This was awful. He was being so friendly, so nice. He wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. There had been no lewd comments. He wasn’t that old, either, probably not much older than her. He seemed so professional. Instead of shouting at him, she found herself wanting to engage with him, one professional to another. She couldn’t help herself. She agreed with him. ‘I know. I had a good Christmas myself.’
‘Aha! You’re in retail.’
‘I am.’ She smiled.
‘Well I’m pleased about that, but you should know that I’m probably losing a few sales standing here talking to you, pleasant though this is. So . . . ?’
But she was silent. The words she had prepared wouldn’t come. They had sounded so perfect and appropriate as she stood in the staffroom, smoothing her hair back into its neat French pleat. But now they sounded gauche, infantile, silly.
He looked at her again, half smiling. ‘You OK?’
And there he was, being considerate not taking advantage, looking attractive, a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes as he looked at her intently. Instead of outrage she felt her stomach fluttering. The stock room was neat and tidy, a pile of boxes obviously of shirts or something in one corner, and a rack of things with notes pinned on: ‘sold’, ‘awaiting collection’, ‘deposit paid’, in another. He was obviously serious about his job. Even the camp bed was neatly made.
‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get back to the shop.’ He pushed himself away from the sink, to go back out into the shop. He was brushing past her. The moment was going. She had to do something. Now. She took hold of his arm. The cotton of his shirt was soft under her fingers.
He turned and looked at her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I think I’ve got the . . . wrong person.’
‘No problem, darling. It was nice to meet you. Come back any time.’
CHAPTER 4
ON FRIDAY NIGHTS ANGIE WAS ALWAYS anxious to finish tea quickly. Tonight Dad had his usual sausage and mash and the others had beans on toast. As a treat they finished with silver-paper covered marshmallows. Then Angie ran upstairs. She was getting ready, like every Friday, to go out with Carol.
But before that she had a date with the television. She needed to be in the living room in front of the TV, ready to watch her programme at half past six, the unmissable, the vital, the cool, Ready Steady Go!.
Her mum stayed in the kitchen, doing the washing up. Doreen was upstairs having a bath and even her dad sat quietly at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, reading the Daily Mirror. The living room was hers.
She threw herself onto one of the chairs, hunched forward, elbows resting on her knees, hands cupping her chin, as numbers flashed onto the screen and Manfred Mann sang ‘5-4-3-2-1’, the start of the programme. The song faded away and the presenter, stylish girl-about-town Cathy McGowan, appeared on the screen. This programme was Angie’s Friday night piece of heaven. RSG! had everything a mod needed to see before heading out on a Friday night. The weekend really did start here. Every week there was the best new music, the Animals, the Beatles, The Who, and all the acts from America – the girl groups with tight shimmery dresses and crazy backcombed hair-styles, the men clicking their fingers and twirling round in smart suits and shiny pointed shoes. And there was fashion to follow. Angie studied Cathy McGowan’s outfit and the clothes of the girls in the studio, the length of the skirts, the fall of the sweaters, the cut of their hair – the smooth bobs, like her own, or the short pixie cuts like Carol’s. There was no back-combing in the audience. Mod girls didn’t do back-combing. And she tried to remember the dance steps, each week a new cool dance, which she and Carol would rehearse, tripping down Sperry Drive to catch the bus.
As the closing credits faded from the screen and the adverts began, Angie went out into the hall to put on her maroon suede coat. She slipped into her navy sling-backs and picked up her basket. Her dad had already slunk out to the pub and now her mum moved into the living room to watch Tonight with Cliff Michelmore, waiting for Comedy Playhouse to start.
‘Doreen!’ Angie shouted up the stairs. ‘Are you ready?’
Tonight Doreen was giving them a lift into town.
Doreen came down the stairs in a long pink Sloppy Joe jumper, tight tartan slacks and flat ballet shoes. She grabbed her white coat from the hook and said, ‘Come on then.’
The two of them chorused ‘Bye!’ to their mum and stepped out of the house and into Doreen’s car. Doreen had a date in town. Doreen always had a date in town.
Carol was waiting for them on the corner of Greenway Road.
