by Mia Dolan
Marcie said a silent prayer. Thank you, God. No babysitting tonight. It was difficult not to smirk at her stepmother’s expense.
Babs grabbed hold of her just as she was emerging from the bathroom.
‘Not so fast, you little tart. Sneer at me again and I’ll smack it off your face, I will. Get it?’
Marcie shook her off. ‘We’ll see about that. And don’t call me a tart.’
‘I will too!’
Eyeing her stepmother’s appearance brought a mocking smile to Marcie’s face. ‘OK. Call me that if you like, but just remember it takes one to know one!’
Babs’s slap was well aimed, but Marcie was quick, ducking beneath it and racing for the stairs.
‘You wait, Marcie Brooks,’ Babs shouted after her. ‘I’ll cook your goose, my girl. You just see if I don’t!’
Chapter Three
Marcie got on the bus in Sheerness. Rita was waiting at the halfway point just down the road from her house.
On seeing Marcie, her rosebud lips, liberally coated in Honey Beige Pan Stick, broke into a grin.
‘You got out OK, then?’
‘My wicked stepmother was given a task to perform by the queen of the castle. So she’s doing her own babysitting,’ she added.
‘So she should,’ said Rita, slumping down into the bus seat beside Marcie. ‘She ’ad the pleasure so she should ’ave the pain.’
‘It’s no real pain, really. Annie’s a cute little thing.’
Rita wasn’t impressed by kids. ‘Here. Have a chewing gum.’
Marcie took a tablet of gum from the small packet. Nothing could daunt her spirits tonight, which made her say something she hadn’t meant to say.
‘My dad’s coming home. Gran told Babs to sort herself out. She said me dad would get in a right stew if he thought she wasn’t looking after our Annie properly, or putting on me. Told her she was to start staying in more and not meeting up with her mates down the Sailor’s Arms. That told her good and proper.’
She’d been in two minds about saying anything about her father. There was no guarantee that he was coming home. No little brown envelope had arrived from the Prison Service saying that he would be. It was only on the say-so of her grandmother and a dead grandfather. What sort of confirmation was that?
But there it was – she was living on hope and hope had raised her spirits to such an extent that she couldn’t be careful about anything, including what she said. And not just about her father coming home. Johnnie was going to buy her a Pepsi.
Their conversation turned to the things closer to their hearts.
‘That’s nice,’ said Marcie referring to Rita’s red corduroy dress. It looked expensive and probably was. It had a bib top and straps going over her shoulders. She was also sporting her signature tartan cap. It wasn’t in Marcie’s nature to tell Rita that she was too fat for the outfit and that the colour clashed with her rosy red cheeks. Saying it was nice was safe.
Rita preened. ‘Me dad bought it for me in London. Your frock isn’t bad either,’ she said. She jerked her chin at Marcie’s outfit. ‘Made it yourself, did you?’
Was Rita being derogatory or flattering? Marcie was never quite sure whether Rita always meant what she said. Rita’s dad had money and a flash car. She was always having new clothes. Marcie wished she could, but she couldn’t. Luckily she was a dab hand with the sewing machine and had a good eye for fashion.
She took the course that Rita was her friend and chose to believe that she was being nice.
‘I saw the dress in a magazine designed by someone called Mary Quant. I just copied it.’
The black dress had a scooped collar and short sleeves, both banded with white. It was sharp and slim, the skirt short and suiting her long hair and low-heeled shoes.
‘Handy that you can sew,’ said Rita. ‘Bit short though.’
‘It’s the latest fashion,’ said Marcie. She wanted to add that it only suited girls with long, slim legs, not Rita’s tree trunks.
Rita did not consider herself fat, merely curvy. She also had the confidence to carry it off.
She grinned. ‘Better watch going upstairs. You’ll be showing your stocking tops or giving the boys a flash of yer knickers!’
Marcie declined to blush, but she did flash Rita a dismissive look.
‘Stockings are old fashioned. Tights are coming into fashion so you can wear your skirt as short as you like.’
