“Yeah,” Trog said. He stared out of the window at a row of dilapidated terrace houses rushing by.
Mandy sought Trog’s hand and squeezed it. “This weekend is going to be fucking brilliant,” she said.
Trog turned to Mandy and smiled. “Well if this morning is anything to go by it definitely fucking will be.”
At the train station, Trog paid the taxi fare while Mandy climbed out and straightened her skirt. She looked around at a large gathering of skinheads, and nodded at a few faces she recognised from The Black Bull.
“All right, Mandster? Looking fucking good there,” one of the skinheads called out. Mandy smiled and waved to him.
The taxi driver retrieved the suitcase from the car’s boot and dumped it down by Mandy’s feet.
“Here you go, love. Have a good weekend.”
Trog picked up the suitcase and headed for the ticket office, with Mandy following close behind. There was a short queue, and when they reached the counter Trog ordered two first class tickets to Cleethorpes.
“First class?” Mandy asked, raising an eyebrow.
Trog shrugged, and pulled out his wallet to pay for the tickets. “Might as well do it in style. Looks like the train will be packed, and I don’t fancy standing up all the way there.”
“Yeah but don’t you need to save money to pay for your fine?”
“Nah, I just pay that a few quid a week, I’ll not even miss it. I got a good bonus this week, anyway. Fifty fucking quid on top of me wages.”
“It’s all right for some,” Mandy said. She looped her arm through his as they made their way to the station’s solitary platform.
“Trog, you fat bastard!” a voice boomed. Trog spun around, a wide grin on his face.
“Aye up, Stew. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Going to Cleethorpes aren’t I, you soft get. Don’s here as well, he’s just gone off to buy some fags. All right, Mand? You scrub up well, didn’t recognise you with your clobber on.”
Mandy smiled. “Er … thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself, Stew. New flight jacket?”
Stew patted the sides of his jacket with pride. “Yeah, got to make an effort now and again, haven’t you?”
“So how come you and Don are going then?” Trog asked. “You don’t even like ska. Don calls it fucking bongo music.”
“Yeah, so? You don’t like it either, but you’re going.”
“Yeah but Mandy does, and that’s the only reason I’m going. So what’s in it for you and Don?”
“Mate, it’ll be wall to wall fucking skinbyrds the whole weekend. Who wouldn’t want a piece of that? Besides, there’s other stuff to do at Cleethorpes – arcades and shit. It’ll be a right fucking laugh.”
“What’s that then?” Don asked. He walked toward them with a lit cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth.
Trog nodded. “All right, Don. Stew were just saying why you’re going to Cleethorpes.”
“Nowt else to do, is there? Anyway, look at you—” Don said, turning to Mandy. He looked her up and down, then whistled. “Fucking hell. Trog, you jammy bastard. How the fuck did an ugly cunt like you pull that?”
Trog smiled and put an arm around Mandy. She trailed an arm over his shoulder in return. Don’s eyes drifted back down to Mandy’s legs and he shook his head slowly.
“Fucking hell,” he repeated. “Jammy bastard.”
When the train arrived there was a surge of bodies toward the doors. There were only two carriages, and the train was already half full, so there was a lot of light-hearted pushing and shoving to get on in order to claim a seat. Most of the train’s occupants were other skinheads heading to the festival, with the odd family with young children out on a day trip looking bemused at the sheer number of shaved heads, boots and braces surrounding them.
Trog deposited the suitcase in a luggage rack near the train door and led Mandy by the hand into the front section of the lead carriage, set aside for first class passengers. It was partitioned from the rest of the carriage by a door with an ominous warning about the consequences of unauthorised use.
Unlike the over-crowded second class area with cramped seats and a mass of sweating bodies standing in the aisles, first class was deserted save for a middle-aged man in a dark blue pinstripe suit who was reading a copy of The Times. The man glanced up over the top of his newspaper when Trog and Mandy entered, and ruffled it to show his contempt before turning his attention back to whatever he had been reading.
