by Mike Ripley
I had forgotten how beautiful the Suffolk countryside could be, even from a dual carriageway full of juggernauts from Holland and Denmark and Ford Escorts full of reps all with their coats hung neatly in the back and their Barry Manilow tapes belting out.
Bentwaters is, or was, an RAF base that had long been occupied by the American Air Force, probably since the War, proving the theory that East Anglia is the biggest non-floating US aircraft carrier in the world. The main entry road was well sealed off with roadblocks and white-helmeted military cops, behind which a little bit of American Mid-West flourished. Chilled PX Budweiser was drunk in preference to the local Adnams bitter, best mince was called ‘ground beef’ and the East Anglian Daily Times was bought only to find out what time the Bears were playing the Steelers on Channel 4.
Not that I’ve anything against Americans; far from it. I feel quite sorry for some of the airbase families, in fact. Since the revival of CND, many of them have thought twice about ever setting foot outside their bases. Well, can you blame them? So the base kids went to base schools and the base moms shopped at base shops and the base officers toured the base cocktail-party circuit. Occasionally some of the other ranks could be seen driving old Chevvies (they brought their own cars with them rather than risk going to local garages) with number plates proclaiming their owner to be from the Potato or Sunshine States or, ironically, from the Land of the Free.
The Front Line peace camp was not difficult to find, mainly because of the hundred or so handwritten signs (most on the back of crisp boxes) saying ‘Front Line’ with a badly drawn arrow, which had been threaded into the wire perimeter fence. I bet the MPs wished they had invested in electrification. More ominously, there were dozens of signs saying ‘Ladies,’ which at one time had adorned public loos.
The camp was actually down a farm track to one side of the base. The security at the main gate must have been too tight to let them get established, but tucked away around the perimeter fence they were less of an eyesore and small nuisance. Similarly, I suppose, the peace camp was more or less left in peace round there.
By Greenham standards, which must be the yardstick for these things, the camp was minute. There were about 20 tents and makeshift lean-tos in a semicircle spanning about 40 yards of the fence. Through the wire was an overgrown, obviously unused concrete runway and, far in the distance, the outlying buildings of the base. As far as the military were concerned, this was a good site for the camp, out of sight and far enough away from anything important.
As I eased the Transit over some of the more violent ruts in the track, I noticed that one of the lean-tos was in fact an old, single-decker bus from which the wheels had been removed. It lay tilted to one side, its bodywork rusting into the ground. Its windows had been spray-painted in blues and reds, so that from a distance it looked as if the bus had curtains on the outside. Most the remaining paintwork was covered in CND symbols, as were most of the T-shirts, jeans, smock tops and even a couple of nappies that hung on a clothes line stretched between the bus and the fence. There seemed to be no sign of any transport that actually worked.
About 50 feet from the first tent, I turned the van around and pulled it slightly off the track. I could see in the wing mirror that my arrival had provoked some interest. About half a dozen women and children had appeared and were standing, holding hands, watching me. I felt like the cops arriving in the hippie camp in Electra Glide in Blue (the right-winger’s Easy Rider.)
They were all dressed in about three sets of clothing, each of which they probably slept in, and all had the ingrained-grimy faces of people living without running water. I was glad I hadn’t shaved that morning.
The eldest of the group who moved towards me as I jumped out of the van was no more than 30. She had thin, straggly, dirty-blonde rats-tail hair and wore wellingtons, faded pink jeans and a baggy knitted pullover with a row of pink pigs across the bosom. In her left hand she held the hand of a small child dressed in a raincoat at least eight sizes too big. In her right hand she weighed something that made a strange, metallic click-click sound.
It was a sound I hadn’t heard since Manchester United played West Ham at Upton Park: ball-bearings – totally vicious and very effective at close range. These girls had learned a lot from their peace camp.
Rats-Tail stopped the group ten feet away, and they fanned out in a semi-circle. I had the nasty feeling they’d done this before. The only other male in sight was about four years old and hadn’t been potty-trained.
‘It’s too late now,’ said Rats-Tail.
