by Isla Dewar
‘Maybe I’ll get Johnny to take me to a restaurant.’
Nell’s heart sank. She just knew that the restaurant Carol went to would be bigger, better and more expensive than the one she had visited with Alistair. ‘How was the Locarno?’ she asked.
‘It’s not the same going there with a boy. You have to dance with him all the time so you can’t eye up other boys or flirt and look around for someone you fancy. It’s not a place to go on a date. The Locarno’s where you go to find a date. It was rubbish.’
Nell’s heart leapt. For the first time in her life, she’d upped her friend.
On Saturday, Nell and Alistair went to a film. She had been hoping to see the latest Doris Day movie, but no. ‘This is in French,’ she said. ‘I won’t understand it.’
‘You can read the subtitles,’ Alistair told her. ‘This is a great film.’
In the end, she didn’t follow the dialogue. She stared at the clothes and the décor of the sets. It was the start of something: the long, slow sophisticating of Nell McClusky. Because in the end she didn’t change Alistair at all; he changed her.
She stopped wearing the pink swirling skirts that spun out revealing her knickers when she jived and started wearing tight jeans with long jumpers, or skimpy tops shaped to her body, all in dark colours. She moved from pink to black.
He insisted she read Bonjour Tristesse, On the Road and Catcher in the Rye. Much to her surprise, she enjoyed them. Though, as she told Alistair, she felt that Holden Caulfield needed a good slap. ‘A night at the Locarno would sort him out. He’d get drunk, get sneered at, have a fight or two and run about yelling his head off. It’d stop him thinking so much. That’s this guy’s problem – too much thinking, too much longing.’
‘Longing?’ said Alistair. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s longing for something but he doesn’t know what. That’s why he’s so sneery. And if you want to sneer, the Locarno’s the place to do it. Everybody sneers there. It’s because they’re too young to be really young and not old enough to be grown up. Full of feelings that they don’t understand. They’re emotionally itchy.’
He asked if that was why she went. ‘Were you emotionally itchy?’
‘For God’s sake, no. I sneered because everyone else was sneering. I wanted to fit in. But I never screamed. I didn’t have the longing. That feeling of wanting something, only you didn’t know what. I’ve always known what I wanted. I went to the Locarno to watch the show. It was great.’
He was so taken with the notion of being emotionally itchy he didn’t ask Nell what it was she wanted.
Just as well, really, she thought, as she wouldn’t have told him. She wanted him; she was going to marry him. She knew not to mention this so early in their relationship. It might frighten him off. According to the rules that she’d picked up in magazine love stories, he had to ask her to be his wife but she had to put the notion into his head. And she wasn’t quite sure how to do that yet. In the meantime, she would cake her eyes with black eyeliner and paint her lips white and stop wearing her hair in a beehive.
At supper one night, her mother asked if she was a beatnik.
‘I am against convention,’ Nell said. ‘I am simply expressing my feelings of negativity about the bourgeoisie through my clothes, Mother.’
Her mother smacked her wrist. ‘Don’t you dare call me mother. That’s rude. I’m your mum.’
On nights out, Nell and Alistair went to the cinema to see foreign films, to poetry readings in a candlelit dive in the High Street or to folk concerts where men in fishermen’s jumpers sang lusty songs about battles and long roads to travel. Sometimes, they drove in his Morris convertible to Queensferry for a drink. They also drove to quiet spots where they’d have long deep kisses and exploratory fumblings that after a while got more and more intimate. The car windows got steamy.
Eventually, after six months of romance, they did it. Went all the way, as Nell put it. It wasn’t as wonderful as Nell supposed it would be. Stars didn’t sing in the sky. The earth, or in this case, the Morris Minor, didn’t move. But it was fine. The deed was done. And not only was it done in time with Nell’s losing-her-virginity schedule, it was also done with a man who had a car and wore Buddy Holly glasses.
With practise, as the weeks passed, it got better and Nell began to enjoy it. ‘We’re getting good at this,’ she said.
The Locarno was never mentioned again but Nell never forgot it. She promised herself she’d go back for one last look at the emotionally itchy.
