‘The next Monday we met him again, in the Orpheus. I’d put ‘One Fine Day’ on the jukebox and that first single piano note was knocking round the room and we were both singing “Shooby dooby dooby dooby do wup bup” as he came down the stairs. He turned his back to the counter and shouted, “Today we’re going to break the sound barrier. Who wants to go for a ride?” Brenda said, “Sorry, Danny, not today.” Sandra and I were the only other people in there, and Sandra nudged me and said it would be a laugh.
‘I’d rather have listened to the end of the record but I knew Sandra really wanted to go.
‘The car was a small black Austin Seven. It was parked outside the Orpheus. Sandra said later she’d guessed straightaway that it was stolen. “I couldn’t say anything,” she’d said. “You wouldn’t have come if you’d thought it was nicked, would you? Think what we’d have missed.”
‘Danny opened the passenger door, bowing, and I climbed into the back. Sandra sat in the front, laughing and making cracks, smoothing down her skirt. I had to lean forward, straining to hear what they were saying.
‘We were going about twenty miles an hour.
‘ “I thought you said we’d go fast,” Sandra said.
‘ “This is fast for an Austin Seven,” he said, revving the engine. He changed gear and there was a loud noise. “And there goes the sound barrier.”
‘We were driving along the Main Road towards Braintree before he actually introduced himself. Then suddenly he was groping under his seat and pulling out two hairbrushes. “Look at these,” he said to Sandra. They had tortoiseshell and silver backs and the bristle was soft and creamy.
‘He held one in each hand and turned round to show them to me. Turned round! He was driving! But Sandra just slapped his thigh and said, “Look where you’re going.”
‘He laughed.
‘Sandra made him stop at the 311 bus stop. She kissed him goodbye, and that was it. They were courting.
‘He got arrested as he drove back into town. We heard that he pleaded guilty at the magistrates’ court. He got three months suspended for six months, for taking the car and driving without a licence or insurance, with the theft of the brushes taken into consideration. When he got caught stealing a Mini outside the Corn Exchange two weeks later, they added on the month and he went inside. He’s been in prison three times since then.’
Sylvie laughed. ‘Well, that’s quite a story. But when do you have time to do all these things? Go for drives, listen to music, worry about who’s in and who’s out?’
‘That doesn’t take much time,’ I said. ‘Tap’s always In, and Danny’s usually In – prison, that is – except when he’s Out, which isn’t very often. And Ray’s always there.’ I felt a bit ashamed of being so offhand about Ray. I had sent him the card.
‘What about your homework?’
‘Oh, I do it.’
There was a silence. I wanted her to ask me. There was more silence. ‘Did you get any? Valentines?’ I said.
‘I did,’ she said. ‘Just the one.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know where it is, poppet.’ She waved her hand vaguely. ‘Look in those drawers.’
Still holding Mansell on my hip, I looked in the three drawers of the sideboard. There were photo albums, needles and thread, buttons, shoe polish. In the last, with folded paper bags and little balls of string, I found it.
It was a big card, with a large red padded heart in the middle. Inside, it said, ‘You light up my life. May I light up your world?’ Which, compared to the cards we’d sent, was pathetic. Underneath, in flowery handwriting, were the words, ‘Do you remember?’ followed by five crosses.
‘Do you?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Remember.’
‘Oh, Linda, there is so much to remember, and much more that I would rather forget.’ She was taking the Louis Armstrong album out of its cover. She’d already forgotten what I thought about that. I was going to say something, but then I thought, what if she’d gone through things at the hospital, like drugs, or electric shock treatment, that had made her mind go blank? If I pointed out she’d forgotten that I didn’t like Louis Armstrong it might undo the work of the treatment, or she might just think I was making rude comments. Casually I sat back down. ‘Do you know who the card’s from?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Some deluded individual somewhere. It’s not what I’d call an attractive card. Would you like it?’
‘No! I – I had one of my own.’
‘Oh, Linda! You didn’t say. Tell me what it was like.’