‘Surely, it never is.’ I turned on the smile. I have good teeth and they’ve been known to blind at five yards in strong sunlight. No response.
‘It’s too late,’ said Rats-Tail again, with more hostility than petulance. ‘So you might as well go.’
‘Too late for what?’ I took an involuntary step backwards nearer the van.
‘To sign on,’ said Rats-Tail, shaking her head in exasperation. ‘Bloody woman!’
The others said nothing. One woman drifted away with a couple of the children as if she’d heard it all before.
‘Bloody Carol!’ spat Rats-Tail.
‘Carol Flaxman?’
‘Yes.’ Suspicion now, but vitriol won out over loyalty. ‘That selfish cow can’t get anything right.’
‘What’s she done now?’ I asked in a you-don’t-have-to-tell-me-anything-about-Carol voice, with an I’m-on-your-side sort of sigh.
‘That dopey mare left about five hours ago to find us some transport so we could all go into Ipswich and sign on. It’s too late now, the DHSS will be shut and there’s naff-all to eat in the camp except lentils.’
No wonder they were upset, relying on Flaxperson for their next social security Giro when down to their last lentil.
‘I haven’t seen her,’ I said. ‘But I want to; that’s why I came. My name’s Dave.’
The ball-bearings stopped clicking.
‘I’m Melanie.’ She nodded to the child at her side. ‘This is Antiope.’
‘Hello, Antiope,’ I smiled. Poor kid. I thought I had trouble with names, but I wasn’t going to ask, because I knew Antiope was the mother of Achilles in Greek mythology. Such are the benefits of a public school education.
‘We can go look for her if you want,’ I offered, jerking a thumb at the Transit. ‘Do you know which way she would have gone?’
‘Into the village probably. Are the pubs shut?’
I looked at my watch. Nearly 5.00 pm. ‘Couple of hours ago.’
‘We could check the off-licence, I suppose, though I didn’t think she had any money.’
No, but she had some credit cards, I thought. ‘Is it far?’
‘Three miles.’ Melanie turned to one of the other women and handed over Antiope. She also slipped her ball-bearings into her jeans pocket. ‘Go and play, luvvie. Tricia, you come with me.’
Tricia turned out to be one of the plumper members of the bodyguard, and she kept hold of her ball-bearings. From the look in her eyes, I wasn’t going to make a smart remark about that either.
‘What’s this? A posse?’
Melanie looked me squarely in the face. ‘We never travel alone with men.’
‘Fair enough.’ I unlocked the passenger door of the Transit for them, but I thought it best not to open it for them or offer them a hand up and in.
Tricia sat between Melanie and me, which made me change gear ever so carefully in case I brushed against her ample thigh, and Melanie shouted instructions around her. We found the village easily enough, though anyone travelling in the area in a Porsche had better not blink.
It had a pub, which looked decent enough, a small village green flanked by a post office, a small supermarket and, incongruously, a hairdresser’s called Sylvia’s; and while this could be the hairdressing capital of east Suffolk for all I knew, I bet Sylvia didn’t get many takers from t
he peace camp.
There was also a bus shelter on the green, one of the old-style ones that have a bench seat. Lying across it like a stranded whale, if, that is, whales wear pink flying suits, was Carol. And she was singing. And she was drunk.
I parked the van alongside the bus stop, and Carol swayed to her feet, thinking I was a bus. As she stood up, an empty wine bottle clattered off the bench and rolled down the pavement. The Transit being left-hand drive, I was nearest to her, so I did the gentlemanly thing. I locked the door, wound up the window and told Melanie and Tricia to go and get her.
They didn’t need much encouragement. Almost instantaneously they were round the nearside and had the odious Carol backed up against the van trying to wave away their prodding, stabbing fingers. There was a lot of ‘You unreliable bitch’ and quite a few ‘selfish’ and ‘dopey’ cracks before Carol managed to fight back a bit and shout, ‘All right, I’ll get us some food.’ She seemed to be getting quite violent, as I could feel the van sway from her leaning against it.
