Jam Tops, the Fonz and the Pursuit of Cool

by Kris Lillyman

  “I will,” Daisy replied as her mum wafted over to the door in her flowing paisley kaftan.

  “Bye,” Lynn said as she slipped out of the door and jingle-jangled back down the stairs to where her hippie husband was waiting.

  A few moments later, Daisy heard the Bible-bus start up and the sound of the Mamas and the Papas spark into life from the old eight-track stereo Glynn had installed as they reversed out of the driveway and roared off down the street; her parents singing along happily to the strains of Monday, Monday - even though it was actually Sunday.

  ***

  Daisy buried her head under the covers and tried to go back to sleep but her mind kept playing over the events of last night and the consequences of all that had transpired.

  Sleep was impossible so, exasperatedly, she threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. Stumbling out of her room blurry eyed she navigated her way along the psychedelic landing to the equally bright and trippy bathroom. Once there she swilled her face in the sink then found the small twin pots that housed her brand new contact lenses which she was still finding a little tricky to insert.

  When eventually she had succeeded and her teary eyes had cleared sufficiently she ran the bath.

  Waiting for the tub to fill, Daisy studied her reflection in the mirror as it began to steam up from the heat of the tap water and was quite surprised by what she saw.

  She had been so preoccupied and upset by having her hair so savagely sheared that she had not properly looked at the finished result.

  But now, standing there naked, in front of the steamy mirror as piping hot water poured into the bath she finally took a good hard look at herself.

  And the transformation was amazing.

  Her red hair actually looked good short. It was kind of elfin in style with little spiky bits that ran down the centre giving the cut a cool sort of edginess. The shade of ginger was perfect for the style, too; punky and sharp - a bit like Bowie’s only shorter and much more feminine.

  Much less last night’s ‘insane lass’ and much more a very trendy Aladdin Sane.

  Her big, blue eyes looked huge and striking - set off perfectly by the short hair style, whilst her little button nose, decorated prettily by a smattering of delicate freckles, was given pride of place on her lovely face - especially now the hideous horn-rimmed glasses had gone.

  Furthermore, and even more surprisingly, Daisy’s boobs had grown. No longer did she have the beginnings of a couple of bumps, the human equivalent to two fried eggs, but a fine pair of plump pink boobs - or to continue with the food analogy, a full English breakfast that was a veritable feast for the eyes.

  They were not enormous and probably not as sizeable as some of the girls’ at school (Pippa Wilson’s in particular) but she had certainly been blessed with a generous portion which were in perfect proportion to the rest of her slender figure.

  In addition to this, her hips had widened gloriously, whilst her waist had remained tiny, to give her a wonderfully curvy, very womanly shape.

  She also had a pair of long, shapely pins which, in her considered opinion, rivalled even those of the lithe, lusted after legs of the luminously lovely, aforementioned, Pippa Wilson.

  Truly astonishing. Daisy the Duck had become Daisy the Swan and it had seemingly happened almost overnight.

  Daisy felt a huge rush of excitement and couldn’t wait to tell Gordy - but then, suddenly, she thought about what had happened at the roller-disco and once again felt the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Gordy was probably with Pippa now and she, Daisy, was apparently going out with Frazer.

  Things had changed in more ways than one and Daisy’s uncertainty returned once more.

  She hoped desperately that things wouldn’t be different with Gordy now and that she would still, at least, have a friend.

  Tomorrow she would find out because they were both due to be working together at Bailey’s Bandstand - their last week together at the shop before the Summer holidays finally came to an end.

  And then it would be back to school.

  However, what Daisy did not know, was that things were about to change dramatically once more in ways that she couldn’t even begin to imagine.

  ***

  By the time the Bible-bus pulled back onto the driveway, this time minus the flower-power inspired vocal stylings of Glynn and Lynn Flynn (or Mama Cass for that matter), Daisy was bathed, dressed, had guzzled down three bowlfuls of lentil and chickpea soup and listened to both sides of Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks, The Eagles Hotel California and side one of Low by David Bowie (mainly because he was modelling a ginger barnet not so unlike hers on the album cover).

