, as he put it, never mind that half their clients were still wearing what their parents wore. She would give an impression of being really trendy and then the kids would go in and see Roger in his lair. After Joan had been there a month she had created some sort of filing system to show who they had seen and what, if anything, had been agreed. She often had to pester Roger to find out. And catch him straight after an act had left. He was irritatingly absent-minded.
Roger invited her to one of his parties. He had a huge house near Hampstead Heath and he boasted that the parties went on all weekend, day and night. He paid for caterers and cleaners and even people to serve drinks. With all that, Joan couldn’t see why on earth he bothered with his little record label.
When she got there she didn’t know what to do with herself. She smoked too much and drank too much and found herself outside by the terrace being sick behind a hydrangea bush. She fell asleep there. The cold woke her and she went exploring. The house was huge and, with music blaring from all corners and psychedelic lighting, she felt like she’d walked into someone’s bad dream. People were petting on the stairs and dancing in one room to a live group who were hopelessly off key. Everyone seemed to be smoking reefers or popping pills. She opened one door and was shocked to see a bed covered with naked people. Not just one couple but several. A sea of breasts and pubic hair. A man’s willy. She shut the door hurriedly, her cheeks aflame. She felt uncomfortable and walked home.
When Roger had his next party she wondered whether to go or not but he told her there were some business contacts there he wanted her to meet. He introduced her to Lena. Lena was working in Soho, singing in a nightclub not far from the office. Although her English was very good she had a thick German accent and Joan had to concentrate hard to make out the sense. She was talking about Roger and how he had promised her some sort of record deal. They hoped to make a record soon.
‘Have you written it?’ Joan asked.
‘No,’ Lena threw back her head and laughed. She had bronze skin and her hair was streaked with gold and honey. She had very pale grey eyes. Joan thought she could have been a model or a film star if the singing didn’t work out.
‘Roger is the writer,’ Lena said.
Joan pulled a face.
‘You think it’s a problem? No good?’
Joan shrugged. ‘You’d be better off doing it yourself.’
‘No. I can sing, but writing? Pouff!’ she waved her hands in dismissal. ‘What is wrong with Roger doing it?’
‘First of all, it’ll take him forever, and then it will be . . .’ she leaned close and enunciated carefully, ‘dull, square, boring.’ She had heard his songs and tried to think of comments that wouldn’t get her sacked.
‘Joan, you write me a song.’
‘But I’ve never . . .’
‘If you don’t, I’ll have to do Roger’s. Please?’
‘He wouldn’t like it.’
‘We’ll pick a name for you, he won’t know.’ Lena was animated, her face alight with the plan. ‘What would you like to be called?’
‘I can’t . . .’ She protested.
‘Joan –’ Lena grabbed her hands – ‘my friend, please. Just try, promise you’ll try.’ She stared at Joan, an open look to her, eyes dancing, a smile stretching her lips. ‘Please?’
‘I’ll try. But it might be rubbish.’
‘You’ll try?’
‘Yes.’
Lena pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. Joan laughed with surprise.
‘And what name?’
The question blew Joan straight back to St Ann’s, to the registrar documenting the birth. And what name? Laboriously writing with a thick fountain pen. Her name and address, a careful line across the section for the father’s details, and then, pen poised, he turned his shiny round face to her and peered over his glasses. And what name? Nearly two years ago now.
‘Joan?’ Lena nudged her elbow. ‘You OK?’
‘Day dreaming,’ she said. ‘I’ll think of something.’ And she tried to force her smile into her eyes too.
Lilian
‘And this is Pamela,’ Peter announced, lifting up the carrycot. ‘Pamela Mary Gough.’
‘She’s tiny,’ his mother observed. She sounded pleasant enough but Lilian noticed that she made no move to touch her first grandchild. Frightened of waking her, or something else?
‘Why don’t you get settled and I’ll tell Bernard you’re here. Kettle’s on.’ She hurried away and Lilian took off her jacket and took it out to the pegs in the hall. She could hear Alicia calling Bernard in from the garden. He made models in his shed. Planes and boats, no – ships. He got upset if you called them boats. His fine attention to detail and his skills at his hobby went hand in hand with a complete lack of skills and gross insensitivity where people were concerned.
‘Hrrumph!’ had been his greeting when Peter first took her home. He was an electrician by trade, with his own business. Though Lilian often wondered how his customers coped with his offhand manner. The pair of them had never had a conversation. She dreaded these visits, Peter less so, though he readily acknowledged that his father was miserable company and that her family were more easy-going. ‘You and Sally are chatterboxes,’ he joked. ‘You wouldn’t notice if someone was mealy-mouthed, because you’d be talking nineteen to the dozen.’
