THE H-BOMB GIRL Page 9

  But Black Saturday’s only five days away. This kid-glove stuff can’t last for ever.

  Nice surprise this morning (sarcasm). Mort has hired us a new telly. It was delivered early. Nineteen-inch screen. He said he wanted to help make the house a home.

  We all sat in the parlour and looked at the test card. I hate being in that room first thing in the morning because it smells of Mort and his aftershave, where he’s been sleeping.

  If he thinks he can buy me off with a nine-bob-a-week Red Arrow Rentals telly he’s got another think coming. Stuff him.

  Good picture though.

  It was a damp, cold Monday morning.

  At school everybody seemed in a bad mood.

  In the break the three of them, Joel, Bernadette and Laura, huddled together in the yard, arms around their chests. The sky was a solid lid of cloud, and everything seemed washed out, colourless. Very Monday morning, Laura thought.

  “I thought of coming over yesterday,” she said to Bernadette.

  “What for?”

  “To see how you were.”

  “Well, I’m still up the duff.”

  “Saturday was very weird.”

  Joel said, “Perhaps we all needed a day off from each other. It only all kicks off when we’re together, doesn’t it?”

  “It kicks off,” Bernadette said viciously, “when we’re around Miss H-Bomb 1962.”

  Laura shot back, “It’s not my fault you’re pregnant.”

  “I don’t need you, or anybody.”

  Joel said, “Bern, you’ve got a lot of anger to get rid of. But—”

  “Oh, what do you know? You’re always sniffing around me. Get your own life.”

  Joel looked devastated.

  And Laura suddenly saw that he had feelings for Bernadette himself. Well, why not? Laura thought of Joel as reserved, a swot, a bit too earnest. But he had the same juices flowing as any other fourteen-year-old.

  In that case, this whole business about Billy Waddle and the baby must be hurting him hugely.

  It wasn’t the right time to mention how she was fretting about Agatha, a forty-year-old woman who had called Laura “Mum.”

  Miss Wells approached them. She wore a huge quilted overcoat and a woollen hat. It wasn’t that cold. Maybe where she came from, Laura thought, where or when, the world had got warmer, and 1962 seemed cold to her.

  “So,” Miss Wells said.

  “Miss?”

  She looked them in the face, one after the other. “We all have secrets, don’t we?”

  “Don’t know what you mean, Miss,” Bernadette said brazenly.

  “I think you do, O’Brien. How’s the morning sickness? Your condition’s pretty obvious, you know. Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

  “I’m all right on my own.”

  “No, you’re not. You don’t need to talk to me. See Mrs Sweetman.” The deputy head. “She’ll sort you out. And she won’t judge you. You’re not the first gymslip mum, you know.” Miss Wells looked directly at Laura. “We all operate under constraints. But we’re here to help you. I am.”

  Then just tell me the truth, Laura thought. If you’re me, if there is any of me left in you, then show some compassion, and tell me the truth, about who you are, and what you want.

  But Miss Wells just looked back at her, with eyes that were her own and yet weren’t, and said nothing.

  The bell rang.

  When Miss Wells was out of earshot, Laura asked, “So will you talk to old Sweetcheeks?”

  Bernadette grunted. “What do you think? Listen. Cavern. Tonight. I’ve got tickets. Nick’s playing, and the Beatles. Stuff the rest of it.”

  Monday 22nd October. 6 p.m.

  Mort came after me as soon as I walked in the door.

  Keeps trying to get me alone, in the sitting room, on the stairs. I’ve stuck to Mum, or I’ve run to the bathroom, or hid in my bedroom with the door closed.

  He seems to want to keep it all a secret from Mum, for now, and that’s saving me. But I can see he’s getting mad. I don’t know what he’ll do then.

  Later, as Mort and Mum sat watching Z-Cars on the big new telly, Laura put on her best black dress and a bit of make-up. Mum didn’t even know she’d blown her savings from her pocket money on creams, compacts, mascara and lipstick.

  She slipped out of the house without asking, or waiting for her tea.

  She took a bus to the Pier Head and walked up from there.

  In town, she felt as if everybody was staring at her. Especially the men. But it was a different sort of stare. Less threatening, somehow. Maybe the make-up made her look older.

  The Cavern was in Mathew Street, a narrow lane just around the corner from the shopping street called Whitechapel. This area, a few blocks from Canning Dock, was all Victorian warehouses. By day, the street would be full of traffic, with hoists working from the warehouses unstacking lorries. Now, after dark, everything was closed-up, and Laura had to pick her way through rotting fruit and old vegetables crushed into the black dirt.

  And as she walked she heard guitars echoing between the steep brick walls. She had learned from Nick and the others that the music was everywhere in Liverpool. There were other clubs in the area, like the Iron Door in Dale Street around the corner, and the Downbeat, and the Mardi Gras. All the dance halls had beat groups playing, and the ballrooms, even the ice rinks.

  From under a crudely made sign reading THE CAVERN, the queue went right down the street, all the way past a bricked-up bomb site with a tangle of barbed wire. There were girls with beehives and heels and livid make-up, and boys in jeans or drainpipes, and a few full-blown Teds and Mods.

