There was an added illumination on this evening because the monthly youth disco was taking place in the hall, and the thrum-thrum of the Ark Raiders of Slough pulsated through the open windows. The Reverend Henry Prentice always made a precautionary call at the hall at ten thirty, and liked to join in the dancing, if only to encourage the youthful that both the Church of England and the Bedmansworth vicar were lively bodies; that, below the clerical garb, his heart was with them. On a sultry night the previous summer while dancing with a flushed teenager, he had become oddly frenzied, his clerical collar had burst and the girl had rushed weeping from the hall. Outside she had snivelled that she was going to tell her father although the priest had heard nothing further.
The vicar’s stated object for his ten-thirty visit was to ensure that all was proper for there had been disturbances and once a drum was thrown through the window, followed by its drummer, although this had been done by interlopers from Maidenhead.
Henry Prentice made his pastoral way to the hall now, pausing for a sly smoke beneath his own lych-gate, and enjoying the secrecy and the solitude of the street. There was a football match on television and the ululation of crowd and commentary coming through the cottage windows followed him as he walked. The Ark Raiders of Slough seemed exceptionally loud, he thought anxiously. An aeroplane, passing above, was reduced to silence. Inside the steamed windows he could see the shapes of young people jumping up and down like pistons; outside, tucked into the shadow of the long porch, were two entwined forms which parted as he approached. ‘Just getting a bit of air, Vicar,’ said the girl pulling down her sweater.
In the short tunnelled entrance the atmosphere was fetid, the hammering of the musicians accentuated. He grimaced but walked in beaming. There were about fifty youngsters casting about on the dance floor. The volunteer caretaker, Mr Broughton-Smith, the retired solicitor, always insisted on scattering chalk on the boards as he did for village dances, lending the surface a sliding quality advantageous in the tango and the foxtrot. With the dancing of the young this was unnecessary, although he had not realised it, and the chalk rose in knee-high clouds. Some of the young people fantasised that they were dancing amid dry ice in a pop video. The disco was popular, not only because it was held on a Tuesday but also because it was free, the group or the disco jockey being paid for by the adaptation of a clause in the will of Mrs Henrietta Garbold who, in the 1920s, had left a sum for financing parish entertainments. She had been a popular local contralto.
Swishing the contents of his plastic glass, Randy Turner noted the vicar’s arrival: ‘Here comes Creeping Jesus,’ he muttered, his new ragged moustache resting on the rim as he drank.
Toby Richardson swished his Coca-Cola also. ‘The vicar?’ he said. ‘Oh, he’s all right. Somebody’s got to do the job.’
‘Why?’ argued Randy. He tugged at his pigtail. On these nights he wore his flowered coat. ‘Religion, worst bloody thing in this world or the next, I reckon.’
He regarded Toby aggressively. ‘That’s what I reckon,’ he repeated having run out of words. He glanced at Toby’s plastic glass. ‘How old are you now, then?’
‘Sixteen,’ said Toby. ‘Last August.’
‘And you’re drinking that piss?’
‘What else is there?’ demanded Toby examining his drink. ‘You tell me. Except Orangina and lemon and soda.’
Mrs Mangold from the Straw Man, the disco’s voluntary bartender, waddled across the floor towards the vicar. Slough’s Ark Raiders banged tirelessly. ‘Get some of this down your neck,’ invited Randy glancing briefly to either side. He fumbled under his flowered jacket and produced a half bottle of Navy rum. Toby’s eyes widened. Randy unscrewed the top and slopped some into his Coca-Cola. ‘Thanks … thanks,’ Toby said. ‘That’s great.’
‘My private supply,’ bragged Randy. ‘Fell off a lorry outside my old man’s pub.’ He poured some into his own glass, whirling it grandiosely, and flinging it down his throat. He choked spectacularly. His face reddened, his cheeks bulged. ‘Shit,’ he spluttered. ‘Went down the wrong way.’
The music staggered to a halt, the dancing stopped, and the chalk clouds subsided. ‘No decent women,’ sniffed Randy surveying the company. ‘Me, I go to Reading. Great chicks there. And they do. Ecstasy, everything.’ He winked hugely at Toby, his rough face creasing. Some of the dancers had come towards the bar, Mrs Mangold had returned to serve them and the Reverend Prentice had called ‘Goodnight all!’ and left through the porch followed by a scattering of response. The Ark Raiders of Slough restarted as though someone had exploded a device behind them, the drummer laying into the drums, the guitars swinging like doors, the keyboard legs collapsing.
