Praise for
A Sense of Occasion – the Chelmsford Stories
‘Woodcraft has a light, lovely and loving touch. Her Chelmsford stories are intense, easy, evocative of times, places and passions’
BEATRIX CAMPBELL, WRITER AND SOCIAL COMMENTATOR
‘Woodcraft’s take on growing up mod in Chelmsford is poignant, heart-warming and hip . . . Wry tales of teenage love, loss, languor and Lambrettas that bring a lump to the throat long after you’ve closed the cover’
VAL WILMER, AUTHOR OF AS SERIOUS AS YOUR LIFE AND MAMA SAID THERE’D BE DAYS LIKE THIS
‘A lovely, lovely read’
TOMMY STEELE
Good Bad Woman
‘Sparklingly written, with believable dialogue and a lively plot’
MARCEL BERLINS, GUARDIAN
‘My current favourite is debut author Elizabeth Woodcraft . . . funny, engaging’
THE BOOKSELLER
‘She has a record collection worthy of any of the characters from High Fidelity’
EVENING HERALD, DUBLIN
‘Hip, funny and a strong female character’
MURDER ONE
‘Sharp, streetwise and engaging’
WESTERN MAIL
‘Unusual and compelling . . . with the bonus of a Motown soundtrack’
TIME OUT
‘Frankie Richmond is a great creation – more please’
CATH STAINCLIFFE, MANCHESTER EVENING NEWS
‘Good Bad Woman is an unchained medley of love, loss, laughter and the law’
VAL MCDERMID
Babyface
‘Elizabeth Woodcraft has created in Richmond the sort of lawyer that we want to side with’
THE TIMES
‘Unusual and highly readable’
SHOTS MAGAZINE
‘Witty and well-plotted’
BIRMINGHAM SUNDAY MERCURY
‘Richmond is lively and self-deprecatingly funny’
MARCEL BERLINS, GUARDIAN
‘A belt-it-out Motown woman’
IRELAND ON SUNDAY
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Welcome to the world of Elizabeth Woodcraft
A Letter from the Author
Angel Food Cake Recipe
Tales from Memory Lane
Copyright
In memory of my parents,
H Alfred Woodcraft (1912–81) and Peggy Perry (1924–96)
CHAPTER 1
The Corn Exchange
THE CORN EXCHANGE WAS NEVER full at half past eight on a Saturday night. It wouldn’t fill up till the group started playing. Tonight the group was Geno Washington and the Ram Jam Band. But now it was still just records. We paid our money and then the men at the door stamped our hands and, as always, the ultraviolet light made the mark blue and our skin eerily white.
As we stepped into the empty, cavernous hall, the vinyl hissed and the first notes of ‘Green Onions’ rolled round the room. The single chords of the electric organ, low and smooth, touched the pit of my stomach. It was an anthem to mod superiority. Mods had all the good music, the latest music, the cool music.
Sandra and I walked across the dusty floorboards in step, in time to the music, past the out-of-town mod boys. They came from Mile End, Ilford, Colchester. Their sludge-green parkas were loose over their leather coats, their thin knitted ties slightly askew. They had come to listen to the music seriously, to actually watch Geno Washington. One or two of them were already dancing, passing the time, tiptoeing forward and back in their suede Hush Puppies, shrugging their shoulders.
The really interesting people weren’t here yet. The Chelmsford boys would creep in about ten o’clock through the window of the men’s toilets.
‘Hello girls,’ Brenda said as we reached the top of the queue for the cloakroom. Brenda knew us because, for the rest of the week, she worked in the mods’ coffee bar, the Orpheus. She hauled our precious coats – Sandra’s leather, mine suede – over the trestle table and gave us each a raffle ticket: the prize would be to get our coats back intact. I looked anxiously at Sandra. I’d only had mine a week. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘No one’s going to nick it. Not with those sleeves.’
