Swansea Girls

by Catrin Collier

  ‘I hope not,’ Martin muttered fervently.

  ‘Willing little piece, was she?’ Adam asked.

  ‘She was willing all right, and sixty if she was a day, but that didn’t stop her from trying, especially with this one. “Come, my leetle boy, my sweet Clay. Maria is waiting for you ...”’

  ‘Layoff.’

  ‘I’m going to like having you around, Powell.’ Adam dug his hand into his pocket. ‘Another pint?’

  ‘How about we make it in Mumbles?’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘And me.’ Brian finished his drink in a single swallow. ‘Lead the way.’

  ‘You can’t sit in the cloakroom all night with your coat on.’

  ‘It’s my life, I can do what I like.’

  ‘You look ridiculous,’ Judy asserted forcefully.

  ‘Not as ridiculous as I’d look with my coat off.’

  ‘You can borrow my stole if you like.’ Lily handed Helen the white mohair wrap Roy had bought for her birthday on the assurance of the sales assistant that it was the absolute latest in luxurious ladies’ fashion.

  ‘It won’t cover enough of me.’

  ‘I thought the whole point of that dress was to uncover as much of you as possible to attract Adam Jordan’s attention.’

  ‘Why don’t you shout louder, Judy? I think there’s a girl in the corner who didn’t catch his name.’

  ‘If you’re not careful I might do just that.’ Losing patience, Judy tugged Helen’s hand. Yanking her out of the chair she dragged her through the crowds of girls trying to reach the mirrors, to the furthest – and darkest – corner of the Ladies. ‘Right, off with that coat.’

  Helen looked around. Most of the girls were wearing collared shirtwaisters like Judy, Lily and Katie that showed an inch or two of skin below their throats at most. Those who could afford them had wide petticoats that frothed out their skirts beneath waist-clinching leather or elastic belts. A minority of the type her mother would have called ‘loose’ had opted for skin-tight sweaters and hip-hugging, straight skirts that showed the tell-tale bumps of their suspenders. None was wearing full-blown evening dress.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s all the “I couldn’t care less what the world thinks of me, I’m going to do what I like” attitude gone?’

  ‘I’d look stupid among this lot.’

  ‘I hate to say I told you so.’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘So you’re going to ruin the evening for all of us?’

  ‘You don’t have to sit with me.’

  ‘I won’t. You coming, Lily, Katie?’

  ‘We can’t just leave you here, Helen,’ Lily pleaded. ‘It’ll spoil the night for all of us.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, Lily,’ Judy chipped in irritably, looking sideways at Katie. Never talkative, she’d been more than usually withdrawn since they’d left Carlton Terrace.

  ‘It won’t be the same without you, Helen,’ Katie added, sensing Judy watching her and feeling she should make a contribution to the argument.

  ‘All right.’ Helen finally unbuttoned her coat. As soon as she slipped the last button from its loop, Judy snatched at the collar, tore it from her and ran across to the hatch manned by a middle-aged woman.

  ‘Judy!’ Helen shouted furiously, feeling as though every eye in the room was focused on her bosom.

  ‘If you wrap the stole a little higher than usual no one will notice the low neckline,’ Lily suggested sympathetically.

  ‘Keep your stole.’ Helen tossed it back to Lily, only to regret her action a moment later when she caught sight of herself in the long mirror above the row of sinks. The amount of flesh she was showing bordered on indecent.

  ‘Give me that ticket, Judy.’

  ‘No.’ Careful to keep her distance, Judy waved the cloakroom ticket in the air before stuffing it in her handbag. ‘Right, shall we find a good table, then wait for the boys to come to us so we can slay them with our charm, wit, beauty and personality – starting with Adam Jordan for Helen?’

  Chapter Four

  ‘The band’s playing.’

  ‘And hardly anyone’s dancing, Angie.’ Joe leaned indolently against the bar.

  ‘Robin and Emily are.’

  ‘That’s dancing? I thought Emily was holding Robin upright.’

  ‘He’s not as drunk as Larry.’

  ‘Now, it’s a competition.’