‘Get the talent here,’ complained Randy. ‘There ain’t any.’ He moved closer to Toby and indicated a sparse-looking girl. ‘If you screwed her she’d fall apart.’
Toby nodded unsteadily. The fumes of the rum were lifting to his nose. He eyed Mrs Mangold and felt glad her attention was elsewhere and that the vicar had gone. ‘You had a cool bird, didn’t you,’ continued Randy craftily. ‘Fancied that myself. She give you the rush?’
Toby twisted the rum and coke. ‘Want more?’ offered Randy. He produced the half bottle and poured a portion into each of their glasses under the concealment of his jacket. ‘Plenty where this came from,’ he promised.
The aroma of the rum filled Toby’s head. ‘You finished with ’er?’ pursued Randy. ‘That Liz what’s-’er-name.’
‘I got fed up,’ answered Toby unsteadily but truthfully. ‘You know how it is. Scared of getting fixed up permanently.’
‘Like me,’ agreed Randy. He became intent again. ‘But if you’ve finished with ’er, I wouldn’t mind giving her one.’
‘She’s expensive,’ warned Toby. The rum was making him feel giddy. ‘Dinner and drinks, the lot. And she wants somebody with wheels. I haven’t had lessons yet.’
Randy grimaced. ‘That’s the trouble with good lookers,’ he acknowledged. ‘You’ve got to have dosh. I’m on the rock and roll.’
‘She wouldn’t go out with anybody on the dole,’ said Toby. ‘Unless it was Richard Branson.’ He felt the rum washing around thickly in his stomach. ‘I’m going out for a pee,’ he said hurriedly.
He skirted the dancers, reached the porch gratefully and plunged through the door into the sharp air. He hurried around the corner of the hall and was sick among the weeds. As the nausea rolled over him he leaned against the building, feeling the vibrations of the Ark Raiders coming from the other side. He breathed deeply, leaning his sweating forehead against the wall. The Ark Raiders throbbed against his skull. He felt terrible. Why could he never do anything right?
When the first onslaught had passed he decided miserably to go home. The swollen moon looked as if it were balancing on the point of the church’s golden arrow. He regarded it caustically. A girl’s voice said: ‘What’s the matter with you?’
He had seen her on the dance floor, like a stick, bone-thin arms and legs, taller than him, but with long brushed hair and a small face. ‘Just thinking I might kill myself,’ he sighed.
‘That’s dangerous. What for?’
‘Women trouble,’ he said.
‘Can’t you get any?’ she asked. To his astonishment she then coolly reached out with both hands and placed them on his cheeks before pulling his face towards her and kissing him on the lips. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said. ‘I can niff it.’
‘A couple of rums,’ he said. His hands went to her skinny waist. She had no breasts that he could see; thin all the way down. ‘I can’t drink those kid’s drinks all night.’
‘Is that your sick over there?’ she inquired pointing at it.
‘Sick?’ he turned. ‘No … not me. Nothing to do with me.’
‘Oh,’ she said sounding surprised. ‘I bet it was. It’s still steaming.’
‘It’s not me,’ he argued. ‘I don’t throw up.’
‘I do,’ she said honestly. ‘Ever such a lot.’ Sh
e put her arms about his shoulders. She seemed three inches taller. ‘I followed you out here. Do you know my name? I know yours. I found out.’
‘What’s yours?’ he asked. God, but she was thin. He could feel her ribs through her dress.
‘Dee,’ she said.
‘Dee?’
‘Just Dee, that’s all,’ she repeated impatiently. ‘I’ve got a bearskin.’
‘You’ve got your clothes on,’ he said weakly.
‘And I’ve heard that plenty of times too. No, I’ve got this bearskin in my bedroom and sometimes I lie on it, with nothing on.’
‘A bare skin against a bearskin.’ He persisted.
She sighed. ‘Old jokes.’ She summed him up in the moonlight. ‘Fancy coming home? I’ve had this place. I’ve got that chalk up to my knees. It’s all on my black stockings.’ Without coyness she lifted her skirt to her thighs.