  Also, far from it being lunchtime which was when Lynn Flynn had promised they’d be back, it was now well after four in the afternoon and Daisy had been getting seriously worried as to her parents whereabouts.

  Yet the answer to that question became immediately clear when Glynn Flynn, assisted by his wife, opened the front door.

  Daisy’s dad looked like he’d been in a car crash. One arm was in a sling; he had two black eyes and his head was thickly wrapped in a turban-like bandage.

  Furthermore, his new second-hand guitar, that he had recently replaced after his encounter with Steve Cool’s not so cool dad, was broken; the main body hanging limply by the strings from the detached neck as Lynn Flynn stumbled in with it. She held the smashed guitar in one hand whilst with her other she supported her bandaged, bearded and bead-bedecked beloved, her face full of concern for him.

  “Oh my!” Daisy squealed, rushing over to help her mum support her dad. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”

  “Hey, I’m fine, baby girl,” said Glynn Flynn (sounding exactly like ‘Dylan the rabbit’ from The Magic Roundabout), just a few bruises and a couple of broken bones, that’s all.”

  “Oh my!” Daisy said again. “Did you have a crash - are you alright - Mum are you hurt too?”

  “I’m fine, honey,” said Lynn Flynn as she and Daisy helped Glynn into the Bedouin tent-like lounge and carefully eased him down onto one of the low couches that the Flynn family used instead of traditional furniture. “But no, we didn’t have a crash - someone just didn’t appreciate your Dad’s singing, that’s all.”

  “What? You mean someone beat him up?”

  “Hey, not beaten up exactly—” her Dad began to say before her mum jumped in.

  “Yes. They snatched his guitar off him and smashed him around the head with it - then started laying in to him with their fists - they even twisted his arm around his back and broke it—” Suddenly Lynn Flynn broke down in tears, the shock of the incident finally hitting home.

  “We... we didn’t do anything to them - we just sang, that’s all, and they beat your dad up.”

  “Hey, it’s okay - I’m fine,” winced Glynn, clearly in pain.

  “Was it the same man as before?” Interrupted Daisy, remembering Steve Cool’s Glaswegian gorilla of a father, “Was he the one who did it?”

  “No, baby girl,” said her dad. “Someone different this time. Guess the folks around here just don’t like your mum and me - they don’t seem to wanna listen to our words - y’know?”

  “They don’t want to see, Daisy. They don’t want to hear what your dad and me have got to say - they don’t want to know about the glory of The Lord.”

  Her mum was sounding a bit mental now and Daisy couldn’t think of anything to say in reply.

  In fact, she could understand where the people of Bradley were coming from.

  It wasn’t that they weren’t religious - indeed, Daisy suspected that most of them were, but they just didn’t want to be harangued by a pair of hairy hippies on a holy hunt for heathens.

  But beating her dad up was unforgivable. He wasn’t a violent man; he was a peaceful, spiritual, kind man - albeit completely spaced out most of the
time and totally out of touch with reality - but good-hearted and well-intentioned nonetheless. He didn’t deserve to get beaten up for what he believed in.

  “You’ve been up the hospital then all this time?” Daisy guessed by the state of her father’s appearance.

  “Yes. In Casualty. They reset your father’s collar bone and plastered his wrist. Both were broken.” Lynn Flynn began to sob once more, appalled by what had happened and clearly shocked by it.

  “Does it hurt, Dad?” Daisy asked softly, her own eyes filling up, the sight of her mum crying tearing her up inside.

  “A bit, but I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  Daisy smiled and her mum sniffed and wiped away her tears. “We’ve made a decision though, Daze, while we were up at the hospital waiting for them to see your dad.”

  “You have?” Replied Daisy, uncertain of where this was going.

  “Yeah,” said Glynn, “kind of a big one, y’know. Kinda mind-blowing, man, but hey, it makes sense, Daze - makes sense for your mum and me - for all of us.”

  “What do you mean?” Daisy was now worried.

  “We’ve decided not to stay where we’re not wanted, honey,” said Lynn. “We’re gonna sell up, put the house on the market—”

  “What?” Screamed Daisy, shocked.