Lilian wondered how much religion came into it. The Goughs were Protestants – Methodists, a creed that shunned pomp and circumstance, frowned on drink and, it seemed to Lilian, were uncomfortable with any
emotional expression too. They could sing, though. Sang her lot out of church at the wedding. Peter had converted to become a Catholic. He’d studied and promised to follow the faith and now here she was encouraging him to go against the dogma. But the alternative was unbearable.
Peter had been an only child. His mother had never spoken about whether that was by choice. Lilian had a sister, Sally. They had quarrelled a lot as children but were close now they’d grown up and their parents were gone. Lilian had always thought three children would be a nice number. Three. Three miscarriages she’d had. And each time Peter’s father had been too stiff and awkward to even refer to it. Had hardly come near her while she was there, as though what she had was contagious.
‘It’s just his way,’ Peter defended him. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it.’
And now there was Pamela?
Bernard appeared for lunch and the four of them settled to eat. Roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, braised red cabbage, peas and carrots and thick gravy. It was seventy-eight degrees outside but the Sunday roast was made come hell or high water.
Peter talked about his promotion and the work he was doing in Sheffield. His mother chucked in the odd comment. An occasional nod or grunt from Bernard the only indication he was listening. No one mentioned Pamela. Lilian longed for her to wake up so she could tend to her and show her off. After apricot crumble and custard she helped Alicia wash up. Lilian talked about Pamela for a while – how she was a slow feeder and kept nodding off on the bottle. She had to tickle her feet to keep her awake sometimes. That she loved her bath and Peter sometimes bathed her at the weekends. But Alicia’s response was so muted Lilian felt like she was talking to herself.
When Pamela’s sudden, gutsy yell broke through the silence she put down the tea towel with relief.
Peter got his mother to warm the bottle while Lilian rocked Pamela. They had had her twelve days and every time Lilian looked at her she got a rush inside, her heart felt swollen as though it was bruised with emotion. There were moments when the child’s vulnerability appalled her. Such tiny bones, the soft dips on her head where the fontanelles were yet to join, the translucent skin on her eyelids, soft pale fingernails. If she dropped her, hurt her . . . the pictures frightened her. Why did she think like that? She loved Pamela. She was her mother. She would do anything to keep her safe. So why did she have these flashes, awful images like nightmares. Blood and guilt. There was something wrong with her. You couldn’t tell anyone about thoughts like that. They’d lock you up in Springfield or Prestwich, chuck away the key.
Peter handed her the bottle. The room was cool and once Pamela had started to feed it was peaceful. She looked out towards the small garden. It was full of roses. They had no lawn, only paving, between the rose beds. In the summer the roses looked showy, hot colours and big blooms. It was an adult’s garden, all those thorns. No place for a child to play. What did it matter? Pamela would never come here to stay with Granny Gough. Her throat constricted, anger and sadness together. The baby spluttered and Lilian raised her upright and patted her back. The rich burp made Lilian giggle. ‘Lovely manners,’ she whispered, and kissed the baby’s forehead. Pamela’s fist curled round a strand of her hair. She pulled back, gently loosening the grip. When she offered her the bottle again, Pamela turned away from the teat.
Perhaps Alicia was just shy? No daughter herself, years since she’s been around a baby. Not sure how to act with us?
‘Let’s go see.’
She found Peter and his mother in the dining room. He was engrossed in the paper and she was studying the crossword puzzle. Bernard would be back in his shed.
‘Hello.’ She stood beside him. He put the paper down, held his arms out to Pamela.
‘I thought you might like a hold,’ she turned to Alicia. ‘She’s happy now, had her feed.’
‘Oh, er . . . yes.’ Alicia looked dismayed, her mouth twitching and eyes blinking. Lilian handed her the child before she could demur, passing her the muslin square too, in case Pamela possetted.
Alicia held the child on her lap, a picture of uncomfortable tension. She didn’t attempt to communicate with the baby but spoke to Peter. ‘And you’ve got a new car?’
It took only thirty seconds for Pamela to twist and begin to whimper. Alicia looked helplessly at Lilian, who rescued her daughter.
She doesn’t care. She swung her toffee-coloured hair out of the way and nestled the infant against her shoulder. She’d have more affection if we’d bought a bloody dog. She decided then that she would never come again. Blast tradition. She would not subject her wonderful, brilliant new daughter to these loveless afternoons of stifling boredom. If Peter wished to come, he could come alone. And if his parents ever woke up and realised just exactly what they were missing, then they could damn well come and see Pamela and Lilian in their own house.
