by Isla Dewar
‘Couldn’t let you do that. Can’t let you wander the streets unprotected.’
She smiled and stepped along beside him, six steps to his two, her high heels clicking on the pavement. She supposed it was better to have someone to walk with. Usually, she trailed along slightly behind Carol and whoever she’d picked up. Carol was the good-looking one: blonde; fond of low-cut dresses; pouty lipped with pick-up techniques she’d learned from magazines and movies; a knack of tilting her head and looking fascinated by what boys said; a certain way of lowering her eyelids – and she never got spots. She did well with the opposite sex. Nell didn’t. Brown haired, pale, dreamy – she was always the dowdy best friend.
She liked it best when she and Carol walked home together, boyless and happy. On summer nights, they’d slip off their shoes and tread the pavements in stocking soles. They’d link arms and sing, mostly Buddy Holly. They were both in love with him and had agreed they’d like a bloke with horn-rimmed glasses. ‘So sexy,’ Nell said. ‘And intelligent, too.’
They would never discuss what they would sing. As if by telepathy they’d both start on the same song, ‘Rave On’, an all-time fave. Sometimes they’d stop, do a little jive together, and then carry on, arms linked once more. They’d interrupt their small concert with squeals: ‘Oooh, did you see that bloke drinking a whole pint in one big gulp?’ or ‘There was a couple having sex outside the loo. Real sex, all the way. Didn’t even notice me watchin’.’ Then they’d resume their singing. Even though the night would be almost over, and they’d be going home, which was never Nell’s favourite journey, she’d be in heaven. She was young, she was out in the night, she had a little bit of money in her pocket and all the songs on the radio were about her.
She asked Alistair if he liked Buddy Holly.
‘Who couldn’t like Buddy?’ he said. ‘We lost a genius there.’
She told him she’d cried when she’d heard he died. ‘The saddest day of my life.’ She sang ‘That’ll Be the Day’. She had the quirks and turns of the chorus perfected. He nodded approval, brought out his horn-rimmed specs, did a small pavement jive singing ‘Peggy Sue’, accompanying himself on the air guitar. Nell was impressed. In specs like that, she could almost forgive him his awful clothes.
She asked what he usually did on Saturday nights, since he didn’t go to the Locarno.
‘I go to a jazz club or a folk club up the High Street. Or just to the pub.’
By now they’d reached Princes Street and were heading towards Calton Hill. Johnny and Carol were so close, so entwined, walking was becoming difficult. First kiss coming soon, Nell thought.
The couple in front stopped, and turned to one another. He put his arms round her waist, pulled her to him. Kissed her. For a moment, she stood, arms by her sides, receiving the kiss but not participating in it. Then she slipped her arms round his neck and kissed him back. She had one foot on the ground; the other was sticking out behind her. It was a move she’d seen in the movies.
‘Oh, the leg-bent-behind-you kiss,’ said Nell. ‘The passion of it.’ Then, ‘You owe me five shillings.’
They walked past the embracing couple, moving now further and further away from the thrum of city nightlife. This always saddened Nell. She hated going home. Loved the city after dark, the rustle of taxis, the tide of people shifting from one night spot to another, or hanging about looking for somewhere to go, hoping to find a party because they, like her, didn’t want the night to end.
Alistair said, ‘You never asked what I did.’
‘You’re a student.’
‘It’s that obvious?’
She nodded and smiled. ‘What are you studying, anyway?’
‘The law.’
‘You’re going to be a lawyer?’
‘That’s the plan,’ he said.
A lawyer. My God, a lawyer. Nell’s imagination went into overdrive. Lawyers made pots of money. They could have a big house, rolling lawns, film-set interior, a Jaguar (from his father’s garage) at the door. Of course, it would be tough at first. They wouldn’t have much money and would live in a small flat – hopefully somewhere off the West End. He’d be studying night and day. She pictured him sitting at the kitchen table, books piled high; he’d be burning the midnight oil, sipping coffee, wearing a crisp white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. She’d come to him wearing only a long silk robe, slightly open. She’d rub his shoulders. ‘Come to bed, darling. It’s late.’
