Playing Around

by Gilda O'Neill

  ‘See you, Squirt,’ he called down to her. ‘Or should I say, see you, gorgeous?’

  Almost swooning, Angie just about managed to find her way down the front path and back along the terrace to her own house.

  Martin, who was whistling like a canary as he considered his freshly shaved reflection from every angle in his bedroom mirror, was almost as ecstatic. He was getting ready to go to Jill Walker’s.

  To Jill Walker’s flat.

  ‘And where do you think you’ve been?’ Vi, still in her dressing gown despite it being nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, was sitting in the little back kitchen drinking a mug of coffee. ‘And what have you done to your hair?’

  ‘I’ve been out shopping with Jackie and I’ve been to the hairdresser’s, and,’ she added before she lost her nerve, ‘now I’m going dancing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me and Jackie. We’re going to the Wyckham Hall. In Romford.’

  ‘If you think you’re going out till all hours …’

  ‘No, Mum, I don’t. Jackie has to be in by eleven, and we’ll be together. Mrs Murray gives her the money for a minicab.’

  ‘Typical of that Tilly, lets them kids get away with murder.’

  Angie refused to be drawn. She had heard what her mum had said to Chas about her. She knew what she really thought of her, her own daughter. But she wouldn’t let her mum spoil things. Not tonight. She wouldn’t let her mum spoil anything for her ever again.

  ‘You can’t go out and leave this place like this.’ She waved her cigarette about to indicate the supposed squalor she was sitting in. ‘Chas is coming round later.’

  ‘Why don’t you do it?’

  ‘I don’t think I heard you right.’

  ‘Yes you did, Mum. And I can’t do it. I’m getting ready to go out.’

  ‘You’d leave me to do all this with my condition?’

  ‘Mum, I don’t want to be unkind, but I don’t think you’ve actually got a condition.’

  ‘If only you knew what I went through when I had you.’

  Angie stared down at her feet. ‘Women have babies all the time. All over the world. And they don’t make their kids feel guilty just for being born. Every single day of their lives.’ She raised her eyes. ‘You can be so cruel to me. Do you know that?’

  Violet gulped. ‘Don’t be soft. I’m not cruel. You know how much I think of you.’

  ‘I know exactly what you think of me. That I’m pathetic. A timid little rabbit. Well, I’m not. Not any more.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you can treat me like this, Angela. Not after all I’ve done for you. When your dad got killed down the Mile End Road …’ She paused to sniff loudly. ‘They tried to take you off me. But I wouldn’t let them. I said to them, I said, you’re not taking my baby.’ She fussed around, digging out a hankie from her pocket. ‘Any other woman would have let them. But me, I wouldn’t. I kept you. Despite everything.’

  Angie had heard it all so many times before, yet somehow it still worked.

  ‘I’ll do the kitchen, but you’ll have to sort the rest out yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, love, you know how much I appreciate it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Angie walked over to the door. ‘I’ll just hang up my coat.’

  ‘Wait a minute, darling. Just come up and help Mummy make the bed before you start in here.’

  ‘Peter, I’d like you to meet my wife.’ David grabbed Sonia’s arm as she glided through the crowd of chattering strangers who were filling her drawing-room. He held her arm so tightly that she couldn’t do anything but meet her husband’s fat, slimy-looking, business associate.

  ‘Sonia, this is Peter.’

  ‘Peter? Peter who?’ she asked, the boredom clear in her voice.

  ‘Peter Burman, but just Peter will be fine,’ he replied graciously in a heavy, middle European accent. As he smiled, he showed a mouth almost full of gold teeth. He inclined his head in a short bow from the neck, and took Sonia’s slim, manicured hand in his large, plump paw. ‘Charmed,’ he said, and touched her fingers to his lips.

  She was about to mutter some further inane pleasantry, but Peter’s interest in her was apparently at an end. He turned from her and continued his conversation with David as though she was no longer there.