The chance came when Alistair was sitting his Christmas exams. He needed to study. ‘I know it’s Saturday night,’ he said, ‘but when it’s all over I’ll take you somewhere special.’
Nell phoned Carol. ‘I’m free on Saturday. Fancy the Locarno?’
‘You bet,’ said Carol. She told Johnny she had ’flu, knowing he’d keep well away from her.
‘He can’t stand illness,’ Carol told Nell. ‘He’s not sympathetic like Alistair. He’s good-looking, though. Girls stare at him. So that’s all right. Good-looking, rich and a car … what more could you want in a bloke?’
On Saturday night, the girls took the bus into town, had a few drinks and hit the Locarno. They were both quivering with excitement at the prospect of revisiting the reckless abandoned nights of what they now considered to be their youth – this was going to be great. The Locarno was all it ever had been: the same frenzy, the drink, the fights, the yelling, boys stamping through the crowds, girls jiving on the balcony and the same old staid band taming Eddie Cochrane and Elvis.
Nell was wearing her pink dress, which was tight at the waist then flared out and her white stiletto heels. Her hair was piled on top of her head. It felt odd. ‘I don’t feel like me. I feel like an impostor,’ she said. ‘And, to be honest, I’m finding this a bit scary.’
‘You’ve got old,’ said Carol.
‘Nah,’ said Nell. ‘Everybody here has got young. All the girls look about sixteen.’
‘Christ,’ said Carol. ‘I’m eighteen and past it.’
They got a couple of drinks and stood at the edge of the dance floor looking disinterested. They revived the old sneer when a couple of passing boys gave them a dismissive glance and said, ‘Christ, it must be grannies’ night.’ They danced together, got jostled, couldn’t make themselves heard above the shouts and squeals, and felt horribly out of place. Eventually, they retired to a table on the balcony and sat looking critically down at the mayhem below.
‘It was never like this in our day,’ said Nell. ‘It’s got wilder. Drunker. There’re men fighting in the middle of the dance floor. They used to take their battles outside. And girls are fighting, too.’
‘There were always girls fighting,’ said Carol.
‘Yes, they’d hit one another with their handbags, scratch and scream and cry. But look, they’re actually punching one another, actual fists flying. I don’t know … the youth of today are out of control.’
‘Yeah,’ said Carol, ‘but the band’s still rubbish. It’s good to find something hasn’t changed. Don’t think I’ll come back, though.’
‘I think I’ll go home. I need a pee first, coming?’ asked Nell.
Carol said she’d have one last trip around the edge of the dance floor; one last look at the glitter ball. ‘I’m just going to say goodbye to it all. I’m a grown-up now. See you at the door.’
Nell tottered down the stairs and into the corridor leading to the cloakroom. A couple of men were fighting; it was an intense and bitter struggle, heavy breathing, no words, only the thick sound of grunts and gasps of pain. Fighting in real life was nothing like Hollywood fighting. In films men danced round one another throwing punches that landed neatly on their opponent’s jaw. But actual fights weren’t like that. These two men were locked in a heaving grapple. It was hard to see what was going on. Still, this wasn’t an unusual sight at the Locarno on a Saturday night.
Nell ignored them and went to the loo. She did her usual skilled peeing
, keeping her handbag on her knee and her feet off the floor. She sprayed fresh lacquer on her hair and applied a layer of pink fizz lipstick and gazed at her face. Tonight she didn’t look beautiful; she looked tired and disappointed. And sex had done something to her face. It was thinner; more knowing. She liked that, though.
As she came back out she glanced at the fighters. Now one man was slumped on the floor. The other man was standing over him. He stared at Nell. He was one of the hard men, as she called them. There was always a gang of them at the Locarno. Bigger and broader than the normal boys, they moved their shoulders as they walked, shoving people aside. They wore sharp suits, tailor-made. They were the best sneerers and drinkers. They swore. They swaggered. They carried knives. Nell had danced with one of them once. He’d shoved his hand up her skirt, stroked her in her secret place, leaned into her and whispered, ‘I’ll give you the best fuck of your life.’ He’d laughed when she ran away.
