The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  All of that I’d almost expected, but French was one of my best subjects. The results had started to come in and my average so far was 61 per cent. So much for going off exploring, or writing about life in Africa. I’d be lucky to get a job in a bank, which was what Cray was talking about. Perhaps I should try to get a full-time job at the Milk Bar.

  I took my ski pants and twinset out of the wardrobe. They felt comfortable as I pulled them on. I knew where I was with them. I picked up the shopping list from the telephone table and walked down to the shop. I thought Mrs Weston was going to kiss me when I walked in. Mr Roberts was due at any minute, she said. Sylvie was at a doctor’s appointment, could I take Mansell?

  ‘But we’ve got half a day off,’ I said. ‘I wanted to – to do something else.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Weston’s face fell. ‘Sylvie’s very well at the moment. And Mansell loves going out with you.’

  ‘It’s the end of exams,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t happen at any other time of the year.’

  She was biting her bottom lip so hard the skin round it had turned white. I looked at Mansell. He wasn’t going to throw my uselessness at languages at me; he wouldn’t ask me for mashed banana in French; he wasn’t going to say anything except mum and dog, as Mrs Weston proudly told me. So I said yes. Mrs Weston put a Wagon Wheel and a bottle of fizzy in with the shopping.

  Mansell and I walked round to Sandra’s old school and up Partridge Avenue, towards the church and my old Sunday School. We came back and strolled past the shop, but Mr Roberts was still there. I looked at my watch. Mrs Weston had said Sylvie would be home at half past four. I’d have to walk about in the street for ten minutes.

  I turned into the Crescent. It was empty except for a man I didn’t recognise, walking up and down, stepping off the pavement into the road, looking at the houses, frowning at the windows. He was wearing jeans and a beige windcheater. He had dark hair, very short, not greasy. He was altogether good-looking – I wondered what he’d got cooking. I was older now. Perhaps he’d like to cook something up with me. He was walking towards me. I slowed down.

  It was just he and I in the world.

  ‘Is that a baby you have there?’

  If he hadn’t looked so nice I would have said, ‘No, it’s a bar of soap.’ If he hadn’t had an American accent I would have said, ‘This one’s not mine, but we could make one together.’ I would never have said that. In my head I was hysterical. It was a crew cut, he was American, he was outside Sylvie’s house, he seemed really, really nice, the kind of person you’d fall for at a dance or in a casino. The kind of person you’d want to make yourself glamorous for.

  ‘Do you live in this neighbourhood?’

  I gazed at him, knowing who he was, wishing it wasn’t him.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ he said.

  ‘Mieux que le français,’ I said. Much better than French.

  He frowned.

  ‘Yes, yes. Yes, I do. I do.’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend,’ he said.

  What would Sandra say? Something smart. Something funny but endearing. ‘So am I,’ I said. ‘But only people who like Del Shannon.’

  There was a pause.

  Oh, not smart enough. A lot of people didn’t like Del Shannon these days. Something about his hair and his jumpers, and his yodelly voice.

  ‘Del Shannon fan, huh? Me too.’ He smiled. He had a dimple in his cheek.

  I grinned. He just looked so nice. And he liked Del Shannon! I really wanted to say, ‘Forget about Sylvie, take me.’

  ‘Which one’s your favourite?’ he said.

  ‘ “Hats Off To Larry”.’

  ‘Good choice.’

  For a moment we both stared at each other. His eyes travelled up and down my body. What was he thinking? Of course, my CND badge. Would he think I hated all Americans because of Hiroshima and Vietnam? I gripped the handle of the pram. It was almost impossible to stop my hand creeping to my lapel to cover the three searing white lines. ‘I don’t live in this road,’ I whispered and walked on as if I had business elsewhere.

  I reached the first curve of the Crescent. I stopped and fiddled with Mansell’s blanket, then as casually as I could, turned and looked back. The American was sitting on the wall of the house next to Sylvie’s, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands in the pockets of his windcheater, his head bent low. It had to be Bob. He was so handsome, and now I thought about it, his eyes were similar to Mansell’s. I imagined what he and Sylvie must have looked like together, that first night, well matched in height and looks, smiling at each other and the world. Like Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni, or Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg.