  ‘Only among you boys. Come on, Joe,’ Angela wheedled. ‘We could show the rest the way.’

  ‘Not with my two left feet; besides, I’d prefer to talk. You’ve told me hardly anything about London – or France.’ Joe sipped his glass of champagne slowly. He’d drunk the brandy too quickly and it had gone to his head before he remembered his father’s car. The drive was narrow and he’d only have to put a single scratch on the paintwork to forfeit the privilege of borrowing it again.

  ‘I was only in France for three weeks. Barely time to get a suntan.’

  ‘You must have seen something.’

  ‘The French.’

  ‘I should have known better than to ask. Next, I suppose you’ll tell me London was full of the English.’

  ‘And Americans, Dutch, French, Scandinavians, even Germans behaving as though they, not we, had won the war. Foreigners seem to like travelling.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘I told you earlier, not as much as being back here with you.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘You’re real; you talk about things that matter. Life, the future ...’

  ‘Poetry.’

  ‘You’re laughing at me.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘I hate it when everyone holds back at a party, waiting for someone else to make the first move on to the dance floor.’ Angela wriggled her fingers inside his collar.

  ‘That tickles.’

  ‘It’s supposed to make you feel amorous. There are six – no, seven – eight couples on the floor now. Can we please join them?’

  ‘You won’t give me a moment’s peace until we do, will you?’

  ‘No.’ Taking his champagne, she placed it together with her own on the bar and led him on to the wooden staging that had been erected for dancing. ‘What a shame, we’ve missed the jive but I prefer slow ones, don’t you?’ Linking her arms around his neck, she moved close to him as the strains of ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ echoed around the marquee.

  ‘Angie, people are looking.’ Blood coursed hotly through his veins as she rotated her hips over his.

  ‘So? Old people expect the young to be outrageous these days.’

  ‘Not in front of them.’

  ‘When you ask me out again, we can be outrageous behind their backs.’

  He looked down at her. She was indisputably pretty, ash-blonde hair that curled around a charming, elfin face, slim figure, and soft grey eyes that promised kisses and – unlike last spring – maybe more. Then he had believed her to be everything he had ever hoped to find in a woman.

  He only had to close his eyes to remember the pain, hot, suffocating and choking, when she had told him she was leaving Swansea for the summer and it would be better if he didn’t write, as they should both be free agents in case either of them met anyone else. He had known she was hoping to meet that ‘anyone’. A wealthier, well-connected, better-bred man than him with prospects he couldn’t aspire to even in his dreams.

  That mythical man had cost him sleepless nights, and given rise to the most incisive poetry he had written on the despair of unrequited love and the faithlessness of women. But instead of being flattered by Angela’s change of heart, he felt as though she’d kept him as a fallback: ‘Good old Joe, couldn’t find anything better in the boyfriend department, so he’ll have to do.’

  He was amazed he hadn’t seen through her before. He wasn’t even upset. It was almost as though Angela and the pain of her desertion had happened to someone else. Now she was simply what she looked: a pretty girl – any pretty girl. Whatev
er power she had once wielded over him had gone more completely than he would have believed possible a few hours ago. She left him cold.

  Analysing his emotions, he wondered if he had loved her, or simply the idea of being in love. In poetic terms his fixation with Angie could be likened to a comet that burned momentarily, brightly, superficially, and just as swiftly turned to ashes.

  And Lily. Since he had opened the door earlier that evening to see her standing on the doorstep he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. In Shakespeare’s terms he sensed that Lily could be his ever-fixed mark, his soulmate, his muse. He concentrated hard, committing his feelings for Angela and Lily to memory so he could assign them to paper the minute he was alone. Angie’s teasing flirt – time’s fool– compared with Lily, his Madonna, the star to every wand’ring bark.

  The poetry he had written on the loss of Angela had made its way into print, but the poetry Lily inspired would make his reputation. He was certain of it.

