Carl was gone again the following morning and his room remained empty. She was glad she wouldn’t have to see his blond hair, his thin face, his bloody tan. She was glad.
They practised three evenings a week, remembering to look for Ma Tucker each time and she also looked for Carl, but it was only so that she could stop singing at his approach, wasn’t it?
She worked hard during the day, cutting, sewing, pressing seams, remembering Brenda’s instructions, remembering her throaty laugh, her mother’s grin and though she still wrote home saying that everything was great she crossed off the days on her calendar. Davy, though, was relaxing, enjoying the music, the fabrics he was working with, enjoying the pot which Arnie bought from ‘a friend’ and sometimes Sarah smoked as well, but not often, and then only with a sense of guilt.
They failed the audition. ‘Your songs are too weak,’ the Student Union Entertainment Committee told them and that night Sarah lay in bed, watching the lights from the passing cars on her ceiling, remembering Carl’s words, his touch, his tan and she reached for one of the joints she kept in Prue’s sandalwood box, drawing deep, leaning back on her pillows, two cardigans around her shoulders until at last her lids felt heavy, her body limp. She stubbed it out, replaced it in the box and slept, dreaming of pigeons, of her mother’s kitchen, Bet’s voice, and she knew when she awoke that she would not return to London after Christmas.
They went to the gig, packing before they did so, stuffing things into cases, cleaning the rooms. ‘We’ll catch the early train,’ she said and Davy nodded.
‘I like your skirt,’ he said. ‘But your da’ll have a fit.’
Sarah smiled. ‘I’ll wear them good and long up there.’
Tim and Arnie were there, Deb and Sally too, and the girls from her year. They bought drinks at the bar, chatted, talked as they’d never done before and Davy brought his year over and there was laughter, dancing, fun. Sarah twisted with Tim, with Davy, laughing as they dragged in Sally too, listening to the group which was playing and knew that they were good, better than she and Davy had been, but it didn’t matter now. None of it mattered because she was going home.
Arnie draped her in tinsel, and Sally too and Sarah picked pieces off and hung them over Davy’s ears. ‘Now, just what do you think your da would think of that, bonny lad,’ she giggled, passing him her beer to drink from, sipping it herself, then smelling pot close by. She turned, Carl was dancing close, so close to a blonde girl, who clung to him, and he to her, his joint wafting sweet smoke.
Sarah turned away, back to Davy who still had tinsel behind his ears, and tried to laugh again, but all the fun had fled and she couldn’t understand herself. The music was too loud now, far too loud and her head ached and her throat as she strained to speak, strained to listen to Arnie’s drawl, Tim’s Jokes. She looked at her watch – nearly midnight, thank God – this time tomorrow she’d be far away from London.
She eased her way through entwined couples who moved with the music, through balloons which floated and were tapped back up into the air, feeling the streamers which caught at her, but never held. She sat at their table, drawing dress designs in the spilt beer, thinking of the train which would carry her home.
‘So, Geordie lass, come and dance with me.’ It was Carl, his breath heavy with wine and pot, his eyes soft, but his hands firm as they pulled her to her feet. She danced with him, felt his knee pushing again and again between her legs, his hands on her arms, gently holding, stroking.
‘Forgive me for saying your songs were anaemic,’ he said bending his head to speak into her hair. ‘I shouldn’t have done, but let me help you. There’s a need for a good strong girl singer. I could make you big.’
Sarah smiled because she was going home. ‘No thanks. Davy and I stay together. He’s family and besides, we’re going into my mother’s business.’
He was still so close. ‘Trust me, I’ll help you both while you’re down here, and then you can go back to your mother.’ Sarah just smiled again, remembering the suddenness of his departure, the rudeness of his words, knowing she would never see him again after tonight, knowing that she was going into the business now, not in three years’ time. His arms tightened around her and she pushed away, looking into his face, his deep brown eyes, seeing only kindness when she had expected derision, feeling his kiss light on her forehead, when she had expected coldness. ‘Have a good Christmas, Sarah. I’ll see you when I return from skiing.’
