by Kitty Neale
Sighing, she flicked through the local paper, but none of the articles grabbed her attention. There was something about a corrupt police officer, a Sergeant Fenton, which vaguely rang a bell – perhaps something to do with a story about some raids Penny had mentioned back when they were still talking to each other. Rhona couldn’t be bothered to read it. A summer sale at Jones & Higgins – big deal, she still wouldn’t be able to afford anything. A market trader cautioned for counterfeit goods – Rhona glanced at his picture and recognised him as the one who always held your hand too long when giving you your change. Good, serve the dirty bastard right.
She came to the ‘what’s on’ section, and sighed even more deeply. Usually these would be the first pages she’d turn to, eager to see what entertainment was on offer. Now she couldn’t see the point. There wasn’t much listed anyway; it was always quieter in August.
Then her eye was caught by a small advertisement for a bar she knew that wasn’t much further away than the factory. They were having an open mic evening, so anyone who fancied trying out a few numbers could come along. Normally she would have turned up her nose at such things; she only wanted to see the cutting-edge, sharpest bands, not any old Tom, Dick or Harry who fancied they could have a go. But if she went along she’d be bound to see someone she knew. It was on Sunday, so it wouldn’t go on till late, and she wouldn’t have to work out how to get home; she could walk it.
Before falling ill she’d barely spent any time considering such things but somehow now she was more cautious. She’d felt she was invincible, no matter what hour she’d had to make her way across the vast spread of the capital; now though Rhona felt she wasn’t. Still, she couldn’t sit round here moping all the time. It was time to get back in the saddle – or at least back on the music scene.
‘Sunday night,’ she said to herself. After all, how hard could it be? She might even enjoy it. She’d missed her guitar lessons and now she had more energy she was pleased at the thought of getting back to what she used to love so much, music. Maybe she wasn’t ready to break away from the factory into the big time but there was nothing wrong with seeing what was going on just up the road.
‘Over here! Pass it over here!’ James yelled, belting along the sand as fast as he could go.
‘Goal!’ shouted Tommy, shooting the ball past the pile of jumpers.
‘No, it should be on the other side!’ protested Greg, who’d failed to make contact with the ball as it shot past him.
‘Nonsense! That was a goal, fair and square,’ said Tommy, puffing a bit. The boys had kept him running around since shortly after breakfast. As he’d been up half the night making the most of his precious time with Mavis, he could have done with a rest this morning, but the boys weren’t having any of it.
‘Where’s the ball gone?’ asked James, spinning round. Then he saw that it had rolled off towards a pair of middle-aged holiday-makers who were reading the newspapers, sitting in striped deckchairs. He trotted over, putting on his politest face.
‘Please may we have our ball back?’ he asked, remembering how his teacher had taught him to speak in school.
The man in the deckchair beamed. ‘Of course. Help yourself. Aren’t you lucky your daddy plays football so well? I bet he’s shown you how to kick for goal.’
‘He’s not my daddy,’ said James without thinking. Then he caught the expression on the woman’s face and hastily added, ‘He’s my Uncle Tommy.’
‘Well then, you’re very lucky to have an uncle who’s so good at football. Enjoy your holiday,’ said the man, and went back to his newspaper.
James picked up the ball and strolled back to the others. He didn’t want to think of his daddy, whom he’d grown to fear. He didn’t particularly want another one. He much preferred Tommy, who didn’t mind getting covered in sand, was not bad at football and never, ever hit him.
He glanced across to where his mother was sitting on a picnic blanket, chatting to Greg’s mum. They had on sunglasses and straw sunhats with big brims, and were drinking tea from a flask. The landlady had packed them all a picnic hamper this morning and had been careful to ask the children what they wanted in their sandwiches.
‘No cucumber!’ Grace had shouted. ‘I hate cucumber!’