‘I bet there’s none in Sheerness, though.’ Rita giggled. ‘Well, not any good quality ones. I’ll ask Dad to get me some in London.’
Marcie turned away so that Rita wouldn’t see a trace of envy in her eyes. Rita, her father and her mother lived in a detached bungalow. They were so wealthy they placed orange and green striped sunblinds over the windows and front door. To Marcie, orange and green striped sunblinds were unimaginably posh.
The drive in front of the house was bordered by rose bushes and a lawn that in the month of May was dotted with daisies. Gardens front and back were looked after by a part-time gardener. Rita’s home was imposing, though brash rather than elegant, a bit like Rita in a way. Marcie considered the garage was only fractionally smaller than the ground floor of the cottage her own family was crammed into.
Rita had a father who could buy her everything she asked for. More importantly, he was always around. OK, he did go away to Deal and London and other places on business, but only for short periods.
Perhaps it was because her father provided so well that Rita didn’t harbour much ambition to be anything special in life. She hadn’t been that good at school, mainly because she had the attention span of a newt. Whatever life threw at her was OK as long as she didn’t have to work too hard.
Marcie wanted something better, though she didn’t know what. Not yet. It was her fancy that her father coming home would be the turning point in her life, as though on his return her father would advise her on the best course. She was sure of it. It never entered her head that he hadn’t done himself much good. He was her father and that was enough.
Her spirits had lifted by the time they alighted from the bus in Leysdown. The mix of sea air, multi-coloured flashing lights and laughing people out to enjoy themselves added an infectious quality to the exciting atmosphere of a Friday night.
The arcades of slot machines jangled, beeped and clattered. Beach balls and inflatables bobbed around in the breeze, and a queue had already formed outside the chip shop. The smell of frothy coffee wafted out from the Lucky Seven Café. Best of all a battalion of shining motorcycles were lined up outside, their front wheels nudging the kerb. Triumph, BSA, Norton and Matchless; names that breathed speed and sheer masculine vigour; the leather boys from London were in town.
Marcie felt Rita’s elbow nudge her arm.
‘They’re here.’
She sounded excited. Marcie felt the same.
‘How do I look?’ said Rita, setting her hat straight.
‘Great,’ Marcie responded.
‘I feel great,’ said Rita.
Rita would never admit to it, but Marcie was the magnet most boys headed for. Rita benefited from that. By herself she might not have been so lucky.
Most of the boys were inside the café. Buddy Holly’s ‘Peggy Sue’ was playing on the jukebox. The jukebox was playing loud and the café was too small to contain the sound.
Only two leather-jacketed boys remained outside. One was sitting on the railing against which the bikes were parked. The other – the one that interested her the most – was sitting astride a Triumph Bonneville with a blue and silver tank. Marcie knew the model name because Johnnie had told her so.
‘It’s a 1964 unit construction model,’ he’d explained, his face glowing with pride. ‘Unit construction gearbox. It’s a new piece of engineering they’ve come up with.’
She didn’t have a clue what unit construction meant, only that it seemed very important as far as Johnnie was concerned. But she made herself remember because it pleased him when she looked impressed
. She wanted to remember everything he said to her.
He had dark hair fixed into a loose quiff, so loose that it flopped over his dark-blue eyes when he bent forward. There was a carelessness to his smile as though he was only inclined to smile when it suited him, never anyone else.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she willed him to look her way.
At last, just as he was tilting a bottle of Pepsi into his mouth, he spotted her.
Their meeting would have been perfect and she would have been flattered if he’d raced over to her straight away. But Johnnie liked to play it cool. He eyed her casually and for one awful moment Marcie wondered if his promise was worthless. After all, buying her a Pepsi was no great thing, was it?
Resting his elbow on the bike’s chromium headlight, he turned away and said something to his friend. Their foreheads were almost touching and they laughed as though sharing an intimate joke.