  Sonia was momentarily furious at such treatment. What was going on? First that little madam at Michaelton’s this morning, then the cab driver acting as if he were doing her a favour carrying a few parcels into the flat, and now this boor. But she was glad not to have to make any more ridiculous small talk with such a dull person. Peter, whatever his name was, was obviously in charge and if he wanted to talk business, then that, apparently, was what they’d all do.

  Blah blah blah blah blah.

  Anyway, Sonia had other things on her mind. Well, one thing, and that was how many hours it would be before she would be back in Mikey Tilson’s arms.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ she said sarcastically, and disappeared into the corner where she feigned a solitary fascination with her husband’s vulgar popular record collection.

  Burman accepted a light for his cigar from a passing drinks waiter and, while he was taking a moment to appreciate the flavour, David signalled for Bobby to go and keep an eye on Sonia. As if nothing had happened, Burman continued: ‘Going legit, as our American associates might say, it’s the only way forward, David. The only way. There are too many complications nowadays with all these amateurs becoming involved. Do as I have suggested, expand the property side. I have no interest outside of west and south London, so you won’t be treading on my toes.’ He studied the glowing end of his cigar. ‘And it would be comforting to know that east London is under the control of a friend and not one of these Maltese or West Indians who are trying to muscle in all over the place.’ He pointed his finger directly at David’s face, something not many men could get away with. ‘You, I know I can trust. That is right, isn’t it, David? I can trust you?’

  ‘Of course, Peter.’

  ‘Good. And property has a very useful side benefit. Perfect for, shall we say, processing all those lovely profits from any other enterprises you might be involved in. I understand that pharmaceuticals are becoming a very rewarding area of business in the clubs. And the wholesalers are doing particularly well.’

  ‘Can’t complain,’ David answered bluntly. This bloke knew even more about him than David had realized.

  ‘Good. We are leaving now, but we will talk again soon.’ With a barely discernible gesture, Peter brought all his associates, and all their very young female companions, to attention.

  ‘Still chilly out there of an evening,’ David said, as one of the men draped a fine black cashmere topcoat over Peter’s shoulders. ‘And we all thought it was nearly summer. Still, the weather should be improving soon, eh?’

  Peter inclined his head and a humourless chuckle rose from somewhere deep in his chest. ‘There is no such thing as bad weather, David.’ He scanned the room until his gaze fell upon Sonia, who was standing stiffly by the records under the unblinking gaze of Bobby Sykes. ‘Only unsuitable clothing.’ He gave another of his strange little bows. ‘I very much enjoyed meeting your beautiful wife. And I very much hope you will accept my invitation to have dinner with me one evening.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. I would very much like to meet her again.’ With that he turned and made his way to the door without another word.

  *

  When David returned to the drawing-room after seeing out his guests, and instructing Bobby to go home and fetch the dogs ready for work, he strode over to Sonia and jabbed his finger at her. ‘You. In the spare room.’

  ‘I’ll join you in the study,’ she said pointedly, ‘after I have spoken to the caterers.’

  ‘Fuck the caterers,’ hollered David, glaring at the young waiter who, while clearing the buffet table, had foolishly raised his eyes to look at him. ‘Get in there. Now.’

  ‘How dare you show me up like t
hat? You acted like you’ve never been to a cocktail party before.’

  ‘A cocktail party? Is that what it was?’ Sonia didn’t even bother to answer his accusations.

  ‘Why? Why act like that? Don’t you know nothing about …’ He hesitated, looking for the right word. ‘Fucking circulating?’

  Sonia didn’t blink. ‘You know I hate meeting people like him.’

  ‘People like him? Who do you think you are? Fucking Princess Margaret? That man is my passport to going legit.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, David, and I won’t be shouted at. I’m going to have a bath.’

