Jam Tops, the Fonz and the Pursuit of Cool

by Kris Lillyman

  “No.”

  “Ribena?”

  “Er, no. Thank you, I’m fine.”

  “I’ve got some Robinson’s Barley Water - Lemon, I think, somewhere in the pantry - would you like some of that?”

  Nan’s pantry was fully equipped to keep a small army alive for months in the aftermath of a nuclear war. She never bought one tin when six would do, never passed up an offer to buy one get one free and never knowingly had too much of something. If Heinz ever started running low on soup, they could call Nan up to help prop up supplies. She had tinned goods and preservatives in the back of her pantry that had been there since VE Day and, according to her, were all still ‘perfectly edible’. Gordy seriously doubted it, as did everyone else but it still didn’t stop her buying yet more of it.

  “For God’s sake woman!” Grandad said. “She doesn’t want a drink.”

  “How on earth do you know?” Said Nan, indignantly before peering around the door and saying to Daisy, sweetly, “Sure I can’t get you anything?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Well if you change your mind, just ask.”

  “I will,” said Daisy.

  “Praise be!” Said Grandad. “Thank the Lord that’s over. Now, Wogg, what’s in the bag?”

  ***

  Gordy was standing on a dining chair in his nan’s front room holding a chipped and glued tea plate and eating burnt, buttery toast whilst his Nan kneeled on the floor, her mouth full of pins as she tacked the side-seams of Gordy’s hideously expensive, brand new 501s.

  “I need them to be tight, Nan,” said Gordy, trying to remember how tight Steve Cool’s Levis looked when he visited Bailey’s Bandstand but instead thinking how tight Pippa’s cut-offs looked and how firm her breast felt under his palm as he accidentally touched it.

  For a brief moment he felt faint and nearly fell off the chair.

  “Hold still, will you!” Mumbled Nan, through clamped lips, whilst tugging on the bottom of the jeans. “If you want them right then you’ll have to keep still.”

  Gordy didn’t really know how tight the jeans were supposed to be as he’d paid far more attention to Pippa’s denims (and more precisely, to her bottom) than he had to Steve Cool’s (jeans not bottom) but the salesman in Debenhams had said ‘shrink-fit’ meant shrinking them to the wearer’s body shape so Gordy could only assume that they had to be as tight as possible.

  “Make them as tight as you can, Nan, please,” he said.

  “Are you sure, Oddbod? You don’t want them to rip.”

  Gordy almost laughed. Of course they wouldn’t rip. Everyone wore tight jeans nowadays and none of them seemed to rip. Besides, these were Levi 501s, the Rolls-Royce of jeans, not the flimsy brushed-denim, patch-pocketed inferior type that his mum usually bought him from Foster Brothers or Burtons.

  “They’ll be fine, Nan, don’t worry,” he said suppressing a smile. “Just make them tight, please.”

  Meanwhile, Daisy was nibbling politely on her too burnt, too buttery toast whilst talking to Grandad and Madge, Nan’s best-friend and next door neighbour who had recently arrived. She had appeared at the back door (much like she did at regular intervals throughout the day, usually when the kettle had just boiled) and let herself in with her customary “Cooey!” battle cry - even though they had seen her and waved to her through the lounge window when she had opened the back gate.

  Madge was thin, wiry and wrinkled with an elaborately styled hair-do that looked a little bit like an over-sized, over-dyed, blonde crash helmet and clothes that were clearly designed for a woman fifty years younger. She was, however, kind and considerate and worshipped the ground Nan walked on who, in her eyes, could do no wrong.

  The conversation had somehow gotten around to the roller-disco and Daisy was telling them all about it. Gordy and his nan were in easy earshot as the front room was accessed through a set of glass sliding doors that separated it from the lounge. The doors were presently open so that everyone could be involved in the conversation.

  It was at this point that Daisy made her fatal error.

  Quite innocently, she mentioned that she was planning on getting her hair done for the big event, not noticing the sudden gleam in Madge’s eyes or Grandad shifting slightly uncomfortably in his chair. Nan, too, stopped pinning and turned to look at Daisy, willing her not to continue.