By seven thirty Doreen had parked in the road by the bus station and gone off to meet someone called Richard outside the library, and Angie and Carol were strolling through the streets of the town. As they walked along Duke Street, the High Street, and round into London Road, they nodded to the other girls they knew, who were also walking through the town, arm-in-arm, their baskets in the crook of their elbows, window shopping, looking out for interesting people. Doreen said all mod girls looked alike in their straight skirts and their suede coats. But if you knew about mods, if you knew about style, you realised they were quite different from each other. The coats were worn in different lengths, some in suede and some in leather, and the colours were different, the mod colours of navy, maroon, bottle-green, grey.
Angie and Carol made their way to the far end of London Road, quiet at this time of night, and there in the middle of a stone block of non-descript shops and council buildings, was the Orpheus. It was important to go to the Orpheus. It was as important as watching RSG!. The cellar coffee bar in the centre of town was where mod life happened.
From the outside it was just a doorway, with no sign or distinguishing marks. You had to know where you were going to find the Orpheus. The give-away was the scooters parked in the road outside; Lambrettas with their flat panel sides, in blue, maroon and green and Vespas with their bubbles of chrome and white and purple.
Angie and Carol stepped up the two worn stone steps, through the open doorway, into the dingy narrow corridor that led to the dark, narrow staircase, that twisted down into the dim, shadowy depths.
Angie always enjoyed this moment, stepping into the half-light of the coffee bar, with its peach tinted mirrors and its walls marking out different areas. She felt at home here, relaxed, part of the group. Even better, tonight, their arrival was accompanied by the rich harmonies of the Four Tops singing ‘Baby I Need Your Loving’, a song full of longing and pain, her current favourite.
The Orpheus’ jukebox was a small chrome and glass box on the wall opposite the stairs, beside a large mirror. Standing in front of the mirror, glancing at her reflection and idly flicking through the metal pages of the jukebox, was a girl whose hair swung in a proper Cathy McGowan, Cleopatra bob. She had on a stylish white dress in Nottingham Lace. It looked good. But not as good as Angie’s own new dress. She had made it herself. She caught sight of it in the mirror, peeping out from under her coat. She loved the look of it, royal blue with a high waist and a softly gathered skirt. She smiled to herself.
To the right Brenda stood behind the counter, looking tired and a little harassed in her dark overall, more like someone’s mum than a person serving coffee in the coolest place in Chelmsford. She was trying to sort out a group of mods, boys from out of town in their khaki green parkas, who were laughing and pushing each other, contradicting themselves over their orders. They all had short hair and fresh faces and wore Hush Puppies, the suede lace-up shoes were another part of the mod uniform. ‘All right!’ Brenda raised her voice. ‘So that’s two Coke and lemons, two teas and a glass of milk. Are you sure now? Because that’s what you’re getting.’
At the far side of the room, leaning against the stools by one of the pillars that held up the ceiling, were two or three Chelmsford boys in work clothes, talking quietly. They’d come straight off the building sites in their dusty jeans and jumpers and heavy steel-capped boots, and would probably leave soo
n to go home and change into their sharp mod clothes. Through the arch on the other side of the mirror were the booths where the shadows were the deepest, and where Angie and Carol always sat.
They took it in turns to buy a drink. Tonight was Angie’s night. As Carol turned away towards their booth Angie murmured, ‘Look who’s here.’ Behind the out of town boys a man was leaning against the far end of the counter. He wore a dark mohair suit, with a sharp pale shirt and a thin tie. As the boys in the parkas jostled and jumped the man bent his head and lit a cigarette. Smoke drifted towards the ceiling.
‘Who is he?’ Carol said.
‘It’s Cliff Evans. He went to our school. He was in the same year as Doreen. Except when he wasn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When he was in trouble. He had to go away.’
Carol stared. ‘Perhaps that’s why I don’t recognise him.’
‘His mum is Mrs Evans, my mum’s friend.’
‘Really?’ Carol said. ‘He doesn’t look like her. He looks too . . . thin to be her son.’