Then he was ducking and weaving between the dancers, waving, smiling as people stopped him, took him aside, until he was gone from her sight.
‘No, you won’t see me,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m going home.’ But she could still feel his kiss on her forehead, and his hands on her arms.
CHAPTER 16
The journey had been long. They had changed trains at Newcastle and now they were approaching Wassingham, they were coming home. Sarah stood at the window looking out at the slag heap being lowered because of Aberfan, at the houses, the pitheads and it seemed so small, so very small.
The train stopped, and there was Annie, and behind her Georgie, Tom, and Gracie. Sarah ran now, throwing her arms round her parents, dropping her duffle bag with her presents, promising herself that she wouldn’t cry, proud that she didn’t.
They drove her back and Davy called, ‘See you tomorrow,’ his face as settled and happy as she knew hers was.
The kitchen was warm, the kettle simmering. Bet had cooked a casserole and hugged her, kissed her, her plump cheeks warm and her arms strong, pushing her into a chair while Annie stroked her hair, then they made a cup of tea and Georgie brought Button’s grandson in to see her. She laughed and stroked the bird, wanting to sink into the warmth of her home, of her family, not able to understand how small the room seemed, how old Bet looked, how grey Annie’s hair was, how different it all seemed, how different they all seemed.
That night she stood by her window, looking out over the town, hearing the birds fluttering and cooing in the loft, seeing next door’s cat prowling in the yard, remembering the new dinner plates, the plants that had not been there when she left, the new fireguard, and none of it was as she had remembered, even the loft. It all seemed so small.
The next day, she and Davy went into the factory where new machinists had been taken on, where schoolkids were doing the jobs that they had done in the packaging department and there was no room for Sarah and Davy this Christmas.
The next night they went to the pub for a drink and people said hello and told them the news – the Post Office’s new counter, Meg’s daughter’s baby, the new Mine Manager, and they smiled when Davy talked about African dyeing, or Sarah of the new line in design, but they didn’t listen, because what had this to do with them?
On Christmas Eve Sarah and Davy walked to the beck and talked together of Arnie, Tim, Ma Tucker, the lights, the bikes, Soho, and they laughed, smoking their last joint, chewing gum to take the smell from their breath, shaking their hair, running back through the frost-filled mist and that night Sarah couldn’t sleep because she didn’t know where she belonged any more.
On Christmas Day she and Davy were given guitars with pearl inlaid trim and a wonderful resonance, and a sewing machine. ‘For you to make yourself more clothes in London. You’ll need it – their fashions move so quickly.’
Sarah smiled and knew that she must tell her parents that she would not be going back but not now, it wasn’t fair, it would upset their day. But when would Davy tell Tom and Gracie, because he had said he would not return if she did not?
He hadn’t told them, he said as they walked to the football pitch and kicked the ball around. ‘But just tell me when you do,’ he said.
The pitch was frosted white and the hummocks ricked their ankles, tripped them, the ball slid from her hands, hurt her leg when it slapped into her and there was no laughter as there was with Rob, her parents and Uncle Tom, just irritation, and she could see it in Davy too.
She kicked the ball towards Tom, then
stood with her arms folded, not running when Gracie kicked it towards her, just watching as it sped past. Her mother moved closer to her. ‘At least pretend you’re enjoying yourself, Sarah, for heaven’s sake.’ Her voice was low, angry.
Sarah shrugged. ‘I’m cold.’
‘Then go back, don’t spoil this for everyone, and for God’s sake, grow up.’
‘But this is so childish, Mum. It’s not me that needs to grow up.’
That night Sarah sat by the range, rubbing wintergreen on her feet, smelling her knees, wondering what was wrong with her and why she was such a bitch, and now she was crying, holding her knees, feeling the tears running down her face until her mother came into the room, holding her, rocking her. ‘Sh, it’s all right. It’s all right.’