  But Daisy was oblivious. “Yes,” she said, “I’m hoping to have it styled like Farrah Fawcett-Majors - you know, Jill Munroe from Charlie’s Angels?”

  Grandad didn’t know, nor did Nan and neither did Madge but that didn’t stop her from saying “Ooh, yes. Lovely. That would look so nice on you - really suit you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, definitely,” said Madge. “I can see it now. Beautiful. But it’s an easy cut - especially on someone with such lovely hair.”

  Daisy had never heard anyone describe her hair as ‘lovely’ before and was so flattered she didn’t notice Grandad nearly choking on his tea or Nan almost swallowing a pin. Even Gordy stopped chewing on his last mouthful of toast as he listened, aghast, with butter running down his chin.

  “Thank you,” gushed Daisy, “That’s so nice of you to say.”

  “It’s nothing but the truth my dear. Your hair would be a pleasure to cut - I would do it for nothing - I mean, even after all my years as a hairdresser, it’s still lovely to see such a wonderful head of hair.”

  Grandad was now looking over at Nan with alarm in his eyes whilst she, in turn, was positively glaring at Daisy, desperately trying to prevent her from falling into the opening trap. Gordy, too, was wishing he could employ the Jedi Mind Trick and was trying to use The Force to tell Daisy that ‘These were not the droids she was looking for’ or, more accurately, ‘This was not the hairdresser she was looking for’, but Daisy stumbled unwittingly on.

  “You’re a hairdresser?” she asked Madge (which was the $64,000 question - to which the $64,000 answer should have been a resounding ‘NO!’). Madge had worked in a hairdressers once in the early fifties - sweeping the floor and making tea, sometimes washing hair but she was NEVER a hairdresser even though she liked to think that she was.

  Of course, poor Daisy wasn’t to know that for ‘Crimes Against Hairdressing’ Madge had previous form. Barb, Alan, Kev, Gordy and Nan, too, had all been past victims of one of her scalpings, each having been lulled into it by Madge’s flattering and fictitious credentials. Only Grandad had escaped (because he was bald) and Izzy (because after her other two children had been sheared within an inch of their lives, Barb swore it would never happen again).

  However, Madge just smiled knowingly at Daisy and replied, “Ever heard of Mister Teasy Weasy or Vidal Sassoon?”

  Daisy hadn’t but said “Yes.”

  “Well I’m Madge Essom.” This was clearly not an answer that meant anything whatsoever - it certainly wasn’t the answer as to whether she was a hairdresser or not but Daisy seemed to miss this completely.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Yes, wow,” said Madge proudly. And then came the hammer blow. “I could do yours if you like - save you a lot of money. Won’t take long?”

  By now, Nan was shaking her head furiously and trying to verbalise a warning but her mouth was so full of pins that it resembled a porcupine’s arse and she could do nothing but make some very odd noises (possibly much like a porcupine’s arse).

  Grandad was trying to diffuse the situation by saying, “Oh come, now, Madge - you’re far too busy” (the woman hadn’t actually been ‘busy’ since 1967 but he was grabbing at straws). “And Daisy, surely you’d be better off going to a place that’s much more young and trendy—” he continued desperately before being cut-off.

  “Young and trendy!” Exclaimed Madge, “Why how old do you think I am, Sid?” Grandad knew for a fact that she was not a day younger than seventy-eight but thought
it best not to bring it up. “I’ll have you know that I still keep up with the fashions and would like nothing better than to help Daisy out - and save the poor girl some money too!”

  “Do you think you could cut it like Jill Munroe?” Daisy broke in.

  “Jill who? Oh, yes you mean the little girl from ‘Charlie’s Thingamajig’s’, yes, of course I can. Easy.”

  ‘Little girl’ and ‘Charlie’s Thingamajig’s’ should have been enough to stop Daisy in her tracks but instead, whilst Gordy, Nan and Grandad were waving their hands and shaking their heads in a bid to stop her, she said, “That would be great, thanks.”

  “Super,” said Madge. “Come with me and we’ll get started straight away.”

  “No, Daisy, wait!” Shouted Nan, frantically spitting pins out on the carpet. “Stay here, please - have some more toast, have a drink! - Sid, show some gumption, quick!” ‘Show some gumption’ was another one of Nan’s famous phrases and meant ‘show some initiative’.