  Immersed in noise, with thousands of fans swarming all over this grimy city centre, Laura felt her heart beat faster.

  Here was Bernadette, with Joel at her side, in the queue. “Posh Judy. So you came.”

  “I couldn’t miss Nick’s big night.”

  Bernadette snorted. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “But all these fans lining up.”

  “Not for the Woodbines,” Joel said dryly.

  Bernadette pulled Laura back into the shadows. “Business first. Normally I’d take an hour getting ready. But today’s an emergency, I suppose. Want a ciggie?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.” Bernadette briskly opened Laura’s coat and inspected her dress. It was black, cut below the knee, with a white cotton panel buttoned up at the throat. Bernadette snickered. “Who buys your clothes? Your mother?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You need to get some money of your own, kid. In the meantime it’s make do.” She undid the buttons at Laura’s throat and tucked the white cotton panel inside the black main body of the dress. “In all black you’ll look like a beat girl. In the dark, anyhow. You need to lose this.” Bernadette fingered the Key on its chain.

  Laura couldn’t quite bear to take it off. She tucked it out of sight. She glanced down at her chest, embarrassed. “Aren’t I showing too much?”

  “No. Not that you’ve got anything to show. Here.” Bernadette dug into her bag and pulled out a handful of tissues. “Give nature a helping hand.”

  Laura goggled. “Are you joking?”

  Bernadette cupped her own chest proudly. “How do you think I came by these? They won’t let you in if you look too young.”

  “All right.” Laura took the tissues and, turning her back, stuffed them inside her Marks & Spencer bra. When she was done, she let Bernadette put more lipstick on her mouth and mascara around her eyes.

  Bernadette said, “We’ll do a better job next time. But nobody will notice in the dark, nothing but the lippy.”

  When they came back out of the shadows, Joel looked away, comically embarrassed.

  The queue was long but fast moving. Everybody was excited, chattering, the air thick with cheap perfume and hairspray. Some of the boys took nips from hip flasks.

  They reached the entrance itself, next to
a washing-machine factory. It was just a hatchway, lit up by a dangling naked light bulb. You wouldn’t have known it was there save for the big bouncer at the front.

  Laura found herself going down eighteen dank, slippery steps. She could feel the heat and damp climbing up her legs like a tide.

  At the bottom of the steps a plump brunette called Cilla took their money. Cilla normally worked the cloakroom, but tonight “Jed” was off sick, she said. It was one and six for non-members, but because Cilla knew them and they were friends of Nick’s, she gave them the members’ rate of a shilling.

  The Cavern really was just a cellar, dark and poky, all narrow tunnels and alcoves and high vaulted pillars. It was oddly like a church, Laura thought.

  From the last couple of steps she looked down over a sea of heads. The place was already full, even though more fans poured down the steps behind Laura. At the far end of the central tunnel there was a stage where lads were setting up equipment and fooling around. Some of them were Woodbines. She recognised Billy Waddle with his drum kit, and Bert Muldoon. The others must be Beatles. A skinny young man with a broad face and a sardonic voice was at the mike. “One two, testing one two, one bogging two, can you hear me mother…?”

  As Laura reached the bottom of the steps the air hit her, dank and hot and wet. There was a stink of rot and stale beer and dead mice. The walls dripped with condensation, and the floor was black and slippery.

  “Whatever you do,” Bernadette said, “don’t put your handbag down on the floor. It comes up black. Come ‘ead. Let’s find a good speck.”

  She led the way, with liberal use of elbows and swear words. Laura followed, already breaking into sweat. The long tunnels were narrow and crowded.

  Away from the stage itself the light was patchy, and in the dark Laura was surrounded by exotic creatures with quiffs and sideburns, sequinned cowboy boots and studded leather coats. There were a lot of bikers in the crowd, in leather coats with metal studs, and greasy slicked-back hair. And there were Teds among them, she saw, but they were not like Nick, not young, neat, smart. These were older men, maybe as old as thirty. Narrow-eyed and stinking of beer and ciggies, they sidled through the crowd like sharks. And there were bouncers, big fat blokes in suits on the door and lined up in front of the stage. They watched the Teds carefully.

  Laura’s head filled with the stink of ciggie smoke, and there was booze on a lot of breaths. She had never been anywhere like this in her life. She felt a thrill of danger.

  But then some of the bikers noticed Joel. They closed in and began poking him. One of them grabbed his hat, but Joel held on to it. Laura could hear what they were saying. “Niggy, niggy. Niggy nigritta.”

  Bernadette moved in, tall, commanding. “Hey, face ache. Leave him alone.” She said to Laura, “There’s going to be bother tonight. You can just feel it.”

  Somebody twanged a guitar, a single electrical chord that crashed out of the loudspeakers stacked up on the stage.

  A shock ran through the crowd. Everybody roared, and pushed forward. Laura had to struggle to stay with Bernadette and Joel.