  “Then, as soon as it’s sold—” Lynn Flynn looked lovingly into Glynn Flynn’s black eyes and then they both looked at Daisy and said in unison, “We’re going back to Africa.”

  Which was precisely when the bottom fell out of Daisy Flynn’s world.

  ***

  Gordy had a long lie in on Sunday (as well as a persistent boner) as he relished the thought of the hug Pippa had given him. He was still able to recall the waft of Charlie as she wrapped her arms around him and the thrust of her boobs as they pressed heavily against his chest. And it was fantastic.

  She even kissed him.

  He replayed their conversation over and over in his mind and concluded that he had handled it well enough and she may even have thought him slightly cool.

  His instincts told him that Pippa’s friend was telling the truth when she blurted ‘She fancies you!’ as Pippa was definitely flirting with him - and why do that if she didn’t fancy him?

  But then, girls were strange. Gordy just didn’t understand them - for example, what was all that with Daisy last night?

  Why the hell had she gone and kissed Frazer? Gordy didn’t know that she even liked Frazer before then, not in that way anyway.

  And, more to the point, why did he, Gordy, feel so bloody betrayed by it? He was getting angry just thinking about it.

  It just didn’t make sense.

  Today should be a triumph for him for last night he had been cool, he had been witty and he had, at last, received a positive reaction from Pippa who had finally given the cooler than cool Steve bloody Cool the boot. Surely he should be pleased by the final outcome of the night’s events so why had Daisy kissing Frazer soured it so much for him?

  Why had that one seemingly unimportant thing spoiled things so?

  Gordy decided that things might look better after a bowl of Sugar Puffs and a Sunday lunchtime episode of The Persuaders (which he would normally go around Trevor’s to watch but this morning he just couldn’t be arsed). Nevertheless, the exploits of ‘Lord Brett Sinclair’ and ‘Danny Wilde’ never failed to make him feel better.

  “Hello, sweetie,” Barb Brewer said as her youngest son walked into the kitchen, her hands covered with a bright yellow pair of Marigolds and a frilly apron tied around her waist (the homely ‘housewife’ variety not the naughty nurse type), “Did you have a nice time at your little disco?”

  Gordy had snuck in under the radar last night whilst his mum and dad watched Parkinson, thus successfully avoiding both them and, Izzie, his noise-activated tittle-tattle of a sister as he hurriedly rushed upstairs to his bedroom so that his shredded Levis would not be seen.

  He thought of them now, cast aside on his bedroom floor, amongst the ragged remnants of the roller-disco which included Kev’s screwed up T-Rex T-shirt and Daisy’s crumpled snorkel parka.

  No longer were the Levis the glorious, golden-stitched garment of yesterday but more the destroyed, discarded denim of disco disaster, never to be worn again.

  But the loss of the jeans was worth it as Gordy thought of Pippa again and smiled (purposely focussing less on the fuddled frustrations he felt for his frizzy, freckled friend’s frisson with Frazer and more on his breakthrough with the lovely, long-lusted-after Lolita of his dreams).

  “Yes, thanks,” he said to his mum, “it was great.”

  “Oh, good.” Replied Barb, “Did you run into Kevin by any chance? I think he said he was going down to the Drill Hall, too.”

  The image of Kev’s angry face popped into Gordy’s mind as he vividly remembered being pinned against the wall by his big brother; his roller-skated feet dangling freely in mid-air, the small urethane wheels spinning unhindered. It was not an image to be cherished.

  “No. Didn’t see him,” Gordy said innocently. It was an unwritten rule between the Brewer brothers that they didn’t squeal on each other. It was a kind of ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ deal except, where last night was concerned, the words ‘in Vegas’ could be replaced by ‘at the Drill Hall’ (which would, admittedly, make it a much less glamorous phrase).

  At that moment Kev wandered into kitchen from the lounge and immediately saw Gordy.

  Their eyes locked on each other, both recalling their encounter at the roller-disco which ended triumphantly for Gordy but not so well for Kev; his memory of the angry punk Frazer who sprang to his brother’s aid not one he wished to dwell on.