  “Yes, stay!” Said Grandad trying to do what his wife had demanded. “Stay and have some Nesquik - please!” (The word ‘Nesquik’ had never previously passed Grandad’s lips and he knew not what it was but it had to be better than the fate that awaited Daisy at Madge’s house).

  “Why, Sid, Mrs Lancaster, anyone would think you don’t trust me to cut Daisy’s hair - which of course, I know is not true.” Said Madge, “She’ll look perfectly lovely when I’ve finished with her - just like this Charlie she loves.”

  “Jill Munroe FROM Charlie’s Angels” said Daisy correcting Madge.

  “Yes, quite, dear, Charlie from The Angels,” said Madge.

  Nan and Grandad were speechless now. They knew Daisy was lost and they wished they could save her but it was too late.

  However, Gordy wasn’t ready to give up. “Hadn’t you better be going home?” He said, attempting to save his friend from Madge’s incompetent clutches one last time. “Your mum and dad will probably be worried!”

  Daisy smiled. “You’ve met my mum and dad, right?” She replied sarcastically, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll meet you on Saturday night down at the roller-disco. I’ll be the one who looks like Jill Munroe.”

  More like bloody Matt Munro, Gordy thought, if Madge had anything to do with it. But he remained silent as Daisy, being led by the hand, left Nan’s house by the back door and headed innocently to Madge’s ‘salon’ next door.

  As Gordy and his nan and grandad looked helplessly on, it was like watching a lamb going off to slaughter.

  “Oh shit and corruption” said Nan, using yet another of her famous phrases.

  And Gordy and Grandad couldn’t have agreed more.

  Chapter Nine

  Trevor was not sure what he had done wrong. He knew that Gordy still liked him but something was different. Gordy was different - or at least he was trying to be. He was apparently trying to be ‘cool’ whatever that meant.

  Trevor truly didn’t understand.

  Then of course, there was Daisy who Trevor genuinely liked but found very difficult to converse with - which wasn’t just because she was a girl. She just didn’t get any of his references and knew next to nothing about Star Wars which was a completely alien concept to Trevor (in both an ironic as well as a literal way).

  After all, how could anyone not know who c-3po was? More to the point, how could Gordy ever be friends with someone who didn’t?

  Anyway, Daisy and Star Wars aside, Trevor knew that he had to make things right with Gordy and after overhearing him and Daisy discussing the roller-disco, Trevor decided that Saturday night at the Drill Hall was exactly the right place to do it.

  The roller-disco would be where he got his friend back. All Trevor had to do now was decide which outfit to wear. And then the answer struck him - the perfect outfit to impress his friend.

  He would go to the roller-disco dressed as The Fonz.

  ***

  The alarm bells started ringing in Gordy’s head when Daisy phoned him on Friday evening and told him that she wouldn’t be working the next day. She said she had already cleared it with Mr. Bailey, claiming that her Mum needed her to help out at home. Gordy was immediately suspicious that this was not the true reason for her absence - thinking it more than likely had something to do with Madge Essom instead but he didn’t push it.

  Nevertheless, without his friend to talk to, he filled the time at Bailey’s Bandstand on Saturday by playing classic tunes on the Thorn Ultra.

  Genre: Northern Soul. Customers: Too many to count (mainly Soul Boys wearing Spencers Bags and Solatios or Mods wearing Sta-prest and Hush Puppies).

  During the few periods when the shop was empty, Gordy practised his dance steps (hoping the darkness of shop would prevent him from being seen by passers-by outside) but as he slid and span around the floor, trying to master the very specific Northern Soul style that Daisy had shown him, he couldn’t help but think about her and hope that she was okay.

  She had said, though, that she would meet him at the Drill Hall later, which did slightly allay his doubts - especially as he knew how keen she was to see Steve Cool. As it was, he, himself, could barely contain his excitement at the chance of seeing Pippa again (and still hadn’t properly washed his hand after the boob-touching incident in the shop last week).

  By the time he’d shut the shop and walked the short distance to Nan’s house to pick-up his newly tapered jeans, his worries for Daisy had all but evaporated and been replaced by the thought of meeting up with her and Frazer at the Drill Hall in just a few short hours for the much anticipated roller-disco.