  Lily deliberately held back for a few moments as the other three walked into the ballroom. Standing close to the door, savouring the heady atmosphere of excitement and anticipation mixed together with the vying fragrances of Evening in Paris, Californian Poppy and Old Spice aftershave, she wondered if she’d ever go to enough dances to end up as blasé as Judy and Helen appeared to be. She loved everything about their Saturday nights at the Pier, from the thrill of discussing what might or might not happen beforehand, choosing make-up, scent, clothes and getting ready in her bedroom, to the train journey alongside the beach. Even the mundane parts of the evening, like paying admission and cloakroom and checking her hair and make-up in the Ladies, seemed out of the ordinary when she overheard snatches of the other girls’ conversations and shared in their hopes and expectations, if only for a second or two.

  The climax of the evening for her was always this – actually entering the ballroom. Most girls made a point of holding their heads high and walking slowly to a chair, while studiously ignoring the horde of well-dressed young men in narrow trousers and slicked-back hair crowding around the long bar. Unlike Judy, she thought the embarrassment of stares from that quarter, interspersed with the occasional wolf whistle, infinitely preferable to indifference and, as she continued to stand in front of the door, she was reassured to see she was attracting some attention.

  She took a deep breath. Before her lay the magic of the evening and the dance floor with its glittering mirror ball that reflected tiny glimpses of the couples below. And presiding from the stage, the MC and band in starched white shirts, bow ties and full evening dress. She closed her eyes as the romantic strains of ‘Only You’, played in waltz time, permeated the ballroom and considered the possibility that this might be the night that she’d meet him and maybe even fall in love. Every Saturday evening since Roy and Norah had first allowed her to go out dancing with the girls, she had imagined both of them getting ready at the same time, he in his house, she in hers and, as yet, neither aware of the other. His face was hazy but she knew he’d be fair-haired, blue-eyed and good-looking. His suit would be fashionable, Italian cut, maybe mohair with drainpipe trousers. Close up, he’d smell of aftershave – ‘like a ponce,’ her Uncle Roy would say disparagingly – but she couldn’t help it. It was important to her that boys smelled nice when she danced with them. She even wondered if he thought about not her exactly, but a girl like her, as he polished his shoes, tied his tie, slipped cuff links into his shirt ...

  ‘Lily?’

  Startled, she opened her eyes.

  ‘You were miles away,’ Judy admonished. ‘If you’re not careful we’ll lose you. Do you want an orange juice?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ Helen suggested.

  ‘Over here.’ Judy walked to a table set opposite the door.

  ‘That one would be better.’ Helen indicated an empty table in a dark corner.

  ‘No one would see us there, including Adam Jordan when he comes in.’ Judy sat down, precluding any argument. ‘Katie, you all right?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache,’ Katie lied.

  ‘I’ll see if the cloakroom lady has an aspirin.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, Lily. I’ll be all right in a minute.’ Katie sat next to Judy. Wishing Martin hadn’t insisted she go out, she had a sudden overwhelming longing for solitude and the close, stuffy blackness of her sleeping cubicle at home.

  ‘What are those boys laughing at?’ Helen demanded indignantly.

  Judy stifled a giggle. ‘I think you’re supposed to sit inside the hoop, if you don’t want anyone to see your suspenders and knickers.’

  Helen glanced down at her skirt. Cheeks burning, she jumped up. After readjusting the hoop she perched gingerly back on the edge of her chair. The hoop bulged upwards, lifting the edge of the satin bell skirt above her waist. She pushed it down, first one side then the other, only to have it rise even higher in the middle.

  ‘I suppose you think it’s funny.’ Helen leapt crossly to her feet again.

  ‘Hold still,’ Judy commanded.

  ‘So you can play some stupid trick on me.’

  ‘You’ve got something caught in your zip.’ Lily unclipped the rug hook from the tab. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Oh, no what?’

  ‘This has pulled threads in the back of the dress.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘You can only see it close up.’

  ‘I wish I’d never seen this damned dress ...’

  ‘Language! Don’t look now,’ Judy whispered, sitting primly upright and affecting a sudden interest in Lily and Katie, ‘but Adam Jordan has just walked in with Martin. And who is that?’ She stared at Brian, looking away quickly as he gazed intently back at her.