Sarah said against her shoulder, ‘It’s not all right. I didn’t want to go back because I don’t belong there but I don’t belong here any more and I hate myself for it.’
Annie held her tightly. ‘I know, and it is all right. I should have guessed, I’m sorry. We should know how you feel, after all, we’ve been through it too. Be kind to yourself, give it all a bit more time. But Sarah, you really must remember that you do not spoil things for other people, no matter how fed up you feel. Is that clear?’
In the New Year they met up with Geoff and Paul, and Annie let them use the packaging department and they played but they were out of synch. Geoff was too slow, or perhaps Sarah and Davy were too fast? They tried again and again, but it had gone and they were all embarrassed as they drank beer afterwards, struggling to find things to talk about, grasping at old school stories, old gigs but it wasn’t enough and as they walked home together, Sarah said to Davy, ‘How can things change so quickly?’
‘It’s not things, it’s us,’ Davy replied.
Lying in bed that night Sarah knew that it was true, that they had changed, moved on, and that she would return to London.
‘Will it work if we come back when we’re qualified?’ she asked her mother as she saw her off at the station. ‘Will it all be too difficult – will we have changed too much?’
Annie shook her head. ‘That’s up to you. We’d love to have you and you will remake your old friends and make new ones if you do come back, but just live each day, Sarah, my love. Don’t try to answer all the questions now, just go with it for a bit – stretch your frontiers, enjoy yourself.’
The train was coming in, screeching, doors were slamming and Sarah hugged her, held her tight, wondering at how small she seemed, kissed her father, her aunt, her uncle, then told her mother again. ‘I’ll be back in the spring.’ The words gave them both comfort.
Snow was falling as the train drew out, thickening, cocooning them, and she just wanted to stay here, in amongst the white silence, not arriving anywhere, just sitting with Davy, feeling safe.
The windows of their bedsits were crusted with ice. There was a deep chill in the blankets, the mattress and the gas fire ate her shillings all night. In the morning they bought paraffin heaters and lugged them up the stairs, and then paraffin from the corner shop, trimming the wicks, lighting them, watching the blue flame waver, leaving it as they went into college on the first day, cycling with Tim, careering round corners, their scarves flying, their breath visible.
Sarah walked into the sewing room and Deborah turned and smiled. ‘Come on over here, Sarah.’
Sally joined them and they talked of how strange Christmas had been, how different, how sad they were to leave, then they walked to the refectory together, ate lunch, cut, designed, laughed together. Sarah cycled back to the bedsit, ringing her bell for no reason, wanting to sing, wanting to shout because it was all right, the darkness had gone, she had friends, they felt as she did. She wasn’t alone, her confusion was gone.
She propped up her bike, smiled at Ma Tucker, ran up the stairs, listened at Carl’s door. Nothing – but she couldn’t remember what he looked like, sounded like, felt like and tonight they were practising because Arnie said they could get some gigs this term, and so they bloody well would.
They played in her room, putting more muscle into the songs but keeping the fragility of Davy’s melodies, running the riffs again and again, looking for Ma Tucker, drinking the beer that Tim had bought with money from the joint kitty, then drinking cocoa which she made on the Belling, sipping it, talking gently, singing through the numbers quietly until midnight struck. Nodding to one another as they left because they all had work to do.
Sarah sat at her desk, writing up her notes, writing to her mother, looking up at the condensation running down the windows and at two o’clock she fell into bed and slept as she had not done since she had come down in October.
On Sunday she cooked a stew with dumplings for Davy and Tim because they were beginning to look and feel like a can of baked beans. Davy had cooked rice in his oven and carried it into the room when the stew was finished, dumping it on the table and they drew straws over who should have the skin, which was dark and crisp.
Tim had brought beer. ‘Because I’m not safe around food,’ he said.
‘You seem to be doing quite well,’ Sarah murmured, looking at his empty plate. ‘And don’t you worry, my lad – I shall teach you and then you can do your share.’
‘You lot must be gluttons for punishment.’
Davy leaned back, reaching for the sugar from the draining board. ‘No, just gluttons.’