James had groaned inwardly as he’d heard the same complaint all summer, and it was a pity as Granny Lily had managed to grow lots of cucumbers in their new back garden. He suspected if she hadn’t then Grace would have demanded cucumber for breakfast, dinner and tea, because last year she’d loved it. He wondered if Granny would tell her off, but Mrs Hawkins had simply said, ‘Well, I shan’t put any in, then’, and made no fuss at all.
‘Look at them, they love it here.’ Mavis sat back, leaning on her elbows, peering at the boys over the top of her new sunglasses. She felt quite self-conscious wearing them but Jenny had told her to stop worrying and that she looked like Jackie Kennedy. Mavis was sure Jackie Kennedy never got sand in her sandwiches but on a beautiful day like this she wasn’t going to protest. She was just relieved that it was all going so well.
‘Yeah, I knew they would,’ said Jenny, reaching into the hamper for a banana. ‘I don’t know about you but this sea air makes me famished. I must have put on a stone.’
Mavis shook her head, laughing. Her friend was slimmer than ever, and getting the beginnings of a tan.
‘I didn’t know how the children would react, seeing me with Tommy all day every day, but they don’t seem to mind. It’s all gone smoothly, or so far. Touch wood.’ She tapped her hand on the little toggle holding down the hamper lid.
‘Well, why wouldn’t it?’ Jenny pushed back her sunhat. ‘They’ve known him for ages, and let’s face it, he treats them better than their own father ever did. Look at him there, having a kick about, like a big kid himself. They love him because they know they’re safe with him and they just relax.’
Mavis let out a sigh. ‘I’m so relieved. You know, I kind of looked on this break as a bit of a practice run – for what it might be like if we ever get together for good. God only knows when that will be. I keep hoping for news of Alec so that I can at least file for divorce.’
‘Before the seven years since Alec’s disappearance and you can have him declared dead, you mean?’ asked Jenny. ‘That’s a long time to wait. Still five years to go, aren’t there?’
‘Afraid so.’ Mavis’s face fell. ‘It seems ages when you put it like that. But who knows, something might happen before the time’s up. We could hear something definite, either way. That would help. Anything’s better than not knowing.’
‘You should get some legal advice, but in the meantime you’re both happy. Any fool can see that you’re made for each other, it’s obvious,’ Jenny said as she put the banana peel in a paper bag and shoved it back inside the hamper. ‘What’s Grace up to?’
‘She’s down there at the shoreline, with Lily and Bobby. They’re having a paddle. She can’t get enough of the sea now she’s got used to how cold it is.’ Mavis laughed. ‘I reckon she thought it was going to be like a bath. She got the shock of her life when she first stuck her toe in. That, and the way the tide brings the waves back and forth, but now she loves it, and keeps bringing back shells. I don’t know where she thinks they’re all going to go when it’s time to go home.’
‘Don’t even talk about it,’ said Jenny, rolling on to her front. ‘I could stay here for ever. No smelly tube trains, no South Circular. Imagine, just fresh air and blue skies.’
‘You’d be bored, you know you would,’ smiled Mavis. ‘I’m sure it isn’t sunny all the time either. I know what you mean, though. I bet loads of people settle down here when they’ve had enough of London.’
‘Hmmmm.’ Jenny knew the idea of staying was pie in the sky but it didn’t hurt to dream. ‘You know what, after that banana I could do with an ice cream. What do you say?’
‘A ninety-nine?’
‘Definitely.’
The two young women stood up, brushed the sand from their
frocks and wandered back along to the shops above the beach, to the distant shrieks of the boys trying to save goals as Tommy kicked the football. Gradually the voices were drowned out by the racket of seagulls wheeling above. Jenny tucked her arm through Mavis’s and they sauntered in the sunshine, enjoying the heat and the relaxed air of everyone around them. They had no idea that someone was watching their every movement.