  But what was he doing here?

  We’d done it. In the room with that officer, giving Bob’s name, and then Sandra talking to those airmen, dropping big hints about why we were there, telling them Sylvie’s name. We’d set in train a series of events, so that he ended up here, outside her house. I tried to breathe deeply. I remembered Sylvie wailing that she thought she would lose the baby, that his father might take him. Is that why he’d come? To take Mansell away with him? It had been his first question. ‘Is that a baby you have there?’

  I’d tried to put him off the scent. Hadn’t I? I’d cleverly manoeuvred the conversation round to pop music and old hits. Had it done the trick? I quickened my pace and walked on. What if he ran after me? I’d casually turn to speak to someone. But the street was empty. There was no one to talk to, no one to help. But what would I say anyway? ‘There’s an American behind me who likes Del Shannon!’

  I couldn’t turn round and go back to the shop. That would mean meeting Bob again. What if he recognised the likeness in Mansell?

  I carried on, following the curve of the road. I kept walking till I was out of the Crescent and back on our road. Children were playing, people were chatting at the bus stop. It was all normal and ordinary. But over at the top of the Crescent sat an anonymous, exotic, threatening man with a lovely smile. What should I do? I looked at my watch. The bus was due any minute. What if Sylvie got off and saw me and called out and he heard her and turned to find out who she was calling and realised it was me and that I had the baby? He might rush up, snatch Mansell and jump on the bus, away, away from us all. I decided to walk quickly up to the shop and tell Mrs Weston. Let her deal with it.

  If there was anything to deal with. Perhaps it wasn’t Bob at all, just a tired passer-by who needed a garden wall to sit on for a moment’s rest. Perhaps he was a figment of my imagination. Resolutely I pushed the pram along the road. When I turned into the parade, I glanced over to the Crescent. The wall was empty. He’d gone. A bus went past. Had it taken him away? Had it brought Sylvie? Had they met?

  It wasn’t my problem. He’d gone, that was all. I turned the pram and wheeled it back to the house. I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I checked my watch. It was twenty to five. According to Mrs Weston, Sylvie should have been home by now. I looked up and down the road. There was no sign of her or Bob. I knocked again. I pushed open the letter box and called, ‘Sylvie! It’s Linda.’ From inside Sylvie’s voice called, ‘Coming!’

  When she opened the door her cheeks were pink and she looked radiant, beautiful. She looked as well as you could possibly be. She didn’t look as if she’d just got back from the doctor’s. ‘Linda!’ She was clutching her cardigan closed at the neck. She had a straight black skirt on and no shoes. She looked back down the hall. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ Her eyes glittered strangely. ‘Are you all right? You look a little flushed.’

  I wanted to say, me? You’re the one who’s meant to be ill.

  ‘Well,’ she said, almost reluctantly, ‘do you want to come in?’

  I did – I wanted to tell her about Bob lurking around. I wanted to talk about my terrible exams. I wanted to hear Sylvie say, ‘Exams don’t matter. What matters is what you make of yourself.’ And I wanted to hear her say, ‘Don’t worry about Bob. I can handle him.’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes, please,’ I said.

  She breathed out sharply. Then she waved her arm and gave a slight bow. ‘Well, step right in.’

  ‘How was the doctor’s?’ I said politely.

  ‘Oh, don’t let’s talk about that,’ she said as she watched me park the pram in the hall. She shepherded me into the kitchen. ‘Let’s talk about something pleasant.’

  I couldn’t think of anything pleasant. My mind was full of my exams and Bob sitting on the wall. I said, ‘You know Bob, did you ever see him again?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After that night. After you came back from your holiday.’

  She frowned. ‘Holiday?’

  How could she forget? ‘In Great Yarmouth. Staying at Janet’s auntie’s house. The blue dress.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, goodness, you have got a good memory, my little elephant.’