‘Soon,’ he’d say. ‘I’ve just got to finish this first.’
‘You’re tired. You’ll work better after some sleep.’
He’d lean back and run his fingers through his hair. Then he’d reach for her and pull her to him. ‘What would I do without you,’ he’d say. She’d seen all this in films.
When he graduated, she’d give him a pen. At first, he’d work for a reputable law firm. But after a year or two he’d branch out on his own. He’d have an office on George Street and a secretary: an older, plumpish woman with crisp permed hair, lumpy tweed suits and a fine line in wisecracks. He’d make his name taking on famous cases, defending people whose lives were in ruin after being falsely accused of murder or fraud. He’d win them all. When film stars, international sportsmen, Nobel Prize-winning scientists and world-renowned business leaders found themselves in trouble with the law, they’d turn to their aides and hiss, ‘Get Alistair Rutherford.’ She’d be the beautiful wife in the background, always there, always supporting him. She’d look like Audrey Hepburn. She’d throw parties everybody longed to be invited to. She’d have her photo in the society columns of newspapers. Yes, Nell decided, this man was rich, had a car and wore Buddy Holly glasses. She would marry him.
Chapter Two
Emotionally Itchy
It was late when they reached Nell’s home. She sat on the low wall beside the front gate. He stood in front of her, hands in his pockets. She wondered if he’d kiss her. But, worryingly, he wasn’t making any moves. Perhaps he doesn’t think I’m kissable, she thought.
‘So, a lawyer,’ she said. ‘Your mum and dad must be proud.’
He kicked the ground with the toe of his old man’s shoes. ‘The day will come when they’ll be glad of a lawyer in the family.’
Nell asked what he meant by that.
He shook his head and said, ‘Nothing, really.’ He turned, looking for his brother and Carol, but passion had delayed their long walk home.
‘Does your friend live near here?’ he asked.
‘Round the corner,’ said Nell. ‘I’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘To compare notes?’
‘No,’ she said. A lie. She was desperate to compare notes. ‘By the way, you still owe me that five shillings.’
‘I’ll buy you dinner next Saturday instead,’ he said.
She thought about this. Dinner on Saturday would mean missing the Locarno. And she’d never been to dinner with a man. Dates were usually a night at the cinema or the pub. This seemed awfully sophisticated. Still, if she was going to marry this man, she’d better get used to such things. So she said yes.
Ten minutes later, lying in bed, too thrilled to sleep, Nell planned it all. She would, of course, have to change his appearance. He’d have to get tighter trousers and ditch the old man’s shoes. She thought he’d scrub up well. He was quite handsome if you screwed your eyes and imagined him with a decent haircut. And, he had Buddy Holly glasses and almost had a car. You could forgive him the duffel coat if you thought about that.
In the morning, Nell went round to Carol’s to compare notes. Her friend was still in bed, lying sprawled between her pink sheets, hair spread over her pink pillow and surrounded by her menagerie of soft fluffy toys. Carol was indulged by two doting parents who were better off than Nell’s. She had everything, including, years ago, a Mickey Mouse watch that Nell still envied.
Nell sat on the end of the bed and watched her friend yawn and stretch.
‘Great night,’ Carol said.
Nell agreed.
‘What was yours like?’ Carol asked.
‘He’s nice. He’s going to be a lawyer.’ She didn’t mention getting married to him. Too soon, she thought. And if I say I’m going to marry Alistair, she’ll just say she’s going to marry his brother.
‘I’m going out with Johnny tonight,’ said Carol. ‘He’s going to borrow his father’s car and we’ll go for a drive.’
‘Alistair has a car. Or, at least, he’s getting one,’ said Nell.
‘Johnny has a sports car,’ said Carol, ‘but it’s getting fixed.’
Nell was about to say she knew that but Carol wasn’t to be interrupted.