‘Perhaps he takes after his dad. My mum said he works in the big markets in London.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I don’t know. With his record, probably beating people up and nicking the takings. But doing it in London! That’s not bad.’
‘Don’t!’ Carol said.
‘Well, give me an Italian who sells clothes any day,’ Angie said. They both laughed.
Carol went to their booth while Angie stood waiting for Brenda to complete the order for the out-of-town boys. From time to time Brenda looked over at her and smiled. Angie tapped her foot as Levi Stubbs, the rich syrupy throated lead singer of the Four Tops, told her that without the one you love, life was not worthwhile. She loved the crescendo at the middle of the song, begging her to come and fill his empty arms.
Brenda interrupted her thoughts. ‘Two coffees?’ Brenda knew their order.
Walking in time to the Four Tops, Angie carried the coffee across to the booth and found Carol still standing, talking to Roger.
She frowned. She didn’t usually see Roger on Friday nights; he was at his Car Mechanical Engineering class. She had been looking forward to talking to Angie about the clothes on RSG!; a tailored suit that one girl had worn, and what shoes you would wear with that, whether you could make it yourself. Their conversations always led back to clothes. But tonight Angie had almost ached with yearning to be part of the world of RSG!, the style, the clothes, the design, and tonight she had really wanted to talk seriously to Carol about the possibilities of finding a job in fashion.
But here was Roger. He looked upset, there was a frown on his open friendly face and he wouldn’t sit down.
‘Roger’s just had a bad day at work,’ Carol said.
‘Oh dear,’ Angie said.
‘I spent all day under a car fixing a new exhaust and then the bloke came and said we hadn’t asked him if he wanted a new exhaust. But he’d said do anything it needs to pass the MOT, and it needed a new exhaust. And it had been bloody hard to do it. Excuse my French. And then there was a big barney. Anyway, I was filthy by the end of it and I was too late to get washed and go to my class.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Angie said. ‘Will it make a difference in the exam?’
‘It better not,’ Roger said.
‘I’m going to see if they’ve got anything new on the jukebox,’ Carol said.
Angie said, ‘Roger will give you the money. Go on Roger, give her some money and then we can all sit down.’ Roger gave Carol a sixpenny piece.
‘What do you want?’ Carol asked.
‘Oh anything,’ Angie said. ‘Four Tops, anything. The Animals. Yeah, the Animals, “I’m Crying”. That’s how we’re all feeling, isn’t it?’
‘Angie!’ Roger said.
‘Oh, all right, how about, “Baby Let Me Take You Home”?’ She smiled at him. They sat down. It was nice to see him. It was always nice to see him. And that was the problem. Roger was just so very nice. He had never made her heart go pitter-pat, he had never made her catch her breath the way Gene Battini had. She couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.
‘Little Piece of Leather’ was playing and the high, falsetto voice of Donnie Elbert filled the room. ‘You’re my baby and I love you so,’ Roger said, echoing the words, putting his arm round her.
‘Oh Roger,’ Angie said.
‘I’ve seen a new scooter I want to buy,’ he said. ‘It’s still a Lambretta of course, but it’s going to be a 175.’
‘Mmm, speedy,’ Angie murmured.
‘Might even get up to sixty on the bypass.’
‘You reckon?’
‘If you tune it right.’
‘What colour panels?’
‘Not that it makes any difference to the speed, but maroon as it happens.’
‘That’s great, it’ll go with my coat,’ Angie said.
They were laughing. Angie hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time.
The insistent bass guitar notes of ‘Baby Let Me Take You Home’ rolled round the room and Angie hummed the tune with Eric Burdon. ‘You know what, I feel like dancing,’ she said.
‘There’s a dance on at the YMCA tonight,’ Roger said. ‘Mark Shelley and the Deans, your favourites.’
‘Oh, let’s go!’ Angie said. ‘Perhaps Carol wants to come. There was a really good dance on RSG!. We could show it off.’
‘Show me up, you mean.’
‘Oh ha ha!’ Angie looked over towards the jukebox. ‘Who’s Carol talking to? Oh my god. What’s Doreen doing here? Oh no. Do you think she’s seen us? Don’t let her come over here. This is embarrassing. Look what she’s wearing. Those trews!’