  Elephant? ‘Did you?’

  She gave a sort of snuffle and a funny smile spread over her face. ‘Well, it really is a long story. And we don’t have time for that.’ She was pulling out a tray from behind the milk bucket.

  ‘If you don’t want to tell me, I suppose you don’t have to. But what would you do if he came knocking?’

  She spun round. ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Bob.’

  She breathed in sharply. ‘I’d tell him politely to go away because I am entertaining an important guest. And you too.’ I laughed, but she was putting three cups onto the tray. There was someone else, an important guest.

  What was going on? Who else was here? It couldn’t be her mum; she was in the shop. Was it Bob – had he slipped indoors behind the bus? Perhaps it wasn’t Bob I’d seen. Perhaps he’d been inside while Gary from Wisconsin stayed outside. Perhaps Gary was the one who liked Del Shannon. Perhaps she didn’t want me to be here. ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Look, I’ve put a cup out for you.’ She poured boiling water into the teapot. She put the sugar bowl onto the tray. She took the milk bottle out of the bucket, wiped it slowly on a tea towel and put it on the tray. She stood looking at the tray as if she was about to play Kim’s Game and she would be required to remember everything that was on there.

  Who was it? Who was here? I wanted to know, but I didn’t.

  I followed her into the living room. It was tidy, no dirty nappies, no old newspapers. The LPs were in a neat pile by the record player on the sideboard. And beside the record player, earnestly reading the back of a book that looked like The L Shaped Room, was a thin man with a wispy brown beard wearing a beige sloppy jumper. He looked up at Sylvie with a smile, and then almost jumped when he saw me.

  I knew who this was. He’d been on the Aldermaston coach, at the back with all the other men with beards. It was Ken Sadd.

  Sylvie put the tray on top of the pile of LPs. She handed Ken a mismatched flowery cup and saucer.

  ‘This is Kenny,’ she said.

  Kenny? Ken? Kenny? Surely this wasn’t the Kenny from the story of how Sylvie met Mansell’s dad? The Kenny she’d been thinking of marrying till she met Bob? She’d dumped him! Hadn’t she? Could this really be him? Had she even been to the doctor’s?

  Kenny looked at his cup of tea as if he couldn’t remember how it got there, then hesitated before he put it down precariously on the arm of a chair, and we shook hands.

  ‘Kenny, this is my friend Linda. She has great aspirations for her future and, perhaps more importantly, she makes me laugh.’ Sylvie handed me a green cup without the saucer. ‘Linda, this is Kenny who likes black polo-neck sweaters, which I think we must all agree are the royal family of sweaters, although he isn’t wearing one today, and sometimes he wears glasses, which I don’t think he really needs, because he thinks they make him look more intellectual, which I seem to remember is something that you like.’

  ‘Sylvie,’ Kenny and I said together.

  I looked at Kenny. ‘I saw you on the march,’ I said politely. ‘I was sitting in the middle of the coach, on the left-hand side as you walk down. With my friend, Sandra . . . who said the thing about glasses. Not me.’ He looked at me blankly and I could hear Sandra saying, ‘That’s interesting. Why don’t you tell him what we had in our sandwiches?’ I felt myself blushing. ‘Anyway, I can’t stay. I only came to . . . bring Mansell back!’

  Sylvie was smiling, but she was breathing fast. ‘You see, Kenny, Linda is not just a marcher and a demonstrator,’ she gabbled, ‘she’s also an exceptionally good child-minder, for which she has badges from the Girl Guides.’ Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Why was she in such a state?

  I stood up.

  ‘But you can’t go yet,’ Sylvie said. She was almost shouting. ‘You haven’t drunk your tea.’

  I was moving backwards towards the door. ‘I’ve got things to do. I’ve got to go out. I’ll come back another day,’ I said.

  CHAPTER 21

  Post

  THE PACKAGE ARRIVED AT OUR HOUSE on Tuesday, when everyone was out. My dad found it in the outside toilet and gave it to me saying, ‘Late birthday or early Christmas present?’