There was something odd about the way the man on the floor was lying – something silent and final; a weird dull stillness. Nell’s blood curdled, a thick chill ran over her scalp and a shrill wave of nerves shuddered through her stomach. The man on the floor was dead. Nell just knew it.
For a moment, Nell and the other man stood, eyes locked. They didn’t speak. Then he ran, pushed passed her and disappeared into the throng on the dance floor. Nell stepped nearer to the man on the floor and bent close. He wasn’t breathing. His mouth was open and his eyes were staring. Her hand hovered over him but she couldn’t bring herself to touch him. She turned and ran.
When she found Carol at the front door, she grabbed her arm. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Outside, Nell hailed a taxi that was drawing up. ‘My treat. I can’t face walking home.’ As they climbed in, the man who’d ran away into the crowd came out, grabbed the door handle, yelling ‘Hey, this is my taxi, you stupid bitch.’ The driver locked the door and pulled away from the kerb. Looking out the back window, Nell could see the man standing in the middle of the road still shouting and throwing curses at them.
Nell spent the ride watching the road behind them, checking they weren’t being followed. She convinced herself that the killer had gone to find his friends. They’d come after her and threaten her. She’d seen such things in the movies. She told the driver to drop them several streets from her house. She said she needed some fresh air. But actually, she didn’t want any followers seeing where she lived. She couldn’t see anyone behind her, but you never knew. These sorts of hoodlums were good at sneaking after people without being spotted.
On Monday, Nell read the newspaper but could find nothing about a death at the Locarno. Nor was there anything the next day, or the next. The police were probably keeping it quiet as they investigated. Perhaps someone had seen her. Now the police might be looking for a woman in a pink dress and white shoes who could help them with their inquiries. Nell shoved the dress and shoes into a paper bag and, on the way to work one day, dropped them into a litterbin. For weeks she kept looking behind her, fearing that the man was coming after her. At night she peered out of her bedroom window, checking that he wasn’t lurking in the shadows across the road, watching the house. She worried that the police would trace her and turn up at her door. She would deny she’d been at the Locarno.
She never told anybody about what she’d seen. She shuddered to think of herself caught up in such a sordid affair. In films, she’d seen terrible things happen to witnesses. They were humiliated and harangued in the witness box. She imagined herself sobbing as a bewigged and begowned man pointed at her, ‘Admit it, Miss McClusky. You are a slut and a harlot who only goes to the Locarno to pick up men.’ Her mother, father and Alistair in the public gallery would gasp in shock. Worse, that man, the man, might find her and threaten her. He’d hold a knife to her throat. ‘Squeal and you’re dead.’ Every night, lying in bed, clutching her pillow, she ran these scenarios through her mind and lay staring wide-eyed with fear into the dark, working herself into a panic.
All that, and Alistair would find out where she’d been. He’d think she’d gone to pick up a boy for the night. Why else would anyone go there? He might drop her. He surely wouldn’t want to be involved with a woman who was caught up in such squalid dealings. All her plans would be lost. All her hard work – the black clothes, the books read, the nights at poetry readings and French films – would have been for nothing. ‘To hell with that,’ she said, and decided never to tell anybody what she’d seen.
Chapter Three
Late
The Boheme, a coffee bar, was now the place to be seen on a Thursday night. The walls were adorned with huge multi-coloured murals of people – young people – jiving. The booths were red mock leather. A spiral staircase led to the inner depths, and descending it, one hand on the rail, Nell felt special, like a film star. Tonight she wore her tight black pants and a huge cream turtleneck sweater. Though it was February, and cold, she didn’t wear a coat; it would have spoiled the look. She went to the bar to buy two frothy coffees while Carol slipped into a booth. The jukebox played Del Shannon.
When Nell joined her, Carol didn’t even give her a chance to gaze round the room, eye the faces in other booths, check the boys, or make sure that none of the girls looked more interesting than she did.
‘I’m late,’ Carol said.
Nell didn’t understand. ‘Late for what?’
‘What do you think? I haven’t had a period for two months.’