Marcie bristled with indignation. What if it was about her? She should blush; she should care and perhaps she should turn her back. But she couldn’t do that. Johnnie was irresistible and she had to know if he really meant what he said.
Rita had also weighed up the situation. ‘Don’t wave. Don’t look too keen,’ she warned in a low whisper.
Too keen?
Marcie didn’t entirely understand the changes she was going through – the mood swings, the pining for things and people that were out of her reach. However, she did know that her heart was jumping fences. If that meant she was keen, then so be it.
She’d met Johnnie only two weeks before at the same spot. He and his friends were based at the Mile End Café on the North Circular Road in London. He’d told her that they often journeyed out from London to explore new places, make new friends. ‘They look at us lot arriving as though we’re fucking Marlon Brando and gonna bust the place up,’ he’d bragged, then grinned. ‘We like them thinking that! We’re the boys for trouble. You can bet on that.’
He’d winked when mentioning the making new friends bit. Instantly adding to his wild-boy appeal, strands of brandy brown hair had dropped over his eyes. He’d almost smiled – a kind of half smile, one corner of his mouth turned up as though he was torn between a smile or a scowl.
‘Relax.’ Rita was giving advice again.
‘I’m trying,’ Marcie whispered back. It wasn’t that easy. A knot of barbed wire was rolling into a tight ball in her stomach. Her legs felt as though they were full of wet sand. She was rooted to the spot and couldn’t have gone anywhere if she tried.
She’d never felt like this about any other boy. Plenty of local lads had shown an interest – she had the looks, she had the figure, but she just hadn’t been interested.
The truth was that Johnnie was so different to the local boys. He’d been places; towns and villages around London and the south-east where the arrival of a leather-jacketed gang riding motorcycles had worried the local older population, though it had probably done wonders for young females.
His surliness made her toes curl up, and despite the fact that he appeared very dangerous she couldn’t help being drawn to him. Behind the surly surface lurked a lovely boy; she could see it in his eyes.
‘Hi, babe.’
He played it cool, taking another swig from the uniquely shaped bottle. He lowered the hand holding the bottle and ran the fingers of the other through his hair, pushing it back onto his scalp. He winked.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere? Now let me think. Mary?’
How could he forget that quickly? A second too late Marcie began to suspect he was making fun and wanted to hit him.
‘No! It’s not!’
He exchanged a brief look with his companion then looked back at her and grinned.
‘Must be Maria then.’
‘No!’
Now she was getting mad. He WAS making fun of her. She tossed her head and began to turn away.
‘Sorry, Rita. I’m off home. It’s boring here.’
Her friend’s jaw dropped. ‘Marcie! You can’t! It’s too early.’
Johnnie took his cue. ‘Marcie,’ he said suddenly. ‘Your name’s Marcie.’
Yes, he had been teasing her. One half of her said ’Go away. Have nothing to do with him.’ The other half was in danger of falling head over heels in love with him and believing everything he said. But she couldn’t let him have it all his own way. She had to do something that would make him realise he couldn’t mess her about. An idea came to her. Turn the tables. That’s what she would do.
Wearing a haughty smile, she turned round and said, ‘And your name’s Fred, isn’t it?’
‘Johnnie Hawke.’ He said it with a grin. ‘Wanna Coke?’
‘I thought you promised me a Pepsi.’
He shrugged. ‘Whichever you want. Coke. Pepsi. I’ll even buy you a coffee.’
She pretended to think about it – though not for long. ‘OK.’
She was aware that Rita was eyeing up Johnnie’s companion and posing for all she was worth. Amazing how provocative Rita could look when a boy she fancied came on the scene.
Johnnie must have seen Rita looking too. He leaned across and said something too quietly for them to hear. His companion said something back. Marcie fancied he didn’t look too happy.
Johnnie appeared to have another word. His friend jerked his chin in response as though something had been agreed. Johnnie turned back to face them.
‘My mate Pete wants to take your friend for a ride on his bike.’
Rita was overjoyed. ‘Oh, yeah! Fab.’