But Carol and Doreen were walking towards the booth.
‘Don’t say anything about going to the YMCA,’ Angie hissed.
‘Fancy seeing you here!’ Doreen drawled.
‘What happened to your hot date?’ Angie said, as Carol sat down, looking apologetic, and Doreen pushed herself on to the bench beside her.
‘We went for a drink and he was so boring that I went to the toilet and didn’t go back.’ Doreen looked round the room. ‘I just came to see whether the place had changed since we used to come here.’ Before the Orpheus became the mods’ coffee bar, business men and beatniks had called it their own. She sniffed. ‘I see Cliff Evans is hanging around. I’d hardly call him a mod.’
‘He’d probably say the same about you,’ Angie said. ‘Why don’t you go and talk to him?’
‘Well, unless my eyes deceive me, I think that’s him disappearing up the stairs,’ Doreen said. ‘That’s a shame. He could have bought me a drink.’ She glanced round the room again. ‘So what’s happening?’
‘Nothing,’ Angie said.
Doreen shrugged. ‘Well, I won’t stop. I know you youngsters want to be on your own.’ She stood up. ‘Nice to see you Roger. Nice to see you looking after Angie.’
‘Doreen!’ Angie said.
‘And now I’m going to find some real action.’ Doreen laughed. ‘See you later, alligators.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Angie murmured. She turned to Carol. ‘Fancy going to the YMCA, Carol? Roger says Mark Shelley and the Deans are playing.
‘Really?’
‘If we go now, we won’t miss anything,’ Roger said. ‘Drink up!’
‘Let’s just listen to my record,’ Angie said. She smiled. She might have lost her chance to talk to Carol, but dancing to a group she loved would be a fair exchange.
CHAPTER 5
THIRD TIME LUCKY DOREEN HOPED, AS she walked into the Saracen’s Head. The place was heaving. There were too many people for her to get to the bar. So she said quite quietly but firmly, ‘Don’t DO that!’ as if someone had touched her inappropriately. Enough people turned around to see what was happening for her to push up against the polished mahogany of the bar and call out to Phil. ‘A G&T please!’
‘Hang on, Reen!’ Phil said. As he passed by her with two gla
sses of Guinness he said, ‘We’re busy here tonight. You don’t fancy coming behind the bar and helping out for half an hour?’
Doreen looked round the room. There was no one here she wanted to talk to. The evening was a wash-out, she might as well say yes.
She slid behind the bar and began serving. It was mayhem. Beer, rum and Coke, gin and bitter lemon, more beer. Now she remembered why she’d given up working in a bar. Some lads from the warehouse at Bolingbroke’s wanted shandy. Hardly seemed worth coming out for. Everyone was holding up pound notes as if she would get to them quicker, waving them in the air, calling ‘Doreen!’ A couple of whiskies, more pints, Britvic Orange and a Cherry B. And then there was a five pound note, someone holding it lazily, between two fingers, with his elbow on the bar. ‘A martini, please. A martini cocktail.’ She must have looked a bit blank because he added, ‘Like James Bond would have drunk.’
No one asked for that sort of thing in Chelmsford. She looked up into a pair of melting brown eyes and a dark golden face, with a straight nose and a lovely full well-defined mouth. There was a faint smell of some light, sharp aftershave. Gene looked even better tonight than she’d remembered. He was really very attractive. She felt a flash of guilt at the thought, but Angie hadn’t mentioned Gene again and her worries about the kiss all seemed a little silly now.
‘Remind me how James Bond likes his martini,’ she said, as if she had ever known. Or cared.
The drink was a touch of this and a splash of that, he said, and then, ‘shaken not stirred,’ they said together, because she knew what he was talking about. She knew she was flirting, but there was no harm in that, surely. It was what barmaids did, wasn’t it? ‘A martini,’ she said. ‘That’s a bit suave for Chelmsford.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I’m having a suave evening.’
She looked behind him to see who he was with. He laughed and shook his head. ‘On my own.’
‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘When I try to be suave it’s usually when I want to impress someone.’
The Girls from Greenway Page 3