They walked in the park in the afternoon, calling in on Arnie for tea, then wishing they hadn’t because he and some friends had bought take-away curry the night before and it was still in cartons on tables, on the floor. ‘Have some,’ Arnie nodded at the food.
They laughed, shook their heads. ‘Another time.’
‘What would Bet say?’ Davy said, flinging his arms round Sarah’s and Tim’s shoulders as they left.
‘A great deal I expect,’ Sarah replied, looking up at the crisp blue sky, ‘A very great deal.’ She was happy, for the first time since October she was happy. She looked at Davy and nodded as he smiled. He was too. ‘Race you,’ he said, starting to run, jumping up to reach the lower branches of the trees that lined the street. ‘Race you back,’ he shouted.
She and Tim ran, leaping, whooping, their scarves flying – down street after street, then up the steps, through the hall and into her room. They sat on the floor and drank tea, still laughing, groaning when curry was mentioned, writing a song when they should have been working. They called it Curry Afternoons, and spent the rest of the day picking out rhythms on their guitars, singing the words, testing how they hung together.
By the end of the second week Sarah had taught Tim how to cook liver and bacon. He cooked it again for Sunday lunch and they groaned. ‘Not again.’
‘Then teach me something else,’ he said, grinning at them, his hair lank from the rain which had poured down on the way back from the off-licence.
The following week she taught him how to cook smoked haddock. ‘But I’m doing Sunday lunch and we’ll have Arnie round – we don’t want to see smoked haddock or liver and bacon until February!’
Arnie forgot lunch next Sunday, but they were not surprised, the only thing he was ever on time for was rehearsals and so they ate his lamb, drank his beer and looked out at the rain, shaking their heads at the thought of the park, and ran through their numbers again, very quietly because Ma Tucker was downstairs. There was an audition on the first of February at a new club which was giving spots to newcomers. ‘I want to get it,’ Davy said. ‘I want to be able to stuff that under Carl’s nose when he finally does come back.’
Sarah looked at him and at Tim. She’d almost forgotten about Carl. They played at the audition and were taken on for a spot every two weeks and that night they drank too much in the pub, and stumbled back along the road, arm in arm, then up the steps, banging the light switch, giggling, squeezing past the bikes, yelping as the pedals caught their shins, creeping up the stairs, along the landing, into Sarah’s room. She fumbled for the light and basked in the damp
heat of the paraffin stove. They boiled the kettle for coffee and sniggered as Tim tiptoed across to her bed, with Davy following, his finger to his mouth, giggling as they collapsed and made more noise than a herd of elephants.
There was a knock at the door. Carl stood there, more tanned than before, his face relaxed, smiling. ‘So, what time d’you call this then?’
Sarah felt her hands shake as she put coffee into the mugs, her face had flushed at the sound of his voice. How could she have forgotten what he looked like, sounded like? How could she when he was so beautiful? She turned away, back to the kettle.
‘We’re celebrating,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘We’ve been taken on by Max’s – he liked Davy’s new song – Curry Afternoons.’
She looked across at Davy and winked. He grinned and Tim slapped his back.
‘I heard,’ Carl said. ‘Well done. Is there a coffee for me, Sarah?’
He was moving towards her and when she turned back to reach for another mug he was there, next to her. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said quietly, taking the spoon from her shaking hand, heaping it with coffee, pouring the water into the two remaining mugs.
She didn’t turn, couldn’t because he was so close. She just stood there looking at the cracked tiles, the grouting which was covered in mould.
‘I skied down the moguls and all I thought of was you. Am I forgiven yet?’
Sarah wiped down the drainer, rinsing out the cloth, wringing it again and again. ‘There’s nothing to forgive – you were right.’ Because, damn it, he was.
‘Oh yes, I think there is. I was unkind, tactless, I didn’t say how good you all were too, not really.’ He moved away and now when she turned she could still smell him. She leant back against the drainer, clutching it, feeling the heat in her face, in her body and wondered if this was love.
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