  First, though, he had to pick-up his jeans then head straight to the barber’s, who opened late on a Saturday, to get his trendy ‘Steve Cool-esque’ haircut - which he hoped would impress the shit out of Pippa (although not literally because that would be just gross).

  ***

  The moment Gordy tried the altered jeans on he suspected that he’d made a dreadful mistake. It was not Nan’s fault, she had done just as he’d asked - which was to make them ‘skin tight’ and skin tight they now definitely were. They were so tight, in fact, that they were almost cutting off his circulation and his poor gonads which had only recently descended had made a hasty retreat back up for fear of being brutally crushed.

  Not only that, but because the jeans now hugged his ankles as if he was wearing bicycle clips, his feet looked like two massive canoes. Furthermore, if he bent down even slightly, the tightness of the jeans on his legs, having no ‘give’ in them whatsoever, would cause them to slide down his backside, pulling his pants down with them, to expose the bare pink flesh of his rosy buttocks and at least three inches of arse crack.

  The jeans, which now resembled a ballet dancer’s tights, made Gordy look like a poor man’s Rudolph Nureyev (complete with what appeared to be a fun-size Christmas pudding stuffed down the front) who was about to perform the Nutcracker (literally) in a pair of enormous trainers.

  Nevertheless, the jeans were still Levi 501s so he decided to wear them anyway. Because Levis were cool.

  Gordy had pondered for several days what to wear on his top half that would best set-off his brand new, mega-expensive and now extremely snug jeans. He had pored over the men’s section of his nan’s Grattan catalogue - only briefly pausing, as was his custom, on the ladies lingerie section - as he tried to find something suitable but nothing really grabbed him that shouted ‘cool!’

  In the end he chose a black T-shirt with T-Rex printed on the front in white under a picture of Marc Bolan. Very cool indeed.

  However, unfortunately, the shirt took pride of place in his brother, Kev’s, wardrobe - mainly because it was the property of his brother, Kev - and he would never consent to letting Gordy borrow it.

  Furthermore, if Gordy wore it without asking Kev the consequences could be dire - far worse than a tweaked nipple or a Chinese burn. Kev had a rather
grumpy disposition so by taking the shirt Gordy was knowingly risking a thumping. But Pippa was at stake, ‘coolness’ was at stake, and this was Gordy’s one and perhaps only chance to impress.

  So it was a risk he was willing to take.

  ***

  With the T-shirt on, Gordy kept a furtive eye-out for Kev as he made his way on foot to the Drill Hall in his ‘spray-on’ Levis and what seemed to be canoe-sized trainers. Keeping his head down, he ran his fingers through his newly shorn locks, wondering how he could have made the description any clearer of the haircut he wanted to prevent him getting the haircut he got.

  As it was, Santos (the barber) had done a reasonably good job but instead of getting a replica of Steve Cool’s quiffed and flicked super cool style, Gordy had ended up with a feather cut - as did quite a few people who entered Santos’ Barbershop looking for something ‘different’ (mainly because Santos could only do four sorts of haircut - a number one (skinhead), a number two (suede head), a number three (miscellaneous - which covered a multitude of requests) and a feather cut (which fell loosely into the ‘specialist’ or, on occasion, ‘punk’ category).

  Of course, Santos never told his customers this as whenever anyone asked him if he could copy a certain style he would always say “yes”. This was mostly because Santos was Italian and the extent of his English was ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ - even though he and his shop has been in the town for over twenty years. Anyway, a feather cut is what Gordy got and ultimately he was pleased - it certainly beat the hell out of the basin cut that Barb normally gave him or the scalping that Madge had once subjected him to - and had most likely inflicted on poor Daisy too.

  Gordy looked completely different to the way he had before the Summer holidays. Gone was the plumpness, the specs and the basin cut; and no more was he dressed in clothes which his mum had chosen for him.

  He had not sung so much as even one chorus of a show tune during the whole holidays and had not watched any musicals with his mum whatsoever. His comics he had stuffed under his bed and had only been briefly scanned in the privacy of his own room when no one else was looking.