  ‘Probably,’ I said, trying to be casual.

  I walked upstairs, carefully, being natural, taking off the brown paper wrapping. I knew it couldn’t be meant for me. My penfriends were dull. Exciting correspondence with my name on was only ever for Sandra. But Danny didn’t usually send parcels. He never sent parcels. This parcel couldn’t be from him.

  So perhaps it was for me. Perhaps it was a late birthday present, perhaps it was . . . I unwrapped it. There was another layer of wrapping underneath with another name. But it wasn’t addressed to Sandra. This small square parcel, that looked like five or six packets of cigarettes, had Danny’s name written on it, in strange square handwriting. It wasn’t from Danny, it was for Danny. Which of Danny’s friends knew my name and address?

  Oh Danny, I thought. Why did this have to happen? Why did you have to come back now? Sandra had been quite happy recently. She seemed to like being driven around in Cooky’s big car. And now she was going to have to deal with this parcel, whatever it was: cigarettes, cheques, more hairbrushes. I really hoped that’s all it was, but I knew in my heart it was going to be much more serious.

  After tea I went over to Sandra’s, the parcel stuffed into my brown birthday-present bag. Her mum was in the living room reading the paper and watching Emergency Ward 10 and her dad was pottering about in the garage. Sandra and I went silently up to her bedroom. When I took the package from my bag, she gasped. I gave it to her. She dropped it onto her lap. ‘It’s not mine. It’s got your name on it.’

  ‘It always has my name on it.’

  We stared at the outer layer, my layer. We couldn’t read the postmark but it obviously wasn’t Shepherd’s Bush. ‘But the next layer has Danny’s name on it,’ I said. ‘And it isn’t Danny’s handwriting. Why send it to me? Why not just send it to Cooky’s house?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t live with Cooky anymore. He lives with an old lady on the Main Road.’ She picked up the parcel and threw it on the floor.

  ‘Careful!’ I said. ‘Don’t break it.’

  ‘Why? Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No! Do you?’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘He said it was all over.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know that person I had to phone. After the march.’

  Well, I don’t know. You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘It was a friend of Trevor’s.’

  ‘Trevor!? Is this what that was all about?’

  We both looked at the parcel on the floor. It had to be something really illegal. Trevor was a bank robber. He’d shot a man.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sandra said. ‘It might not be. It probably isn’t. Did you give Trevor your address?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Danny might have given it to him.’

  ‘Oh, Sandra! Are you going to open it?’ I asked her.

  ‘No. I don’t want to know. It’s got Danny’s name on. It’
s nothing to do with me. But –’ She bent and picked up the parcel. She smiled. ‘I’ll have to give it to him, won’t I?’ She ran her finger over Danny’s name on the parcel. ‘I’ll go tonight.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll find him. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to come with me.’

  She knew what I’d say if she did.

  Sandra looked at her watch. ‘I can’t go yet. He’ll be out.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you just take it to the police?’

  ‘Then we all get in trouble,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go later.’

  ‘Well, give me that,’ I said. Sandra had started to wrap the parcel in the paper with my name on. I snatched it from her and tore it in little pieces which I put in my bag.

  I had to go. We had a French test in the morning, a list of vocabulary I had to learn, in preparation for next year. I stood up. ‘Why don’t you just forget Danny and concentrate on Cooky?’

  Sandra laughed. ‘I think I can deal with both of them at the same time.’

  ‘Well, tell him to stop being stupid.’

  ‘But then he wouldn’t be Danny.’ Her expression changed. ‘I don’t think he’s got a choice.’

  ‘Trevor,’ we said together.

  ‘Oh Sandra, be careful. This is really serious.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  *

  On Thursday, the second parcel came. This time I was at home when the postman knocked. I took the package from him and saw my name in the same strange square handwriting. I felt sick. I ran upstairs and ripped off the top layer of brown paper. There again was Danny’s name. I sat on the bed in despair. What was I going to do?