Much more of this and some nosey neighbour was bound to call local Plod, though from the look of the place, Camberwick Green probably had tougher policing.
I wound down the window and butted in.
‘Hello, Carol, hop in. Door’s open.’
‘Who’s he?’ she asked Melanie, without looking at me.
‘He’s brought us some wheels, which is more than you did. Now get in the van.’
‘All right, sister, all right.’ With some difficulty, she slid open the side door and bundled herself in and spread herself across one of the triple seats. But only just.
Melanie closed the door and looked at me. ‘Back to camp?’
‘Why not? I’ve nothing better to do.’ I smiled and her eyes smiled back enough to make me think the ice could just possibly melt there under the right circumstances. Tricia noticed it too, for she put herself between us again on the front seat and I heard the giveaway click-clack from her pocket. I can take a hint. There was a gleeful whoop from the back seats. Carol had found my Sainsbury’s bag of booze faster than a sniffer dog could have.
‘And which party are we all going to tonight?’ she chanted, then burped loudly.
‘Put it down, Carol, it’s not yours,’ said Melanie in a voice that could have cheered a hockey team on the playing fields of Roedean.
‘Okay, okay. Naughty Carol. Carol’s been a bad girl, so Carol has to be put in her place in front of the man.’
I clocked her in the driving mirror. She had stretched out, lying on her back, and was speaking in a little girly voice.
‘Put a sock in it, you old cow, you’ve caused more than your usual quota of trouble today.’
I may be wrong, but I got the distinct impression that Melanie didn’t think too highly of Carol. I decided to keep quiet and drive. Carol began to sing a very rude version of’ ‘Pretty Flamingo’, which made me think that the stories of graffiti in Ladies loos were all true.
Suddenly she sat up and put her podgy arms around the shoulders of both girls.
‘Alrighty-tighty, Carol will make amends. Carol will do the shopping.’
‘I don’t think I want to know about this,’ said Melanie, trying in vain to shake off Carol’s arm.
‘Now don’t be such a straight, Miss Starchy Knickers. Carol will take care of everything. Lend me Melissa and the twins and we can still make the village shop before it shuts.’
Melanie looked over Tricia’s bosom at me. ‘Will that be okay?’
‘Sure,’ I said, wondering what I was agreeing to.
‘Who’s he? Pardon,’ Carol burped again.
‘I came to see you,’ I said, turning down the farm track to the camp.
‘What does he want?’ Carol was still addressing Melanie, ignoring me.
‘He came to see you. He said so. There’s no reason to talk as if he was dead.’
‘But Melanie, sweetums –’ the little-girl-lost voice again – ‘you’re always telling us never to talk to strange men.’
‘Nobody can ever tell you anything, Carol.’
‘But you try, Mother Hen, don’t you.’
Carol put her hands on either side of Melanie’s face and tried to twist it to receive a deep-throat kiss – her tongue was out and ready. We were nearing the camp, so I aimed for the ruts in the track and put my foot down.
It worked beautifully. Carol was bounced backwards into her seat and then sideways on the floor of the van, banging her head on the side in the process. There was a good deal of howling from her, and a few overripe adjectives, but she was better padded than the seats of the Transit. I hoped my tequila was intact.
We made the camp, and Melanie shot me a smile as she jumped out. Tricia backed her way out, never taking her eyes off me or letting her ball-bearings slip. Carol had more or less righted herself by the time I let her out of the side door.
Again Carol acted as if I wasn’t there, swaying past me into the middle of the camp, where she put her hands on her hips and yelled: ‘Melissa! Bring the kiddies, we’re going shopping!’
That whole shopping trip was something I’d rather draw a veil over, not because it was mildly larcenous (okay, illegal) but because my street cred would be severely dented if the saga got out. However, it got me well in with the sisters of the peace camp.
Melissa turned out to be a small, jolly woman, maybe a teacher or a social worker, and the only woman I saw in the camp who wore a wedding ring. The twins were pretty young – I never was much good with babies – and were called Anastasia and Lucifer – yes, Lucifer. Poor sod, just because it was a he. That proved to me what I had always thought, that there’s a very thin line between feminism and apartheid.