‘Actually, I’ve . . .’ My hand crept to my bag.
‘You’ve got it with you! Oh, chicken, that’s sweet. Let me see it straightaway.’
It wasn’t sweet, it was anything but sweet, and I wanted to say no, sorry, I made a mistake, I left it at home. But I was sort of proud of it. It was better than hers. I made a show of rummaging in my bag, but I knew exactly where it was. I took it out.
It was handmade, it was painted, yellow and brown lines on a piece of card. On the other side it said, ‘What do you think? Will you be my Valentine? I can wait’, and three kisses. At first I hadn’t known what to think. It was so horrible, it had to be real. Brown and yellow. Lines. Who would have sent me something so wrong? But despite the disappointment of the design and the colour, it was a card and it was addressed to me, and it wasn’t entirely stupid. I had wondered if it might be from Tap – perhaps he was a painting kind of person, perhaps it was an ironic comment on the caramel colour of my nylon mac. I couldn’t really picture that. And how would he know my address? He hardly knew my name.
Sylvie looked at it thoughtfully. ‘This is rather good,’ she said. ‘You see, I knew you were artistic.’
‘I didn’t make it myself!’ If I had it wouldn’t have been yellow and brown.
‘No, but it was sent to you because artistic people recognise each other and appreciate each other.’
‘Do they?’ A shiver of pleasure ran up my back.
‘Well, for example, I like you and I hope you like me.’
I hardly knew her, but she hadn’t been well, so I said, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘There you are.’
‘You didn’t send it to me?’
‘No, silly. I don’t think I even know your surname, let alone where you live.’
‘How do you know I’m artistic?’ I said. I loved the thought, but it was a daring question. If I’d asked Sandra or one of the boys down the Orpheus, it would inevitably lead to a short laugh and a sarcastic answer, like, ‘Did you say art or fart? I wondered what that smell was.’
Sylvie tilted her head and looked at me. ‘Hmm. Let me see. Well, you care about your clothes, and how they match – the olive green of your top and the beige of your slacks.’
‘These are about the only decent clothes I’ve got.’
‘You wear them very well,’ she said, seriously. ‘And there’s your neat little Ban the Bomb badge, which means you’re a thoughtful girl. And you’ve got a well-developed sense of humour.’
I smiled into Mansell’s hair. I settled back in the armchair.
‘And you’ve just received a rather interesting Valentine’s card, from someone who knows you will appreciate a piece of original, modern art. Because that’s what it is, Linda. You should take care of it.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. I felt sorry for Sylvie only having received a crude red satin heart.
‘And was it from someone you had sent a card to? What were their names? Rap, Tap and Dapper?’
At least she’d got Tap’s name right. ‘I don’t know. But not Danny, anyway. And certainly not Tap.’
‘Aha! I see.’ She smiled. ‘But what about Sandra? Did she receive any cards?’
‘Yes,’ I said carefully. Her mum worked with Sandra’s mum. ‘But she didn’t know who from.’
‘Your secrets are safe with me,’ she said, as if she understood. ‘No one listens to a mad woman, anyway.’
/> ‘But you’re not mad, are you?’ I said, hoping I didn’t sound too desperate. ‘Mum says you’re just a bit . . . sad.’
‘That’s a rather enlightened view, Linda, and I thank you for telling me.’
I liked that. She liked my mum, but on my terms. She liked me, she liked things about me I didn’t even know were likeable. I was glad I was here, sitting in a room with a lamp with a pink bulb and a fire, listening to music, having a conversation. Mansell had fallen asleep and was a pleasant heavy weight on my shoulder. ‘But, what’s it like? I mean, I get sad, about school and things. But I don’t have to go to hospital.’ There was a pause and I thought I’d said too much. Asking her questions, telling her about school – things I never told anyone.
‘I think it’s different,’ she said slowly. ‘Everyone gets a bit mixed up when they’re in their teens. And as for you and your school – well, political differences can be hard. As for me, I suppose I’ve gone a few steps further down the line. I think my . . . sadness is part of my make-up.’ She looked at my face. ‘But you’re all right, you know. I have great faith in you.’
I smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘And I think the person with the paintbrush thinks so too!’
We laughed. Mansell gave a little snore. ‘Shall I put Mansell in his cot?’
‘Oh, just pop him into his pram.’
Standing up, heaving Mansell onto my shoulder, I said, trying to make my voice sound casual, ‘Could your card be from Mansell’s dad?’
‘Oh, Linda.’ She gave a short laugh, and looked over at me from the pile of records. ‘I don’t think that’s his handwriting. Not that I’ve seen much of his handwriting.’
‘Handwriting’s nothing,’ I said.
‘Well –’ She took a breath and I thought she was going to say something else.
But as I hovered at the doorway there was a sort of click and the light suddenly snapped off, Louis Armstrong’s voice slid to a halt and the bars on the fire began to fade. We were in darkness.
There was a shriek. I gasped and held Mansell tight against me.
‘Oh, no!’ Sylvie shouted. I stumbled as she almost fell on top of me. She must have leaped across the room. She was grabbing at me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, my heart racing. ‘It’s just a power cut. Perhaps there’s going to be a storm.’
‘Oh, no!’ She wailed a loud, scary noise from the back of her throat. And then she began to cry.
My heart was stamping in my chest. I wanted to run out of the front door. I was in a dark room with a screaming, shouting person. Mansell began to whimper. I should take him too. ‘Perhaps I should go,’ I said.
‘Oh, no.’ She wailed louder.
I wanted to be sick.
‘No, no.’ She was sobbing. I could see the silhouette of her chest moving up and down. ‘It’s the meter. The electricity’s run out,’ she whispered.
Screaming because the meter had run out. I’d like to see what my mum would say about that. ‘Well, have you got any money?’ I said. ‘What does it take?’
‘I haven’t got any money.’
‘Why not?’ I said. I was furious. I could see where this was going.
‘I don’t get my money till tomorrow.’ Now she was crashing round the room. ‘Perhaps there’s some money down the back of the settee.’
I knew how hopeless that would be. ‘What does it take?’
‘Sixpences, shillings.’
Light from the street was filtering through the gaps in the curtains. With one hand I groped on the floor for my bag and fumbled for my purse. I pulled out sixpence. ‘Where’s your meter?’
‘Under the stairs.’
And now I had to go under the stairs in the dark! I walked back towards the hall, feeling my way, holding Mansell with one arm. I bumped into the pram. ‘Do you want to go back in your pram?’ I whispered, and before Mansell could answer or complain I laid him down on the soft flannel covering.
‘It’s at the back,’ Sylvie said. ‘Behind the bike.’
I moved round the pram and crouched down. Tentatively I put out my hands – there was a bucket and some boxes and something wet that I didn’t want to think about and then I stuck my fingers in the chain of a bicycle. I poked through the spokes and found the meter. It was like our gas meter, with a butterfly handle. I pushed sixpence into the slot and turned. With a small metallic crash the sixpence fell to the bottom of the box. The light in the hall sprang on and Sylvie gave a cry of pleasure. Louis Armstrong revved himself up to Jupiter and Mars. I was pleased to hear him.
‘Oh, Linda,’ Sylvie said. ‘Clever, sensible and fortunately rich.’
‘Not anymore,’ I said.
‘I’ll pay you back. I’m sorry about that. Shall we have a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks.’ I looked at Mansell in his pram. He gazed back at me seriously, his hair sticking out in a funny little tuft over one ear. ‘I’m going home now,’ I said to him. Then I whispered, ‘I can’t take you with me.’ My throat hurt. ‘Be good. Be really good.’
As if he knew I was going, Mansell screwed up his face and let out a howl.
Sylvie poked her head into the hall. ‘Oh dear.’ She picked him up and put him over her shoulder, rubbing his back. He didn’t stop crying. ‘Will you come and visit us again, Linda?’ she shouted. ‘It’s so nice to have someone sensible to talk to.’ Her face drooped. ‘I don’t see many people, you know.’