We still moved to the beat, now the rhythmic drums of ‘Going to a Go-Go’, as we walked through into the ladies’ toilets, a room of sinks and mirrors. I ran my eyes over the other mod girls jostling for a space. Some were regulars in the Orpheus; others were from villages on the edge of town, Ingatestone, Hatfield Peverel, Marks Tey, the stops on the railway line. Like Sandra and me, they wore twinsets, and straight skirts two inches below the knee, plain, pinstriped, fan-pleated, and the same shoes, flat moccasins, low slingbacks. A few of them I envied, for their cool, their nonchalance. Jenny, a girl we knew from the Orpheus, was wearing a dress that had been on TV the night before, on Ready Steady Go!, the mods’ programme. It looked good in maroon. Another girl was still wearing her coat. ‘Orange suede,’ Sandra murmured. ‘Nice.’ She was being sarcastic. It was the way mods talked. We manoeuvred our way to the mirrors.
This was almost the best part of the evening, standing here in the toilets, the low throb of music from the hall just discernible, my hair and make-up exactly as they should be, my perfume, ‘Wishing’ by Avon, heavy and sweet and my beige skirt impeccably ironed. At this moment I knew that anything might happen, a dance, a conversation, a glimpse of someone exciting, a throwaway remark. Whatever happened it would be something to mull over, to savour, to write about in my diary.
Under the harsh fluorescent light we gazed at our reflections. Neither Sandra nor I were pretty, exactly (although sometimes, at home on my own, in the bedroom, I really did resemble Jean Shrimpton, the button-nosed elegant model whose picture was everywhere). But you didn’t have to be good-looking to be a mod. You just had to have the right clothes and the right hair, and a smart line on the right occasion. And on Saturday nights, we always did.
I smoothed my hair down with my hands and pulled my fringe straighter. It was almost the Cleopatra look. I inspected my eyeliner and the lines in the sockets, grey to bring out the blue of my eyes, with the white pearlised sheen below my eyebrows and on my lips. All as good as it could be. I smiled.
Sandra ran her tongue over her lips. She was experimenting with a new, flavoured lipstick. ‘ “Caramel Kiss”,’ she said, pouting at herself.
‘You hope.’
‘You try it,’ she said, handing me the small silver tube. ‘Tastes nice. Like Caramac.’
I dabbed a touch of orange onto my lips. ‘Mmm. Not bad.’
‘Do you think Danny will be here?’ Sandra said. Danny was her on-off boyfriend. More off than on. There was a rumour he’d been let out of prison for the weekend.
‘Who knows?’ I hoped not. If he came tonight it would mean I’d have no one to dance with,
and no one to talk to during the slow songs.
‘Tonight could be the night,’ she said. Her New Year’s Resolution was to get engaged, preferably to Danny.
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ I said.
We walked back through the hall, past the boys dancing neatly to the smooth saxophone of Junior Walker and the All Stars, and out onto the worn stone steps leading down to the street. On Fridays, Chelmsford’s market day, the Corn Exchange was the hub of the town. Farm animals, sheep and cattle, were herded down the middle of the road while business transactions took place inside. But come Saturday night, the Corn Exchange belonged to the mods.
Several scooters were parked nearby. The polished panels of the Lambrettas and the shining bubbles of the Vespas glinted silver, bottle green, navy blue under the street lights. The cool mod scooter boys leaned against the backrests, their pork-pie hats tipped over their eyes, close enough to feel the throb of the music from the hall, waiting for Geno Washington to start his set.
Then Sandra’s whole body quivered. ‘There he is,’ she said.
It was Danny, walking through a crowd of mods, nodding to a few, self-consciously pulling his coat straight. It was a long navy-blue leather coat. And he was grinning.
Sandra turned to me, touching her hair, licking her lips. ‘Do I look all right?’ She was trying not to smile too much.
‘You look fab.’
‘So does he,’ she said. ‘That coat’s new. Where’d he get that?’
I didn’t reply. Wherever he’d got it I was sure it wasn’t legal.
‘Now where’s he going?’ she said.