  However, Kev was not one to hold a grudge; whilst almost permanently surly and morose he tended to act very much ‘in the moment’ and once his anger was spent then it was all but forgotten about.

  “Hope you’re gonna put my bloody shirt back,” Kev grumped.

  “Yeah, course,” replied Gordy, trying to match his brother’s sullenness.

  “Good. You’d better. Anyway, who was that spiky haired twat you were with last night?” Kev sneered, clearly referring to Frazer.

  “Kevin!” Cried Barb, “Don’t say ‘twat’ - it’s rude.”

  Both Kev and Gordy looked at their mum a little shocked.

  “Well it is rude, isn’t it? Twat’s a swear word, I’m sure it is.” Said Barb innocently.

  Kev and Gordy sniggered, which instantly diffused the tension between them.

  “Well it is isn’t it?” Continued Barb. “Is a ‘twat’ bad? What is a ‘twat’ anyway?

  “You don’t wanna know, Mum,” said Kev with a wide grin.

  “Oh, okay. Well anyway, don’t say it. It’s not nice.”

  “Sorry, Mum,” said Kev, sounding anything but. “I’m going out anyway. Be back for tea. See ya.”

  “What about your lunch?”

  “Don’t want any, thanks - I’ll get something at Pete’s.”

  “Okay, sweetie. If you’re sure. See you later - be good,” said Barb as Kev exited the kitchen via the back door en-route to the aforementioned Pete’s house - no doubt to dissect all that had happened at the roller-disco whilst smoking cigarettes, listening to Black Sabbath and drinking cheap cider.

  Whilst Barb finished the washing up and started on lunch, Gordy poured himself a huge bowl of Sugar Puffs and wandered off into the lounge to watch the telly, switching it on just in time to catch the opening bars of The Persuaders familiar theme tune.

  He settled into the armchair and sunk his spoon into the huge mountain of Sugar Puffs, relishing the thought of having the lounge all to himself for the next hour; just him, Danny and Brett. Marvellous.

  Barb was busy doing housework, Alan was mowing the lawn - his usual Sunday morning ritual - and Izzie was playing Barbie in her bedroom
.

  Yet quarter of an hour in to The Persuaders and a third of the way through his bowl of Sugar Puffs, Gordy had no idea of the plot and didn’t have a clue about what Danny and Brett were up to as his mind had wandered completely.

  He kept thinking about Pippa. And Daisy. And Pippa. And then Daisy again.

  Finally he resolved to think only about Pippa.

  Daisy was a friend, that’s all, whereas Pippa was the girl of his dreams; the girl he had lusted over for the past year, whose image had fuelled his dreams and produced a persistent pointyness in his pants which poked out prominently whenever a picture of her peachy pertness popped into his preposterous ponderings.

  She had been the one who inspired his need to be cool and the whole reason for him creating The Cool List in the first place - the step-by-step guide which was purposely designed to make Pippa like him.

  Gordy pulled the crumpled list out of his pocket and unfolded the now tatty piece of paper for maybe the thousandth time. Balancing the Sugar Puffs on his knee whilst he reviewed each item, he decided that in the main it had been pretty much a success, albeit with certain failures and miscalculations (the Nicholas Parsons Sale of the Century ‘bad ass mother fucker’ incident being a case in point).

  Outwardly, Gordy had to admit that he had definitely become more cool - he was undoubtedly more stylish and, thanks to Daisy, certainly more switched on music wise; his taste and knowledge of it now wide and varied - very much more The Who and far less ‘the who?’.

  But inwardly was he cool? Gordy still wasn’t sure. How did someone learn to think cool? Especially when their natural instinct was to think like a nerd.

  As if to demonstrate this, Barb Brewer opened the lounge door and poked her head into the room. “The afternoon matinee on BBC2 is Calamity Jane if you fancy a bit of a sing-song after lunch, sweetie,” she said.

  Gordy’s nerd instinct immediately told him to say ‘Great!’ - already imagining singing along to such timeless classics as The Deadwood Stage, The Black Hills of Dakota and Once I Had a Secret Love.