“Cor, innit fucking posh?” Mandy exclaimed, looking around wide-eyed. “There’s doilies on the arm rests and everything. And look, curtains. Curtains on a train, that’s just fucking mental.” She tugged on a corner of the curtain and it swished across the window. Another quick tug and it swished back.
Trog sat down opposite the man with the newspaper, pleased Mandy was happy with his choice of tickets. The extra expense was definitely worth it to see the look of pure innocent joy on her face. He was quite surprised himself at how plush everything was compared to second class, but he didn’t want Mandy to know it was his first time travelling in style too.
“You know what?” Mandy said. She stood before Trog with her legs wide apart, and swayed with the movement of the train as it pulled out of the station. She pulled the camera strap off her wrist and dropped the camera down onto a nearby seat.
Trog gazed up at her and smiled. “What?”
Mandy smiled back and straddled him. She knelt down on the seat and lowered herself into his lap. She put her arms around Trog’s neck and drew his head into her chest. “I fucking love it in first class,” she whispered, and kissed the top of his head.
A faint cough came from the seat opposite, followed by a louder cough when the first was ignored.
“Excuse me,” the suited man said. He folded up his newspaper and leaned forward. “This is the first class compartment, you shouldn’t be in here.”
Trog leaned to one side so he could look past Mandy and glare at the suited man.
“What’s it to you, like?”
“I paid good money to be in here, I shouldn’t have to put up with the likes of you. Either get out or I’ll fetch the guard to throw you out.” He folded his arms over his chest and breathed loudly through his nose.
“Fuck off,” Trog growled.
“Right, well don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the suited man said, rising to his feet. He put the newspaper under his arm, picked up his briefcase, and stormed past.
“Fucking dickhead,” Trog said, loud enough for the man to hear as he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. Mandy laughed, and sat down beside Trog.
A few minutes later the man reappeared with a train guard in tow.
“There they are. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is.”
The train guard glared at Trog and Mandy in contempt. “Tickets please,” he said in a monotone.
Trog grinned as he pulled the two train tickets from his wallet and handed them to the guard with a flourish. The guard’s eyes bulged when he glanced at the tickets, then he punched holes in them and handed them back to Trog.
“Thank you, sir.” The train guard smiled and nodded at Mandy, setting her off laughing again. “Madam. Enjoy the rest of your journey.”
He turned to leave, and the suited man called out to him. “What, that’s it? You’re not going to do anything about these louts?”
The train guard paused halfway through the doorway and turned to face him. “Sir, they have valid first class tickets for this journey,” he said.
“Well that’s just not good enough. I shall be writing a letter of complaint about this, you mark my words.”
“As you wish, sir,” the train guard said. He rolled his eyes at Mandy and turned to leave.
Trog leaned forward in his seat and glared at the suited man until he unfolded his newspaper and hid himself behind it. There was a slight tremor to the man’s hands that made the newspaper rustle slightly, and Trog didn’t care whether it was
due to anger or fear. He turned to Mandy and grinned.
“They let any old scum in here these days, don’t they?”
2
When the train pulled into Cleethorpes station, Trog and Mandy waited until the crush around the exit doors turned into a stampede toward the ticket barrier before they rose from their seats. The suited man had left at Grimsby, much to Trog’s amusement.
“Flash bastard’s probably just an office worker for some smelly fish factory,” he had remarked to Mandy, and neither of them could resist giving the man a few V-signs as he swaggered past the window on his way to work.
After they left the train, Trog showed their tickets to a guard at the ticket barrier. The guard raised an eyebrow, but made no comment before he let them through.
The cool sea air, a mixture of salt, fresh fish, frying chips, and candy floss, hit them as soon as they left the train station. The sea front was directly opposite the station, and screeching seagulls hovered overhead, occasionally diving down to the surface to pick up scraps of food people had discarded.