He hadn’t seen us. He was walking away from the Corn Exchange towards Tindal Street. There were several places he could be going in that direction, and they were all pubs, the White Hart, the Spotted Dog or the Dolphin. And that was just Tindal Street.
‘Here we go,’ Sandra said, and grabbed my arm. We ran down the steps and pushed through a group of boys in parkas into the road.
Mick Flynn and his mate Jeff were sitting with Ray Bales in the White Hart. Like the other pubs in the road, it was an old coaching inn, with a low ceiling and bare wooden floors. ‘Have you seen Danny?’ Sandra said.
‘And hello to you too, Sandra,’ Mick said. He was wearing his bottle-green suede coat with the leather collar and his customary dark glasses. Mick Flynn was a local hero. He had been in an accident with a rocker. The story was that Mick had been on his Lambretta, riding past the bus station, showing off his shiny blue panels, waving to his mates when a rocker, with slicked-back greasy hair and a chunky leather jacket, drove towards him on his Harley-Davidson motorbike and a game of chicken began. Neither of them got out of the way and they smashed into each other. The rocker damaged his leg and Mick was blinded. It all happened before Sandra and I started going out in the evenings, but everyone knew about it. And he was still a mod, but now he wore dark glasses as part of his moddy outfit. He made it his business to keep up with all the happenings in Chelmsford. If anyone knew about Danny, it would be him. ‘Mulroney? Oh yeah, it’s this weekend,’ he said. ‘Nah, haven’t seen him.’
‘You sure?’ Sandra said.
‘I’m not his manager. Didn’t he write and tell you where he’d be?’ Mick said. ‘All his other girlfriends seem to know.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sandra said. ‘What other girlfriends?’
‘Oh, just all the girls in Chelmsford.’ He was grinning.
Sandra turned.
‘Don’t look at me,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what he’s talking about.’
‘Is that your mate Linda? The one who looks like Jean Shrimpton?’
‘That’s right,’ Sandra said. She laughed.
I looked at her. ‘You told him?’ I mouthed.
‘But you do, actually,’ Ray said. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Just not tonight,’ Sandra said.
‘Well, tonight I’m incognito,’ I said.
‘Tell you what, Sandra,’ Mick said, ‘if Danny doesn’t turn up, you can try your luck with me. But you’ll have to wait in the queue, after Linda.’
Sandra pushed him, and his Guinness rocked in his hand.
‘Forget about Danny,’ Ray said to me. ‘Come back up to the Corn Exchange and have a dance.’
I frowned. Ray lived on our estate and wore dreadful jumpers, jumpers that no proper mod would be seen dead in. I had fancied Ray once, ages ago when my dad started giving his dad a lift to union meetings. Sometimes I had to go round to his house with a message, changing the arrangements or warning him about an extra meeting, and if Ray answered the door I would talk to him while his dad finished his tea. We talked about the Labour Party (his dad was Chairman of the local branch) or the trade union (my dad was the District Secretary of the Amalgamated Engineering Union) or Del Shannon, who sang ‘Runaway’ and ‘Hey Little Girl’. But that was then, before I was a mod. Ray wasn’t really a mod at all, and I had stopped talking to anyone about Del Shannon. It was a bit late for him to ask me to dance now. Why couldn’t he have asked me a year ago?
I shook my head and rolled my eyes at Sandra, but I did wonder if he was a good dancer.
Sandra and I walked along the road to the Spotted Dog. Danny wasn’t in there, either.
The Dolphin was the last pub in Tindal Street. The public bar was full of men, most of them standing up. There was a smell of spilled beer, cigarettes and sweat. As we walked in there were shouts and the scraping of furniture at the back of the room. A fight was breaking out.
Sandra pulled her shoulders back. ‘He’s here.’ She licked her lips. Then licked them again. ‘And if he doesn’t like toffee, that’s just too bad.’