Nell leant forward and gasped a dramatic intake of breath. ‘No. Oh, shit, Carol.’
‘I know. It’s awful. Every morning I wake up and I feel OK for a minute or two, then I remember and I’m a wreck. I’m shaking.’
Nell put her hand on Carol’s. ‘Poor thing.’
‘Then I’m sick every morning and my tits are sore. I feel like I’m living in a black tunnel. I’m scared. I’ve got constant butterflies in my tummy.’ She put her hand on her stomach, demonstrating where the over-active butterflies were. Grimaced.
Nell asked what Johnny thought of all this.
‘He says it’s a fine time to have lots of sex. Now I’m up the spout, I can’t get more up the spout.’
‘Well, that’s true, I suppose,’ said Nell. She didn’t think he sounded very sympathetic, but it was interesting to note that being pregnant was indeed an excellent contraceptive.
‘We’re going to do the hot bath and gin thing on Saturday night. His folks are going to a charity ball. Won’t be back till late.’
Nell had heard girls at work talking about the hot bath and gin thing, but wasn’t sure what it entailed: sitting in a bath filled with heated gin?
‘What if it doesn’t work?’ said Carol. ‘I could end up in the Bellamy.’
Nell cupped her hand over her mouth. Ending up in the Bellamy was just about the worst thing that could happen to a girl.
Bellamy House was set back off the road and the end of a short drive. For years, Nell and Carol had walked past it on their way to school. A large green sign at the gate read MATERNITY HOME. It was well known that this was where unmarried mothers ended up. That neither Nell nor Carol had the slightest idea what went on in the home didn’t matter; they could imagine. In time their imaginings became real. Women in that home were a disgrace. They had to wear rough smocks and scrub floors. They were fed on bread and water. When their babies were due, they were tied to their beds. The cries of women in labour could be heard for miles around. They hadn’t heard any cries, but assumed that was because they happened at night when most babies seemed to be born.
They had, on their journey to school, talked about the business of giving birth. Their conversations spurred to great heights of fantasy since they knew nothing about it. They knew how babies got in to their mother’s wombs. But the details of how they actually came out were a mystery. From the information they’d gleaned from the movies, they knew it involved some sweating and screaming. The films they’d seen mostly showed fathers pacing and smoking and looking pale
with anxiety. Sometimes the father was drunk. If the birth was in a remote cabin, it involved a plump bossy neighbour boiling gallons of water. Nell and Carol shuddered to think what that water was for. ‘Do they pour it over you? They can’t dunk the baby in it?’ Carol said. Both decided they didn’t want to experience the horrors of the labour ward. They didn’t want babies.
Nell drifted off, dreaming of life in Bellamy House. She imagined herself there. She’d look like Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story: pale but exquisitely beautiful. Suffering would give her eyes a mysterious wisdom. The itchy smock mightn’t look too bad if it was cut low round the neck. She looked across at Carol who was pulling on her coat, sniffing and trying not to cry.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Carol said. ‘This coffee is making me nauseous. I should have had a Coke. I’ve got a craving for fizzy drinks.’
They walked along Princes Street gazing into shop windows sighing at things they couldn’t afford – mostly shoes since other things made Carol realise that if the gin and hot bath didn’t work, she wouldn’t be able to get into them. They stopped to stare at some people getting out of a chauffeur-driven car and strolling past the uniformed doorman into the North British Hotel, and dreamed of the plushness awaiting them. ‘Thick carpets, drinks with ice in, a phone by your bed,’ said Carol. ‘One day that’ll be me.’
They walked down Leith Walk and decided to spend their bus money on chips from the Deep Sea.
Once they’d paid for their chips, a bag apiece, they headed home, eating in comfortable silence. When they’d finished, they linked arms, and with unspoken mutual consent burst out singing ‘Bye Bye Love’, which was a favourite they’d long practised harmonising. There was comfort in cherished songs.
The next Sunday, Nell’s mother stopped her as she was going out the front door.
‘It’s February! You’ll catch your death going out like that.’
Nell said she was fine and, anyway, she was just going round the corner to see Carol.