‘Home?’ he asked staring at her legs. He looked up into her plain, expectant face. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Only a bus ride,’ she said leaning and kissing his nose.
‘All right then,’ he nodded slowly, hardly able to believe her. He regarded her suspiciously. ‘Did Randy Turner send you to set me up?’
‘Him with the greasy pigtail. Yuk.’
She put an arm like string around him and encouraged him towards the road. ‘I don’t mind you being littler than me,’ she said. ‘I like it in fact.’ She bent and kissed him at random. ‘Wait till you see my bearskin.’
Toby was thinking that nothing, surely, could be as easy as this. ‘Don’t let’s miss the bus,’ he said.
When they turned the bend in the street the bus, cheerily lit, was waiting, a standing invitation, the conductor and the driver sitting in the passenger seats, one reading a book, the other a newspaper. As they approached the latter checked his watch. ‘Five more minutes,’ he said as though to reassure them. ‘Then we’ll have lift-off.’
‘Upstairs,’ said Dee decisively. She began to climb at once. Toby glanced up guiltily as she turned the bend in the stairs. There was a flash of skin at the top of her black stockings. He had a vision of her lying naked except for those stockings on her bear rug. God, this was going to be it! It was actually going to be it! And it was all so easy.
She was occupying the seat at the back by the time he reached the upper deck. Before he could sit down she had lounged across the whole seat and pulled up her rod-like legs, her skirt slipping up. ‘Do I look like one of those women?’ she invited.
‘Which women?’ He had difficulty in keeping up with her.
‘Them what show all they’ve got. Legs and boobs and suchlike.’ She thrust out her flat chest. ‘Like in the papers?’
‘You look better than that,’ he told her. He had remained standing, torn between hoping she would continue with her display and wanting to insert himself into the seat next to her.
‘You’re quite nice,’ she said smoothing her stockings and wrinkling her face. ‘This bloody chalk, look at it.’
The engine of the bus quivered and the lights dipped momentarily. ‘Lift-off,’ she said mimicking the driver. ‘Looks like we’ll have it all to ourselves.’
‘The disco doesn’t finish until eleven,’ he said consulting his watch importantly. It had been brought into the shop with a box of miscellaneous effects. Mr Old said he could have it for a pound.
‘That’s posh,’ she pointed. ‘That watch.’
‘It’s very old,’ he told her solemnly. ‘I’m in antiques. I pick up the odd treasure.’
‘Antiques!’ She appeared thrilled and entangled her legs like a film star. He sat in the seat in front of her and gazed over the back. ‘I’ll be going into business on my own before long,’ he said.
‘It’s my lucky night,’ she breathed.
He was about to say ‘Mine too’ when the conductor mounted the stairs. The bus was beginning to drag forward. The man was stooped as though pulled forward with the weight of his ticket machine. He had ringed eyes above a moist moustache.
‘Legs off the seat,’ he said at once to Dee. ‘One seat per passenger.’
She scowled but obeyed. Toby sat next to her. The conductor said: ‘Where will it be tonight? The Hilton?’
‘Hilarious,’ she said. ‘Stanwell Plain. Two.’
Stanwell Plain sounded remote. ‘What time is the last bus back?’ asked Toby.
‘This is it,’ replied the conductor with a mean satisfaction. ‘This bus turns about face and goes straight back to Slough, calling at Bedmansworth. This is the ultimate bus.’
He produced a small book from beneath his tunic. ‘Have you read this, either of you?’ he asked. ‘Bertrand Russell. Problems of Philosophy.’
‘Read it last week,’ said Dee cheekily. Toby laughed.
‘Don’t laugh,’ said the conductor. ‘Do you the world of good. It’s changed my life.’
Toby paid the fares and he whirled his machine. He replaced the book beneath his tunic and with almost a balletic revolve on one foot turned and went down the stairs.
Dee giggled. ‘I can still put my legs up,’ she said. To his joy she did so, this time stretching the thick black stockings across his thighs as he sat in the next seat. Pretending to dust the chalk away he began rubbing them with both hands. ‘That’s nice,’ she said looking at what he was doing and then bringing her eyes up to his. ‘That’s warming me up.’
They kissed, her contribution so savage that he thought she had drawn blood. He wiped his mouth and looked quickly at the back of his hand. It was unstained. He kissed her more gently and felt her curl. ‘Wait until we’re on my bearskin,’ she whispered.