Pete didn’t look half as enthused as Rita. He threw Johnnie a frail scowl. ‘Thanks a bunch, mate. See you later. Come on, then,’ he said to Rita.
Pete threw his leg over a bike with a bright-red petrol tank embossed with the name ‘BSA Rocket Gold Star’. He lunged up and down over the bike as he booted the kick start. Three attempts and the machine threw out a throaty roar. He backed it out and Rita climbed aboard, her red skirt bunching up over her generous thighs.
‘See you later,’ Johnnie called out.
Pete raised a hand in acknowledgement before driving off.
Marcie struck a casual pose; hand on hip, head tilted to one side and handbag swinging. You don’t impress me, Johnnie Hawke. That was the message she wanted to send. The truth was something else.
‘Your friend wasn’t wearing a crash helmet,’ she observed.
‘So?’
When it came to casual, Johnnie was king. He flicked a comb through his hair as he turned his back on her and headed for the café. ‘Come on then, girl,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll stand you a bottle of Pepsi.’
Johnnie walked ahead of her, holding the door open just long enough for her to slip through. He had a strutting gait, as full of bravado as the way he spoke.
The coffee bar was crowded. Faces burned with wind and sun looked up. On seeing him with the gorgeous blonde, Johnnie’s mates tipped him the wink.
‘Pick of the crop again,’ said one of them, his eyes raking her legs. ‘Is that a skirt she’s wearing or just a belt?’
Another grabbed her hand and pressed her fingers against his mouth.
‘Marry me. You’re too good for Johnnie and he’s too fast for you – if you know what I mean. He’ll eat you for dinner, though I will too if you like.’
The last comment was met by roars of laughter from the rest of the gang.
Marcie felt her face reddening. ‘I think I should go.’
Johnnie took hold of her hand. ‘Come on. Over here.’
In his other hand he held two opened bottles of Pepsi with straws sticking out of the top. He manoeuvred her into a far alcove of bench seats and a Formica-topped table.
Resting his palms on the table, it seemed deliberate when his fingertips almost touched hers.
She wondered if he could hear her heart thundering along like an express train. She hoped he was going to ask if he could take her home or see her again.
‘Strange,’ he said, tapping a nicotine
-stained finger against surprisingly white teeth. ‘I thought you’d be a mod dressing like you do.’
This was not the opening subject she’d expected. Her face must have betrayed her surprise.
‘Don’t look like that. I weren’t meaning to be cheeky or anything. Just wondered ’cos you really do look the business, girl. I mean gorgeous. Top-drawer crumpet – sorry – I mean young lady.’
She blushed at the compliment.
‘You certainly know how to knock a girl off her feet. Anyway, I just like nice clothes,’ she said, tossing her head as though she couldn’t care less what he thought.
Lowering her eyes, she concentrated on sucking at the red-and-white straw sticking out of the bottle. In a matter of minutes this leather-jacketed rocker with his glossy hair and true blue eyes had got well and truly under her skin. Rita was right though. She had to hand her that. The secret was not to appear too keen; she’d also read that in one of her stepmother’s cheap magazines. Would it work? And why did she want it to work? What did she want to happen?
The melodic sound of Johnnie’s voice penetrated her thoughts. He was remarking on her appearance.
‘Can see that,’ he said. ‘You look smart. I thought that the first time I saw you … though … come to think of it …’
His smile made his eyes twinkle. ‘Reckon it was yer legs I noticed first. Long and slim, just as I like them!’
More compliments! This was unbearable.
‘Stop it,’ she said suddenly. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
He looked surprised. ‘Because I’m speaking the truth?’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
His eyes held hers as he slowly shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. I saw you that first time and said to myself, “Johnnie boy, that’s a right corker if ever there was. You’re going to ask her out, and if you don’t you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life – or at least until you get drunk.”’
He laughed at his own joke. Marcie didn’t think it was that funny, but overwhelmed with a need to please him, she laughed anyway. She wanted him to like her.
‘Another Coke or Pepsi, or whatever?’