  David grabbed her by the shoulders. He was shaking with temper. He could so easily have given her a real slapping there and then, and have thrown her out on to the streets where she belonged, just as he could have arranged for Mikey Tilson to disappear like the piece of shit he was, but the days of him being the sort of man who hit out first and then thought things through were over. David was learning from Peter Burman, the most successful slum landlord in the whole of London, that the only way forward was to look respectable. To mix with the right types and be seen in the right places. All those little hoodlums setting up all over London, they had no style, no idea about how to act in public or how to carry on a business. He was going to get away from all that, he was too old to spend his days always having to look over his shoulder. He was going to deal with Mikey Tilson, of course, but he would do it right. With a bit of style. A bit of class. And he’d do Sonia as well if she didn’t mind herself. For now, she was hanging on by the skin of her teeth. She should just think herself lucky she had impressed Burman.

  He let go of her and snatched up the elegant pigskin briefcase that Peter Burman had given him as a present at their first meeting. It had contained press cuttings covering just about every scam and blag that David had ever been involved in, but for which there had never been even the slightest whiff of his involvement. David had been shocked, but impressed. It had shown he was mixing with the really big boys.

  ‘I’m going to work.’

  Angie shivered as she and Jackie shuffled forward in the queue of teenagers making their way towards the double doors of the slightly dilapidated hall that stood next to the church in Romford market. ‘I wish I’d put a cardigan on.’

  ‘What, and make yourself look like a schoolgirl?’ Jackie inspected Angie’s face under the single lamp that shone down from a bracket high on the wall, and smoothed a streak of the Sheer Genius foundation that she hadn’t blended properly into her friend’s jawbone. ‘You’re going to have to give me more than five minutes to make you up next time, Angela Knight. Good job it’s so dark in there.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was late.’

  ‘It’s not me you should be saying sorry to, it’s yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  They filed forward, knowing they were being scrutizined by all the boys – the huddles of preening peacocks, dressed in their checked Ben Sherman shirts and mohair trousers, with short cropped, mod haircuts, or in high-collared, plain white shirts, under chain-store versions of collarless Beatles’ suits, with thick, floppy, mop-top fringes.

  ‘I’d better warn you, Ange, this place has got a bit of a reputation as a meat market.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The fellers who are not actually dancing, they sort of, well, go round the floor trying their luck at pinching and touching up the girls.’

  ‘They what?’

  ‘You know, they try it on. Like when we were at school, and if the boys who fancied you were with their mates, when they saw you up the shops or at the bus stop. They used to punch you in the arm and call you names. A more grown-up version of that. They all try it on here, but it’s so crowded they can’t take too many liberties. And, if they do, just tell them you’ll scream the place down. That’ll soon stop them. The bouncers here are bigger and uglier than that old teddy boy up Gale Street.’

  Angie didn’t know exactly what Jackie was going on about. She had an idea, of course, but she had never been one of those popular girls who boys tried it on with at bus stops, so wasn’t sure of all the details. It was different reading about stuff in magazines from actually experiencing them, no matter how carefully you studied them. Angie didn’t say anything though. It would have spoiled things.

  It was as if she was entering another world, a world she had previously been excluded from, and to which she was at last being granted entry. But, as she took the raffle ticket that proved she had paid her admission and stepped over the threshold into the pitch-dark, cave-like interior, with ‘The Last Time’, the latest Stones record, belting out at ear-splitting full volume, and a boy immediately brushed past her with a whispered ‘Nice knockers’, Angie wondered what on earth she was letting herself in for.

  ‘Are those for me?’ Jill smiled broadly, as she took the bunch of windswept, almost petal-free tulips, and let Martin into the flat.

  ‘Sorry, I had them buckled on to the back of the scooter.’

  ‘Don’t apologize, they’re lovely. And it was a very kind thought. Thank you.’ She went over to the sink in the corner that officially made the little basement room into a ‘kitchen-cum-diner’ and put them on the draining board, while she rinsed out a scummy-looking milk bottle to use as a vase.

  ‘Throw your jacket on the bed.’ She looked over her shoulder and nodded towards a door. ‘Through there. Loo’s upstairs on the first landing if you need it. Ignore the biology students if they’re wandering about up there. They’re foul. Then you can open the wine while I sort out these flowers.’