‘How can I get back?’ He cursed himself for worrying.
‘You don’t,’ she promised. ‘You stay all night.’
‘Is it a real bear? Was it?’
‘Don’t know. I haven’t asked it. Probably. It’s furry like it’s real.’
‘It might be worth something,’ he told her seriously. ‘We get them in the shop sometimes.’
His hands had gone to her chest but it was so devoid of undulations that he ended by giving it a general rub and transferring his exploration back to her legs. He buffed gently on the heavy stockings to the knee, then higher.
‘Only to the top,’ she warned. And as though there were demarcations: ‘Not on public transport.’
‘The top’s quite a good way up,’ he said moving his hands higher. He contacted where the stockings ended and the chilly skin began. He hooked his fingers into the top. ‘What about your parents?’
Dee seemed surprised. ‘Parents? I don’t have parents,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a mum and dad.’
‘Sorry. I meant them.’
‘They won’t be any bother,’ she forecast. ‘Mum goes to bed early because it’s the old man’s night for boozing. He goes to the institute and comes back blind. Every Tuesday … It’s some sort of cheap night for drunks they have.’ She extended herself to him. ‘It will be all right for us, pet.’
As they grappled pleasurably again the worry over the consequences of not going home that night nor getting up for work the following day briefly nagged him but he buried the thought. He had accidentally discovered someone who wanted him.
The bus swayed through the black countryside with the halo of Heathrow glistening on the near horizon. An incoming plane bellowed above the bus and they saw its lights flatten out as it homed onto the blazing flight path. ‘Noisy old things,’ she grumbled. ‘My dad reckons they ought to get people back on the railways.’ She gave him another kiss and he slid his hand up her skirt, stopping when he arrived at her skin. ‘My father works at Heathrow,’ he said.
‘Oh, so does mine. In one of the kitchens.’
‘Mine’s just in an office,’ said Toby diffidently. ‘He goes abroad quite a bit.’
‘That must be nice,’ she said patting his face as though trying to replace something. ‘I like the idea of abroad. My dad and mum went to Spain but he fell down some steps when he was blindo and
they had to come back. She’s fed up with him.’
She squirmed around and began looking into the darkness beyond the window. ‘We’re here,’ she announced suddenly. ‘That’s chatting for you.’ His heart jumped. She laughed as they hurried down the stairs. ‘Don’t push,’ she called back. ‘There’s not that much of a hurry.’
The conductor viewed them morosely. ‘Don’t forget what I told you, you two. Bertrand Russell.’ He took the book from his coat and waved it at them. ‘It’ll change your life.’
‘I’ll buy it tomorrow!’ Toby called back. Dee laughed wildly as they trotted from the bus, their arms about each other’s waists. Then, abruptly, sensing something, she held her finger to his lips. ‘Better be quiet from now on,’ she said. ‘Don’t want to wake them up.’ They walked a few paces. The moon had gone and the night was autumn cold. ‘Mind, it would take a lot to wake the old man.’
They had to walk from the road along a nettle-hedged footpath. It was very dark and she led the way holding her hand out behind her to guide him. ‘I never get scared going along here,’ she whispered. ‘I reckon God looks after me.’ A few more paces. The path was muddy below his shoes. He began to wonder where this was. A dog barked in one of the cottages and disturbed birds rustled in the rough hedges.
‘There it is,’ she said like someone making a discovery. Before them, barely outlined against the sky, was a black oblong, a cottage standing alone. ‘Don’t make any row,’ she warned again.
He followed her at an ape-like crouch, his confidence draining. They reached a porch leaning shabbily to one side. Dee opened her purse. ‘I’ve got my own key,’ she said.
‘I ’aven’t,’ came a deep voice from the shadows. Toby felt himself jump. A massive shape materialised.
‘ ’Ello, Dad,’ said Dee dismally. ‘Won’t she let you in?’
‘No, she bleedin’ well won’t,’ said the man. ‘Like usual.’ He wore a flat cap and a bulging sweater. ‘Bolted it.’ He apparently noticed his daughter’s companion for the first time. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked pointing at Toby three feet away.
‘Tony, I mean Toby,’ she said. ‘He’s my friend. He’s … missed the bus.’
Arrivals & Departures Page 25