‘He’s really handsome,’ Carol said. Her glistening words tumbled out. ‘I told him straight out not to wear that long jacket when he comes tonight. And he said he wouldn’t. He said his mum didn’t like it either. He’s going to take over the family business when his dad retires. Though that’s not going to be for ages yet. Years and years. Still—’ she turned to gaze at Nell ‘—he’s really, really rich.’ She sat up, took her favourite toy – a soft little pink spaniel that was also a pyjama case – held it to her and kissed it. ‘He looks a bit like a film star when you see him up close. A bit like James Dean. Sort of sulky and moody. I always wanted someone who looked like that. I think he may be The One. I think I’m in love. It’s wonderful. It can happen just like that.’ Carol sighed. ‘A look across a crowded room, a kiss and your life is changed forever.’
It all sounded so romantic, a whirlwind of love and starlight, that Nell felt downcast. She’d been upped. Carol had a moody hunk with a sports car. She had a student who wore old men’s shoes and a duffel coat. She pointed to the red row of lovebites on her pal’s neck and said, ‘Better hide those.’
The following Saturday, Alistair drew up outside the house at half-past seven and blasted the horn. Nell had been watching for him at the window. She picked up her coat, shouted goodbye to her mother and father and ran out. She didn’t want him to come in; he might mention the Locarno, and then she’d be in trouble.
The car was, at first, disappointing. She’d been hoping for a Jaguar, but what she saw was a Morris Minor convertible. However, as they drove into town, roof down, she revised her thoughts. This was fun. People in the movies had soft-top cars. Also, this was right for now, while they were young. They’d get a Jaguar after they’d been married for a couple of years and had bought a big house with a drive.
They went to a small Italian restaurant not far from the university where Alistair studied. There was a wine bottle coated in dripping wax and a candle in the neck on every table, plastic flowers adorned the doorway and spread up the fake trellis on the wall. ‘This is lovely,’ Nell said. Alistair said he came here often. He ordered a bottle of Chianti. Nell thought it amazing – a bottle that was wrapped in a basket. She asked if she could take it home.
Alistair ordered for her. ‘When in Rome,’ he insisted and asked the waiter for two plates of spaghetti Bolognese. ‘You’ll love this,’ he told her. She did. At least she’d loved the small amount she’d actually managed to get into her mouth. She decided that this was why Italians were the way they were. They weren’t excitable. They were just hungry. Their food was hard to eat.
He asked her what her parents did. It was always a tricky question for Nell, and usually she lied when answering. She liked to give her mother and father a tragic past. Her father had fallen while painting the Forth Bridge and was lucky to be alive. Her mother, once a talented dressmaker, had gone blind due to the intricacy of her work. Or her father had been an important businessman in Warsaw; her mother had been an opera singer. They’d had a marvellous life – a beautiful house filled with music, wine and interesting witty friends. But when the Nazis invaded, they’d fled the country escaping with nothing but the clothes they stood up in. Her mother had never recovered from the horrors she’d seen and had lost her exquisite voice. Now they lived in a council house on the east side of Edinburgh. This story had been adapted from a magazine serial she’d read, but Nell could see it all as she told it.
Obviously, Nell couldn’t tell any of her stories to Alistair; a person couldn’t lie to her future husband. He’d meet her mum and dad at the wedding. So, she told the truth: her dad had been a coalman, but heaving heavy sacks from the lorry and lumbering to customers’ cellars to deliver his burden had done nasty things to his back. Now, he was retired and spent a deal of time lying flat on the sofa dealing with the pain. Her mother worked in a cake shop.
‘Good honest salt-of-the-earth people,’ he said. ‘No greed, no shady dealings, no back-stabbing.’
His comment surprised Nell, but she agreed. She sneaked a peek at her watch. Nine o’clock. The Locarno would be humming now. Fights and screams and dancing; booze flowing; boys and girls on the hunt, looking to grab a quick shot of love in doorways on the way home. God, she missed it, and was a little jealous of Carol, who’d gone there with Johnny.
Alistair suggested they go on to a folk concert after dinner.
‘Folk singing?’, said Nell. She didn’t think so. The only folk songs she knew were the ones she’d been forced to sing at school. She remembered with heavy heart the dreary rendition of ‘The Skye Boat Song’ her class had moaned out on Thursday afternoons when they’d suffered double music in Miss Penny’s overheated room. Speeee ….… eeed bonny bo ….…. at like a burd on the wee … … eeeng … …
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’ll love it.’