Scooters lined the road running alongside the sea front, and Mandy squealed in delight when she saw them. She headed straight for a gleaming Lambretta with a custom Union Jack design paintwork.
“Isn’t it great?” she enthused, walking around the scooter to take it in from all angles. She lifted up the camera and took a photo from the side.
Trog shrugged, and put down the suitcase. “It’s all right, I suppose.”
“All right? It’s a 1966 Lambretta in immaculate condition. Joe used to have one just like it, except his had a standard paint job. We used to go all over on it.”
Trog felt an irrational pang of jealousy at the mention of what he assumed was one of Mandy’s old boyfriends, and quickly shrugged it off.
“They’re for mods, aren’t they?”
Mandy wheeled on him, her nostrils flaring. “Don’t be daft. Lots of skins had scooters.” She turned her attention back to the Lambretta and raised the camera to take a shot from the front.
“You want to sit on it?” a voice called out from nearby.
Trog looked, and saw a young skinhead couple leaning against the railings separating the beach from the road. They were both eating from bags of chips, and had matching open-face crash helmets sporting the same Union Jack design as the scooter by their feet.
“Can I?” Mandy asked.
“Yeah, go for it.”
Mandy rushed over to Trog and handed him the camera.
“Here, take a photo of me while I sit on it.”
Trog lined up the shot while Mandy posed on the scooter. She leaned forward on the handlebars and grinned. Trog pressed the shutter and lowered the camera.
“And one like this,” Mandy said. She leaned back on the seat with her hands behind her, pushing out her chest. Trog took the photo, smiling. He wanted a copy of that one for himself.
“Thanks,” Mandy said to the young skinhead, and climbed off the scooter. “Have you had it long?”
“Couple of years,” the skinhead replied. “It used to belong to my uncle.” He screwed his chip wrapper up into a ball and drop-kicked it over the railings onto the beach. A seagull swooped down to inspect it. “You’re here for the festival, yeah?”
Mandy nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’m Doug, this here’s Sheila.”
“All right?” the girl said, popping a chip into her mouth. She was short and slim, about the same height as Trog, and looked to be about sixteen. She was dressed almost identical to her boyfriend, in bleached denim jeans held up with black braces, and a pale blue argyle Fred Perry sweater.
Mandy turned to the girl and smiled. “Mandy. This is Trog.”
“Trog?” the girl asked, looking up from her chips.
Trog smiled at her. “Long story. Anyway, I’m fucking starving.” He turned to Mandy. “We gonna go and get some of them chips or what?”
Mandy nodded, then looked back at the young skinhead girl. “Yeah. Bye then, Sheila. Probably see you around later?”
“Yeah, see you.”
The nearest chip shop was a blue building near the exit to the train station, and Trog led the way back across the road toward it. It had a seated area inside, with seven tables, three of which were occupied by groups of skinheads nursing mugs of tea and chatting loudly. Another table contained a family with young children, the mother of which was busy blowing on chips before stuffing them into the mouth of a two-year-old girl. The other family members had long since finished their portions, and looked on with a bored expression.
A fifth table was occupied by a group of bikers who were throwing chips around and shouting light-hearted abuse at one another. Trog glared at their long, scraggly hair and filthy clothes as he passed. He made his way to an empty table at the opposite side, near where the other skinheads sat. He didn’t want to have to put up with the stink of oil and grease from the bikers while he was eating, and preferred more civilised company. He put the suitcase down on one of the four seats. Mandy moved an overflowing ashtray to the next table and took up a seat opposite the suitcase.
“What you wanting then?” Trog asked.
“Fish and chips? Oh, and a mug of tea.”
“Cod or haddock?”
“Cod.”
Trog went to the counter, and returned a few minutes later with a wooden tray containing two plates of food and two chipped mugs of strong, steaming tea with the spoons left in. He slid the tray onto the table and sat down opposite Mandy.