Still, Melissa was pleasant enough and said ‘Hello’ and asked if I minded driving them back to the village. Without waiting for an answer, she piled into the back – ‘Aren’t there any seat-belts for the twins?’ – and Carol, determined to believe I did not exist, joined her, after loading something that I didn’t see in through the rear doors.
It turned out to be a double pushchair for the twins, who were either two of the best behaved children in the world or had been drugged. Melissa unfolded it and strapped the twins in when we reached the village, and I parked in the pub car park, as instructed by Carol.
The village shop was a white weather-boarded building that had been badly converted into a supermarket. Badly, that is, if you were the owner, for I could see from the outside that the arrangement of the shelves provided loads of blind spots for shoplifters well out of sight of the cash till.
Not, of course, that such things were of interest to me. All I had to do was turn the van around and wait. Carol and Melissa pushed the twins across the road and then lifted the pushchair over the shop doorstep. I could see what went on through the two front windows, despite the ‘4p off Whiskas’ stickers, and I have to admit I was impressed.
Carol distracted the white-coated male assistant, exercising commendable control by not kneeing him in the nuts as she no doubt would have liked to. He was probably the poor mug who owned the shop, and his wife was probably out back somewhere reheating his fish fingers for dinner. While he was talking to her, Melissa took the twins out of the pushchair and began to carry them around the store, one balanced on each hip, until she found somewhere to sit down. As the average age of the village population was probably about 70, it would be the sort of shop that had chairs littered all over it.
The next bit of business was Carol’s, as she again distracted the old man in the white coat. By the time the witless victim had thought to go back to his cash desk, Melissa had juggled the twins sufficiently to pull her jumper up over her head and was offering a late lunch to Anastasia and Lucifer.
The shopkeeper, reasonably enough, went spare, and while I could easily imagine what he was saying to Melissa, I would have loved to have heard her side of the arg
ument. She kept her cool and dished out more than her fair share of barefaced cheek, in more senses than one. He waved his arms about a fair bit and then disappeared to the back of the shop to be joined by, I presume, his wife for moral support.
While all this was going on, of course, Carol was flitting about the opposite side of the shop helping herself from the shelves and tossing things into the pushchair, which with the canopy zipped up was acting as an oversize shopping trolley.
To give her her due, she didn’t overdo it. She allowed herself about three minutes, and then joined in the argument over Melissa while working the pushchair towards the door. The poor shopkeeper was so bemused that he actually opened it for her, and the pushchair came out first. Carol followed carrying one of the twins, and then Melissa with the other. The shopkeeper slammed the door behind them and quickly pulled down a blind with the word ‘CLOSED’ on it.
Carol was giggling insanely and Melissa was still trying to pull her jumper down over her unruly, but perfectly formed, breasts as they ran across the road to the van.
‘No, like this. Hand over the glass, twice round, then slam.’
We had finished dinner and were sitting around the campfire. Dinner had consisted of tinned salmon, rye crispbreads and creamed cheese, Greek yoghurt with brown sugar and tinned mandarin oranges, but we weren’t singing campfire songs. I was teaching them the fine art of drinking Tequila Slammers, one of the fastest ways of getting spifflicated known to man. Or in this case, wimmin.
‘You’re trying to get us tipsy,’ Melissa observed. Clever girl.
‘Sole purpose of exercise,’ said I.
Melanie had joined us, having put Antiope to bed somewhere among the tents, and so had her minder, Tricia, though she wasn’t slamming with us, rather contenting herself with a small carton of yoghurt drink and a straw.
The Tequila Slammer, which you probably won’t find in the cocktail recipe books, was almost certainly invented by some loony Hooray in a flash cocktail bar somewhere as a means of using up cheap tequila. That sounds very snooty, as tequila isn’t cheap in this country, but there’s such a snob value on Tequila Gold these days that ordinary mescal juice simply won’t do.