It was in a tiny café in the High Street – wood panelled walls, wooden tables, wooden floor and no drink. Nell wasn’t sure about this. Alistair bought them Cokes. Nell looked round. The people here all seemed very sure of themselves despite their worn clothes, quite tatty, she thought. She felt out of place in her pink frilly blouse.
The band, wearing fishermen’s jumpers, was hearty. They played guitars, opened their throats and belted out rebel songs. They shouted. All this would have shocked Miss Penny. People stamped their feet, whistled and yelled for encores. Nell couldn’t stop her toes tapping.
Before she knew it, it was eleven o’clock and she had almost forgotten about the Locarno. There were songs about lonesome rides on trains, people sailing away to far-flung lands, the lure of whisky, drinking in empty bars and drinking in crowded bars. Her favourite was a woman with blonde hair that fell past her breasts who sang sad ballads about waiting for death or having lost her man at sea. Her voice was like crystal, so clear it reminded Nell of the loch near the village where she and her parents had taken the only holiday they’d ever gone on. It was all very surprising.
The best bit, though, was when it was over. The audience poured into the night, songs pounding through them. It was September, and the first bite of autumn was in the air. People pulled their jackets round them, hauled up their collars, shivered and started their slow journeys home – on foot, walking, shanks’ pony. Nell and Alistair crossed the road and climbed into the car. Smirking, Nell thought, ha, ha, have that, confident tatty people. She couldn’t help but feel a little smug.
Driving Nell home, Alistair asked what she’d thought of the concert.
‘Great,’ she told him. ‘I wanted to stamp my feet and join in. Only it’s all old songs. The people that wrote them are dead and the things they’re singing about happened long ago. I still prefer the songs on the radio. They’re my songs. About getting out of school for the summer, or going to the hop, crying in the rain or falling in love with someone who doesn’t even know you exist. They’re about me.’
At the traffic lights, he gave her a long look and said that perhaps she was right, and then asked if she was in some unrequited affair.
‘No. I just hear a song like that and I know what it would feel like. And I feel sad. I like feeling sad.’ She thought about this. ‘Well, when it’s over and I don’t feel sad anymore, I look back and think I quite enjoyed it.’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes I imagine that the song’s about me. Someone’s in love with me and doesn’t tell me. A secret admirer. And I
feel sad for the person who’s in love with me and feels too shy to tell me. And I feel sad for me having love I don’t know about.’
Alistair thought he might have to stop the car so he could lean back and sort out this onslaught of emotions. He was glad he wasn’t a woman. They seemed to have an awful lot to cope with. He liked to keep his life and thoughts as simple as possible. He agreed that he thought a secret admirer sounded good. ‘Someone who adores you from afar. Maybe someone does adore you from afar. Do you get loads of Valentine cards?’
She got two every year regular as clockwork. One was from her dad; the other she sent to herself. She only did this to keep up with Carol, who always got at least six cards. But Carol was pretty, a shiny person who stood out in crowds. Boys chased her. Often they’d befriend Nell just to get a little bit closer to Carol. It had been demeaning. Nell thought she was one of the shadow people who always walked a few paces behind the adored ones but she didn’t mention this to Alistair because who would want to marry a shadow person?
‘I usually get a couple of cards,’ she said, and then confessed that one was from her father. ‘Although I think my mum buys it.’
‘I never get any,’ said Alistair. ‘Unlike my brother, who gets piles of them. He was in the first rugby team at school, was head boy, always had the prettiest girlfriends and used to get loads then.’
Ah, Nell thought, you’re a shadow person, too. At last, I’ve found something we have in common.
So when he asked if she would like to see him again next Saturday she said she’d love to. She would have agreed anyway, since this was her chosen husband, but now she meant it.
The next morning, Nell went to Carol’s house to compare notes. ‘We went to a restaurant and ate spaghetti with wine. Then we went to a folk concert.’
‘Folk music?’ Carol sneered. ‘Yuk.’
‘It was great! People stamped and clapped and the songs were rowdy. Some of them were dirty. About sex.’