Joan
‘It’s perfect,’ Lena pronounced. ‘I love you!’ She leapt across the carpet and planted a kiss on Joan’s head. ‘Do it again, the chorus.’
‘Walk my way,’ Joan sang in a breathy voice and picked the chords out on the guitar. ‘Make my day. You can take what you need but you’re never going to take this away. Oh, baby, walk my way.’
When she had finished Lena sang the song all the way through, her voice rich and full.
‘Wonderful. It needs strings, do you think? Or maybe a really moody sax? You're so clever, Joan. I knew you could do it. Tonight we celebrate.’
Joan laughed at her friend’s exuberance. Lena wasn’t all stuffy and bossy like you heard Germans were. She was like a child. Full of life and always excited about something.
‘You’re working tonight,’ Joan pointed out.
‘After.’
‘Some of us sleep at night.’
‘This is a special day. What do you call it – a letter day?’
‘Red-letter day.’
‘So?’ She cocked her head, smiling as ever.
‘OK.’
‘Good. Ooh, wait till Roger hears this. Shall we tell him it’s your song?’
‘No. Only if it’s a hit.’
‘When it’s a hit. It has to be. Forget Doris Day, Connie Francis, here comes Lena!’
Joan didn’t enjoy waiting in the club for Lena. It was a seedy place, noisy and thick with smoke. Lena’s act provided background but few of the patrons paid much attention, they were here for the exotic dancers who topped the bill. Joan worried that someone would think she was a working girl, a hostess who could be approached. She sat at a small table near to the toilets and avoided any eye contact. She drank her Martini too quickly and sat twiddling her glass waiting for Lena to finish. When Lena swept up to her table Joan felt she’d been rescued.
‘Come on.’ Lena pulled her shoulder bag over her white mac. ‘You hungry?’
‘Now?’
‘You English! In bed by ten, tea at five. You never grow up.’
They bought fish and chips from the corner and ate as they walked.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Club I know.’
Joan groaned. ‘Another dive?’
‘No, you’ll like it. Come on, live dangerously.’
She followed Lena down a side street. A wooden sign proclaimed the Zebra Club. They went down steep basement steps to a plain door. Inside there was a large room crammed with dancers. About half of them were coloured. There had been places in Manchester where the West Indians went, but Joan would never have dreamed of going there. This seemed more mixed. On a small stage a trio were playing. At the tiny bar Lena bought drinks. Joan was aware of some of the men looking their way. Well, she thought, if Lena found a friend she should have just enough for a taxi home, if she was careful.
After the first drink Joan found herself relaxing. The music was good, quite varied too. They played some jazz and calypso-type songs with a strong beat. Lena insisted on dancing and got Joan up too. Some of the movements the black couples were doing were quite astonishing but no one seemed to
mind and the atmosphere was fun. When Lena caught her yawning she dragged her to the ladies’.
‘Here.’ She took a couple of yellow capsules from her pocket.
Joan shook her head.
‘Stop you being tired.’ Lena put one in her mouth and bent to drink from the tap. ‘They’re great, really. Make you feel like you’re full of champagne.’
Joan smiled.
‘Try one.’
She might as well. Everyone else liked them. And it would be nice to have a bit more energy.
She took the pill and drank from the tap.
Hours later, almost four in the morning and in paroxysms of giggles the two wove their way, arm in arm, to Lena’s flat.
It too was downstairs, a damp basement with a powerful smell of mildew and fungus on the ceilings. There was a main room with a tiny kitchen area in one corner behind a curtain. The toilet and washbasin were outside, in a small yard crammed with broken furniture. In the room Lena had a single bed, a small wooden table and two stools, an armchair that had seen better days and a wardrobe with a broken door. She had brightened the place up by putting multicolored crocheted blankets over the chair and bed. Posters adorned the walls: Adam Faith and Elvis.
Joan was still tittering and then she couldn’t remember why they’d been laughing and that seemed even funnier. She collapsed on the bed, kicking off her shoes. Lena was singing as she switched on a lamp and the electric fire. She put a stack of records on the dansette in the corner. The strains of ‘Apache’ by The Shadows filled the room.
Joan felt the bed bounce as Lena sat beside her. She felt a hand brush her fringe aside. Opened her eyes. Lena smiling, warm lips, her hair falling forward. Bending down. Lips against hers, touching her own, the faint stickiness of lipstick. Joan’s giggles quietened. Her thoughts were scrambling, trying to run without legs. No, wrong, wicked. Mustn’t. But she didn't move.
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