Mandy wiped a glob of grease off the rim of one of the mugs with her thumb and took a tentative sip. She grimaced, and blew on its surface. Trog liberally doused his fish and chips in vinegar before adding salt. He skewered chips onto a wooden fork and shovelled them into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for weeks.
Mandy smiled while she watched him eat. “So why do they call you Trog?”
Trog stopped chewing and appraised Mandy, looking for any signs of a wind-up. He shrugged when he didn’t see any, and decided to tell her the truth.
“When I were a kid I used to go caving with me dad.”
“Caving?”
“Yeah, you know. In Derbyshire? There’s all these like caves and shit you can go down. Anyway, me dad used to take me at the weekends.”
“So where does the Trog come from?”
“That’s what the kids at school used to call me when they found out. You know, troglodyte. It’s like a sort of cave-man.”
“And you didn’t mind?” Mandy asked, her eyes widening.
“I did at first, and I battered a couple of them when it first started, but after a while I just sort of got used to it. And now I work underground anyway, down the pit, so it still kind of fits.”
“So what’s your real name?”
Trog looked over his shoulder before replying. “Stephen. But don’t tell anyone.”
“Why not?”
Trog skewered another chip onto his fork and held it before his mouth, pointing the fork at Mandy. “Because it’s a fucking stupid name.”
Soon after they finished their meal and were getting ready to go, Don and Stew arrived accompanied by two young skinhead girls. The girls both looked around fifteen, with close-cropped hair, identical pink fringes, and matching short denim skirts with red braces dangling at the sides.
“All right Trog,” Don exclaimed when he saw them at the table, and strode toward them. He slid in opposite Trog and sat next to Mandy, while Stew and the two girls headed for the counter to be served.
“Fucking hell, you two don’t waste much time, do you?” Trog said, eyeing up the two girls from the rear.
Don grinned, following Trog’s gaze. “Yeah, not bad, eh? They got on the train at Scunny. Stew were the perfect fucking gentleman, giving one of them a seat on his knee. Couldn’t have him making me look common, could I? Anyway, we’re not stopping, we’re just getting a bite to eat then we’re off to look for a bed and breakfast for the night. You got anywhere sorted yet?”
Trog shook his head. “Nah, we’re doing that later. I were thinking of getting something a bit more upmarket, a hotel or something. Only the best for me bird,” he added, grinning at Mandy. Mandy smiled back.
“You don’t want to leave it too late,” Don said. “It’s getting pretty fucking busy out there.”
* * *
“We should have booked somewhere in advance,” Mandy said, looking up at yet another guest house displaying a No Vacancies sign in the window.
Trog sensed the sudden drop in Mandy’s mood and sought her hand.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find somewhere to stay. They can’t all be full. Come on.”
Trog led Mandy by the hand down a street full of guest houses. They both glanced hopefully at each window before moving on to the next. When they reached the end of the street, Trog looked up and down the intersection, unsure which direction to head in next, then headed left, further away from the shore and into the town centre.
They passed numerous gift shops whose windows were crammed to the brim with animal-shaped novelties made from sea shells, freeze-dried starfish and other equally unlucky sealife, home-made Elvis Presley merchandise, and a mountain of plastic goods made in Hong Kong sporting the phrase A souvenir from Cleethorpes. Outside were spinning racks festooned with postcards showing scenic views of the town’s pier and other local attractions, and humorous cartoons of fat women with large breasts and their short, skinny husbands.
“There’s some more down here,” Trog said, and pulled Mandy into a side street.
The first guest house they checked was full, as was the second, but the third proudly displayed a Vacancies sign in the window.
“See, told you we’d find somewhere,” Trog said. He swung open a wooden gate and stepped through it, then put down Mandy’s suitcase and rapped his knuckles on the door.
A few moments later the door opened, and a middle-aged woman in curlers and a hairnet peered out at them. A lit cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth.
“What do you want?” she asked, looking Trog up and down.
“We’re looking for a room for the night,” Mandy said, smiling.
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 11