  ‘He would pick this moment.’ Helen stood in front of the others. ‘Are they looking this way?’

  ‘Yes,’ Judy murmured through clenched teeth as she smiled, lifted her hand and waved.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Helen hissed.

  ‘Adam waved at me. I couldn’t ignore him, could I?’

  Helen couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. Adam Jordan was even more handsome than she remembered. Tall, slim, dressed in a silver-grey mohair suit with white shirt and red tie, his blond hair shining in the muted light of the ballroom, she felt instinctively that he was the right one for her. All she had to do was convince him of that fact. As he saw her, he smiled. Regaining her confidence, she managed a brief nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘They’re coming this way,’ Judy muttered, applauding the band’s final bars. The few couples on the floor moved towards the perimeter of the room as Adam and Martin joined them, leaving the stranger at the bar.

  ‘Any chance of a welcome home for a war-weary ex-soldier?’ Adam asked, mesmerised by the sight of Helen’s bosom.

  ‘That depends on the soldier.’ Helen flirted outrageously.

  ‘And how war-weary he really is,’ Judy added. ‘I heard you spent your National Service chasing sheep in Yorkshire.’

  ‘There goes any hope I had of impressing you with stories of my heroics ...’ The MC’s announcement that the band was about to play ‘Rock Around the Clock’ drowned out the rest of his sentence.

  ‘Do you jive?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m asking for a dance.’

  Helen stared in dismay at Adam Jordan offering Judy his hand. As she took it, he led her into the centre of the room. ‘Did you see that?’ she whispered indignantly into Lily’s ear as a tall, thin spotty boy who worked in the café with Katie persuaded her to join him on the dance floor.

  ‘What was Judy supposed to say?’

  ‘“I don’t dance but why don’t you try my friend,” would have been better than a lot of cringe-worthy flirting and nonsense about sheep and Yorkshire. She knows I’m crazy about him.’

  ‘Would you like to dance, Lily?’

  Lily liked Martin but at that moment she would have been happy to dance with Frankenstein’s monster if
he’d been prepared to take her out of earshot of Helen. She gave Martin a smile that sent his pulse racing. ‘Thank you for asking, I’d love to.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Adam took the pint of beer Brian handed him as he returned to the bar after the jive. Moving away from the queue jostling to get the barman’s attention, he looked back at the dance floor. ‘What did I tell you? Martin and Lily. He can’t leave the girl alone.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘You like her too.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t, but I’ve been warned off her once today; I’m not looking to annoy my landlady by trying my luck there again.’ Joining Adam, Brian studied the ballroom. It was no better and no worse than a hundred others where he had bought beer and hunted girls since he had turned sixteen and been able to convince barmen he was old enough to drink.

  The same badly constructed, multifaceted, glue-spattered, mirrored ball in the centre of the ceiling to reflect dim lighting that almost, but never quite, succeeded in concealing the dinginess of surroundings overdue for a coat of paint. A dance floor scuffed, marked and pitted by stiletto heels. Rows of rickety Formica-topped tables and vinyl-covered chairs, spattered with cigarette burns, packed too closely around the fringes. A creaking band with a saxophonist who thought he could play better than he did and a singer who squeaked out every high note.

  Even the girls looked much of a muchness. The younger ones in wide skirts and ponytailed hair posing awkwardly as they waited for boys to pluck up enough courage to ask them to dance reminded him of the Louis Tussaud waxwork figures in Porthcawl Fair. And when they weren’t posing or eyeing boys coyly from beneath their lashes, they were fiddling with their dresses or hair. The older ones, in short curls and tight skirts appeared only slightly more relaxed. He couldn’t see anyone worth facing the strain of a first and unnaturally polite conversation – apart from Lily, who had been claimed by Martin, and the redhead Adam had danced with, who was nowhere to be seen.

  He found himself wishing for a familiar face and just as quickly pushed the thought from his mind. In two years abroad he’d never been homesick; now less than fifty miles from Pontypridd he was being positively maudlin.