On Sunday evening, Rhona forced herself to get ready. There was none of the excitement she used to feel when she knew she’d be meeting Gary, or before that when she’d prepared with military precision in case she got lucky with a new man. She almost gave up and went back down to sit with her parents to listen to the wireless, but Sunday evening programmes drove her mad. She could hear something that sounded like the strings of Mantovani wafting up the stairs now and that decided her. She couldn’t put up with that sort of noise for a minute longer. She had to get out, mix with people of her own age group who liked the same sort of music – or at least, the nearest Peckham could offer in that direction.
She hastily applied her mascara and didn’t bother with false eyelashes. What was the point – she wasn’t going to Soho now. She debated whether to change into a miniskirt but decided against it, choosing to stay in her dogtooth-check trousers instead. She wasn’t likely to meet anyone who’d appreciate her legs in such a venue. And, she reminded herself, she wasn’t as curvy as she had been. She’d have to get used to the idea of not attracting so much attention. In a way she was glad; she didn’t particularly want to fend off men’s idiotic comments this evening. She was going for the music, and that was all.
‘You off, love?’ Marilyn asked.
‘You could always stay in with us and listen to a bit of the Light Programme,’ Ian Foster suggested.
‘Nah, I’m going to try the open mic night,’ said Rhona hurriedly, picking up her old jacket with the frayed cuffs. ‘It won’t go on too late but don’t wait up. I’ll be fine.’ With that she left them to it, desperate to get away from the cascading strings and syrupy tunes.
The air outside was hot as she made her way along the roads. She slowed down once she’d left Harwood Street behind, figuring there was no point in arriving red-faced and perspiring. She wondered if she might bump into a familiar face but everyone must be inside or else in their back yards. Houses had their windows open to let in any shred of a cooling breeze but nobody was about. Every now and again she caught the sounds of radios playing, some with the same unbearable programme her parents had been enjoying. Other lucky households had a television set. She wondered if they would ever have one. Mavis was going to get one when she got back from holiday and Jean had said she was saving up for one to give her mum as a surprise. Rhona thought she would soon feel left out without one. Besides, if they did get one she would be able to watch Top of the Pops.
As she approached the bar she could hear the sound of a guitar being tuned over an amplifier, floating out through the open front door. People stood around the wooden tables outside, drinking beer or, from what she could see of most of the women, soft drinks. As she got closer she recognised a few of them from her days at school, and there were even a few who’d occasionally turned up on the music scene. She breathed out in relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
One of the girls drinking lemonade waved to her. ‘Hi, Rhona.’
Rhona smiled and went to join the group. She noticed that they weren’t dressed in the height of fashion, but then berated herself for caring. It wasn’t as if she had bothered to put on her glad rags. ‘Thought I’d try this place for a change. What’s it like? Have you been before?’
The girls fell over themselves to tell her about previous evenings, trying to outdo one another in their knack for spotting the best singer, who was bound to make it as a future star, and who’d managed to get a date with any of the performers.
Rhona smiled and nodded and forced herself to come across as interested, though she quickly guessed that there were no superstars-in-waiting likely to appear, and that the girls seemed desperate to date anyone who could pick up a guitar. She excused herself, saying that she wanted to get a drink, and ducked through the front door into the shady bar. Light was just about managing to filter in through the grimy windows but at least it was cooler in here. Edging round the customers standing and talking she didn’t notice a tall figure making a beeline for her.
‘Rhonda! Fancy seeing you here.’
Rhona squinted up at him, her eyes adjusting to the dimmer light. ‘Hello, Kenneth,’ she said reluctantly. She hadn’t seen him since he’d abandoned her at the Rolling Stones concert months ago. ‘It’s Rhona.’
‘Good to see you, Rhonda,’ Kenneth went on, either unable to hear above the background noise or just oblivious to what she’d said. ‘I always remember a gorgeous face. It’s like you were named after that Beach Boys song, how did it go, “Help me, Rhonda, help me, Rhonda … ”’
‘Yeah, I was born a bit earlier than that, and it would have made you a child snatcher,’ Rhona said, flashing him a smile. No point in picking an argument.