Everyone was looking towards the door to the Gents. From behind the bar the landlord called, ‘Oy, what’s going on?’ We wove our way through the crowd. There was a crash as a chair fell against a table and legs in jeans flailed through the air. As we got closer I could see a man on the floor. It was Danny, shielding his face with his hands as another man who I didn’t recognise, a thin man in a grey suede coat, kicked him in the side. Danny was laughing.
Sandra slid over to him just before the landlord arrived. She elbowed the other man out of the way, grabbed Danny’s arm, pulled him to his feet and dragged him towards the door into the saloon bar. Danny grinned and turned back. ‘It ain’t your night, is it?’ he called to the man who was wiping blood from his nose.
The landlord called ‘Hey!’ but Sandra gave him a look and he turned his attention to the other man, pulling him towards the front door. As he pushed him into the street, the landlord said, ‘Out! And don’t come back.’ Almost to himself, he said, ‘That’s it. I’m fed up with the lot of you.’
The man in the grey suede coat shouted back through the door, ‘We had a deal, Mulroney, and you know what the deal was. Get it sorted out.’
Danny waved his hands in the air as if he was ready to continue the fight, and Sandra hissed, ‘Behave!’ Danny’s arms fell to his sides and he gave Sandra a dazed smile.
I wondered if that was why Danny liked Sandra, because she took control. I wondered if that was why she liked him, because she could.
In the saloon bar Sandra balanced Danny on a stool at a table. The tables and a few tatty rugs differentiated it from the public bar, along with faded prints of horses on the walls.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m going back to the Corn Exchange.’ I wanted to see if Ray had meant what he said.
‘You can’t go yet,’ Sandra said. ‘What am I going to do with him like this?’
Danny was still grinning, rubbing his side, swaying on the stool. He had a small cut below his eye and blood on his cheek. ‘Hello, darling,’ he kept saying to Sandra. ‘What’s your name?’
‘My name is Sandra.’ She tugged his sleeve as he slid dangerously over to one side. ‘I’m your girlfriend.’
‘Are you?’ He looked at Sandra, then slowly turned his head to me, then back to Sandra. ‘Is it my eyes, or are there two of you?’
; ‘It’s your eyes,’ Sandra said.
‘Is that Linda, Little Lindy Lindah?’ Danny moaned. ‘You still banning the bomb, Linda? Still wearing the badge? What’s she wear that badge for, Sandy? Can’t she afford proper jewellery? Why do you wear a badge, Linda?’
The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and my CND badge were important to me, but I didn’t want to talk about that tonight, especially not with someone who was drunk and who had a loud voice. ‘Why were you and that bloke fighting?’ I said, to change the subject.
‘Who? What? Where is he, what’s he saying . . .?’
‘Don’t worry about him. He’s long gone,’ Sandra said. ‘Look at you. What have you been doing?’
‘I have been celebrating my release from the worst place in the world, Wormwood Scrubs.’
A couple at the next table exchanged a glance. They both still had their coats on and the woman had a scarf on her head.
Danny leered at them.
‘Well! I think someone’s in the wrong bar,’ the woman said loudly. She prodded her husband and gestured to the door. He got to his feet, picked up his small glass of beer and drained it in one mouthful. ‘I didn’t mean straightaway, Cyril,’ she said, but she stood up and they left.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Danny said, and tipped very slowly to his right until his head touched the bench.
‘We’ve got to stay with him,’ Sandra said.
‘Us?’ I said. ‘But we’ve paid for our tickets.’
‘Sandy!’ Danny shouted, suddenly sitting up. ‘Oh, there you are.’ Then he crooned. ‘Sandy, Sandy. Do you think I’m handy?’
‘Not at the moment.’ She shook her head at me.
‘Do you think I look dandy, Sandy?’ He held out his arms as if he wanted to hug her. Then he toppled off the stool and onto the floor.
‘Get up,’ Sandra hissed.
‘Because guess what, I feel randy,’ he moaned, and then he laughed. ‘Get us a shandy.’
The Saturday Girls Page 1