  Martin opened the door and nervously entered Jill’s bedroom. It was a small, dingy room – there was less light at the back because of the high walls that surrounded the tiny yard – but she had made it as cosy as she could. Most of the miserable beige wallpaper had been hidden by LP covers and there were three pink-shaded lamps that added a warmish glow to the old, heavy furniture but clashed horribly with the yellow candlewick bedspread on the narrow, ancient-looking bed, and, on a shelf made from a plank and two piles of bricks, she had a Dansette record player and a wobbling stack of 45s.

  As Martin put down his parka he noticed the pile of textbooks and a pad and pen on the rickety kitchen chair that served as her bedside table. He looked at the pages of closely written notes. Martin grinned to himself. She really had decided to catch up. She must be planning to stay.

  ‘Not exactly swinging London, is it?’

  He turned round to see Jill standing in the bedroom doorway with a straw-covered bottle in one hand and a corkscrew in the other.

  ‘I was just looking,’ he said guiltily, dropping the pad on to the books as though it were a hot coal.

  ‘I didn’t think there was much to look at.’

  ‘At your books,’ he explained. ‘You’re catching up. I’m glad.’

  ‘Good. So am I.’ She held out the wine. ‘Here, open this. I’m about to serve the spaghetti.’ She went back through to the other room. ‘But don’t expect too much, this gas ring thing is hopeless.’

  ‘The records have finished,’ Martin said.

  Jill stood up. She looked decidedly unhappy. ‘I’m really sorry, Martin.’

  ‘You can always put on another one. My record changer’s the same, only plays six at a time. And I have to use this special gadget and knock all the centres out.’

  ‘It’s not the records I’m sorry about. There’s no room at this stupid little table. I should have cooked something not quite so messy.’

  Martin didn’t understand at first, then he looked down in the direction of Jill’s gaze. It was then, mortified, that he realized he had managed to eat only slightly more of the food than he had dropped on to his lap and the table.

  He rose clumsily to his feet, just stopping the stool on which he’d been perched from crashing back into one of the battered utility armchairs that stood either side of the little fireplace.

  ‘I c
an’t believe I’ve made all this mess. I’m so sorry.’ It was then that it occurred to him: he had probably managed to cover his face with a good dollop of the bloody stuff as well. ‘I’ve never had this sort of spaghetti before. I’ve only ever had it from tins. And that’s sort of short.’

  Jill bit hard on her bottom lip. She genuinely wasn’t sure whether she was about to laugh or cry. ‘Here,’ she managed to splutter, and she advanced on him with her napkin. ‘It’s me who’s sorry.’ As she reached up to wipe his mouth, Martin put his hands on her shoulders and, instead of dabbing his lips with the gingham cloth, she kissed them instead.

  The kiss was tentative at first, shy, with their lips pressed softly, almost innocently, together, but then it became more urgent, with their tongues deep and searching.

  Martin held her tighter, pulling her towards him, his hands moving down her back, lower and lower. She could feel him hard against her, and heard his breathing quicken as he grasped the flesh of her buttocks.

  She pulled away, and looked at him, directly, steadily, straight into his eyes. ‘You taste great,’ she said, wiping her finger on a smear of bolognese on his chin. She was panting slightly and her voice was huskier, lower than before. ‘Really great. And I don’t mean the sauce.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t let’s take things too quickly, Martin.’

  He dropped his chin. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I think we’ve said sorry too many times tonight.’ She put her arms round his neck. ‘Don’t you?’

  He looked at her, trying to understand what she wanted.

  ‘I’d like this to go further, Martin. I really would. But not too soon. Not tonight.’

  ‘Can I at least kiss you again?’

  She pushed him gently backwards on to one of the armchairs. ‘You don’t have to ask me that,’ she whispered as she fell on top of him.

  Since Martin had seen a scratch on his precious scooter just two days after taking possession of it, he had never been quite so close to bursting into tears of frustration in all his young adult life, but he could no more have dragged himself away and made his excuses to leave than he could have tackled that plate of spaghetti without plastering himself with the stuff.