‘Well maybe it’s not you helping me, but I can help you,’ he said cheesily. ‘What will you have to drink?’
Rhona shook her head, finding it hard to recall why she’d ever found this fool attractive. ‘Babycham, please,’ she said. At least she could return to her favourite tipple now that she wasn’t pretending to like rum and black.
She waited for him to get back from the bar, where a bored-looking young man in a disgusting nylon shirt was serving the few punters who’d had enough of the sunshine outside. Ken got himself a pint at the same time and strutted back to her, as if he was doing her a favour. He reeked of aftershave.
Rhona accepted the glass and thanked him, knowing that a few months ago she’d have chucked the drink in his face for dumping her like that. Now she figured she might as well get him to pay if he was daft enough. Or perhaps it was his way of saying sorry.
‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked. ‘Been to any good gigs lately?’
‘Nah, not really,’ said Rhona. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ve been taking a break from the big venues,’ Kenneth said grandly. ‘I reckon it’s so much more authentic to see bands at small places like this. That way you really get to feel the music, you know?’
‘Depends,’ said Rhona noncommittally. ‘I quite like the big stages, I like a big show. It’s nice to see something local though, but to be honest I’ve no idea what this is going to be like.’ She swirled her Babycham around. Somehow it tasted sweeter than she remembered it. It had been a long time since she’d had any.
‘That’s the whole reason to come along, isn’t it,’ said Kenneth, nodding vigorously. ‘You might see the next Van Morrison or Ray Davies, on your own front doorstep.’
‘Well that’d be nice,’ Rhona acknowledged, ‘but don’t get my hopes up. Anyway you must go to lots of different venues, you’ve got your bike after all.’
Kenneth’s expression changed. ‘Ah, that’s off the road at the moment. Just temporarily.’
Rhona raised her eyebrows. She knew it had been his pride and joy and one of the reasons she’d felt so cheated at being left to make her own way home that time. ‘Really. What happened? You had a crash or something?’
Kenneth stared into his pint. ‘Not exactly. No, it wasn’t like that. Actually if you must know I got pulled over for dangerous driving and they found out I’ve never taken my test. So I’m banned until pass it, though I’m a good rider so that shouldn’t take too long.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘You didn’t feel unsafe on my bike, did you?’
‘I didn’t really spend long enough on it to find out.’ Rhona eyed him balefully. ‘I reckon you owe me big time for that.’
‘Oh come on, I got you into the Stones concert.’
‘Yeah, then you left me when you had the chance to go off and meet them. Had to make my own way home, I did. Anything could have happened.’
‘And did it?’
> ‘Of course not. I know how to take care of myself.’ Rhona shook back her hair. ‘That’s not the point. You just took off.’
‘You’d have done the same if you got the chance to go to the after-gig party with them,’ he protested. ‘It’s not something you turn down.’
‘Wouldn’t have mattered, would it, ’cos you could still have got home on your bike. I had to take night buses and you know what they’re like.’ She pulled a face.
‘OK, OK, I owe you. What do you want?’
Rhona thought for a moment. She wasn’t sure she’d be up for a party with the Stones these days, even if that was ever to come her way again. It seemed like part of another life. Then she remembered the one thing she’d really missed since splitting up with Gary. In fact, if she was honest, she’d missed this more than the man himself. It had taken the bout of glandular fever to realise the truth of it. This might be a golden opportunity and what did she have to lose? ‘Back in the spring I started learning the guitar,’ she said, her eyes lighting up. ‘I didn’t get very far but I really liked it. I’d love to have my own guitar then I could get a book and teach myself. Do you know anyone who might have one?’
‘What sort?’ asked Kenneth.
‘I don’t know. A normal one.’
‘What, electric? A bass? Come on, there are different kinds.’
‘No, a wooden one.’ Trust Kenneth to start showing off and putting her down. She wondered what she’d ever seen in him, other than a way into concerts and to meet pop stars.