What a surprise, I thought. ‘Maybe,’ I murmured. ‘We haven’t got any school holidays for ages.’ My heart was still beating fast. Then I looked at Mansell screeching in her arms, his mouth open and his face red, and I thought about the trouble he had caused in Sylvie’s life, making her an unmarried mother, maybe even causing her illness, making her the subject of gossip on the estate, people pointing at her from the bus. ‘I could take him out another time, if you like,’ I muttered.
‘Oh Linda, are you offering? That would be lovely. And when you bring him back, you could come in and listen to some music. I’ve got some other LPs I’d like you to hear. And we could have a proper conversation. Linda, that would be lovely.’
Sixpence! I thought, as I walked back up the road. My sixpence! I knew Mum wouldn’t let me ask for it back.
CHAPTER 5
Danny’s Friend
NOW THAT SANDRA WAS WORKING, I didn’t think she would come delivering again. Delivering meant pushing Labour Party election leaflets through the letter boxes on our estate. We did it for most elections. This time, my dad was standing for the County Council. I thought Sandra might make an excuse not to come, but on Tuesday evening Mum called out that Sandra was at the door.
I ran downstairs as Sandra stepped inside onto the mat. ‘Aren’t you changing?’ she said. She had on her new Marks’ bottle-green twinset.
‘If you wear your school uniform they don’t shout at you so much,’ I said.
‘What about after?’
‘I thought tonight was a Danny night.’ Danny had been out for two weeks.
‘It is, but he’s bringing his mate. Just for you.’
‘Oh?’ I grinned. ‘It’s not . . .?’
‘No, it’s not Tap.’
‘Didn’t think it would be,’ I said quickly. ‘Who? Who?’
Danny was friends with anyone. He had to be, because people grew fed up with him. He let them down. He cheated them. Whenever he went inside his friends drifted away. When he came back to Chelmsford he would pal up with new people who wanted a bit of excitement, who only knew him by reputation. And he would bring them along on his dates with Sandra. People like Dick, a postman he brought down the Orpheus. Dick had his second delivery sack with him and he was so excited at being Danny’s friend he threw all the letters in the river when we walked round town. ‘Who is it this time?’
‘Cooky.’
‘Who’s Cooky?’
‘If you come, you’ll find out.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Think of Tap, but with c
urlier hair. And a bigger car. He’s – he’s nice. I’ve met him a few times. You’ll like him.’
I looked at her.
‘Probably. No, it’s going to be great. I think Danny might propose tonight.’
‘Really?’
‘He keeps hinting about rings and things.’
I couldn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe that Danny wanted to get married. Danny’s favourite song was ‘Shotgun Wedding’, and he put it on the jukebox in the Orpheus whenever anyone announced their engagement. But she looked so hopeful I said, ‘Just as long as I’m your bridesmaid.’
‘Just as long as you come out tonight.’
‘You won’t want me there if he’s popping the big question.’
‘I know, but someone’s got to talk to Cooky or he’ll keep butting in.’
‘All right, I’ll come,’ I sighed. ‘But I can’t go out in my uniform.’
‘That’s what I said. We’ll have to be quick, and then you can change when we’ve finished. So where are the leaflets?’
I pointed to the telephone table.
‘There’s loads!’ she said. ‘Are we doing the whole of Essex?’
‘No, the Crescent, the Place, your side of the road and the flats.’
‘I wanted to get into town before the pubs shut.’
‘We’ve got to do it all tonight.’
Sandra picked up a pile of leaflets. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Race you to the top of the road.’
*
Mum was watching Panorama and Dad was out at a union meeting, so it was easy to slip upstairs and change into my newest acquisition, a blue skirt that had been Judith’s. I’d taken down the hem so that it was the right mod length. I put on a cream cardigan that I buttoned up to the neck. I glanced at myself in the mirror. Hmm, not bad. Jean Shrimpton on a quiet evening.
The Saturday Girls Page 5