  The stage was only about ten feet wide. The back wall was painted with big slabs of colour, covered in graffiti: signatures of the groups in marker pens.

  Near the stage, the floor was just packed with girls. They were too jammed in to dance, or even to breathe probably, Laura thought. But they wanted to be close to the groups. The lads on stage reached past the bouncers, touching the girls’ hands. Some of the girls stuck bits of paper into the pockets of the lads’ jackets. Phone numbers, maybe.

  Laura was crushed in among taffeta dresses and cheap serge suits. Big fat drops of condensation dripped off the roof and hit Laura on the head and shoulders.

  “Don’t mind the rain,” Joel shouted at her. “Sometimes it shorts out the amps.”

  Some of the girls were chanting. “Bring back Pete! Bring back Pete!” or, “Pete for ever! Ringo never!”

  Laura tugged Bernadette’s elbow. “Who’s Pete?”

  “Pete Best.” It wasn’t Bernadette who answered, but Nick. He smiled at Laura, his teeth white in the gloom. Compared to some of the tough-looking Teds he looked very young. He leaned towards her and shouted, “He was the Beatles’ drummer, and they sacked him because he was useless.”

  Bernadette came between them. “No, they sacked him because he was too good-looking. Even though it was his drum kit. What’s the new bloke called, with the big nose? Bongo?”

  “Ringo, you div. Glad you came, Posh Judy? What about you, Bern? Do you want me to autograph your bump?”

  “Bog off.”

  That sardonic voice came from the stage again. “A one two one two testing. Is there anybody there? Hard to see without me goggles.”

  There was a huge roar, and the crowd crushed forward again. Laura was swept up. Laughing, she grabbed Bernadette and Joel by the hand.

  “All right, thank you, Beatle John.” An MC character, a bustling little man in a crumpled suit, grabbed the mike. “We’ll be seeing plenty of you later, and the other boys. Go on, clear off.” Now he shouted, his voice booming around the arched roof, “First of all, hello Cavern dwellers, and welcome to the best of cellars, as I always say, ha ha!” He got whistles for that. “In the break you can buy water, coffee and pop from the tables over there. I think there’s a bit of soup left over from dinner if you fancy that. We’ve got a great show for you tonight. You’ll get plenty of Beatles later, don’t worry. But first, let’s give a big warm Cavern welcome-back to—Nick O’Teen and the Woodbines!”

  Nick was up on stage. He grasped the mike stand, as the Woodbines clattered their drums and tuned up their guitars behind him. “Good evening, troglodytes! It’s wonderful to be back from Bootle. As if we’ve never been away. We’d like to play for you a song by a good friend of ours, a Mister Chuck Berry. You can never go wrong with a bit of Chuck, can you, lads? Eh, Billy?” He looked around, but Billy Waddle just ignored him, and, chewing gum, grinned at the girls at the front of the crush.

  Nick called out, “This is a number called ‘Johnny B Goode.’ A one two three—”

  The guitarists crashed out their chords, and Billy hammered his drums, and Nick leapt about the stage cradling his mike stand.

  The sound was huge, and it just walloped out of the big speakers on stage, so loud the walls shook, and bits of white paint drifted down from the roof, like snow. Laura had never heard anything like this before. It was music transformed into a battering ram. She was electrified.

  You couldn’t dance here, it was so tightly packed, but everybody yelled and jumped, following the rhythm as best they could, and Laura jumped with the rest. One girl fainted, and had to be passed over the heads of the crowd to the back.

  Nick sang raucously but clearly, and Laura could hear every word. There was a line about guitars like a ringing of bells, which she thought was better poetry than most of the stuff she had to swot up at school.

  And when Nick yelled out the chorus line, urging “Johnny” to “go go go,” the Beatle called John came mucking about on stage, doing the Twist, jiving like a madman, even goose-stepping up and down behind Nick. The crowd screamed, and went even more crazy.

  That was when the Teds kicked off.

  It was planned. They had worked their way to the front. Now a dozen of them surged forward and made for the stage. The bouncers went for the Teds without hesitation. One huge man stood firm, and a Ted just caromed off his belly and went flying back into the crowd, knocking screaming girls for six. But three, four, five of the Teds got through and leapt up on to the stage. The music dissolved in a jangle of broken chords.

  One of the Teds shrieked, “Bash the queer!” And he threw himself straight at Nick, who went down under flying fists. Another Ted joined in, and another.

  Billy Waddle cowered behind his drums at the back of the stage. Bert Muldoon smashed his rhythm guitar down on one Ted’s head. Mickey Poole dropped his guitar and leapt at the tangle around Nick. But another big Ted
held out his hand and shoved his palm into Mickey’s nose. Mickey went down screaming, blood pouring from his face.

  On the dance floor it was chaos. The fighting spread everywhere as bouncers fought with Teds, and the girls tried to get on to the stage, and other gangs and clans took the chance for a ruck. Laura watched amazed as a table flew through the air and smashed against a wall.

  But on stage the Teds still worked at Nick, their firsts and boots flying into his body. They meant business, Laura realised.

  “We’ve got to help him,” she yelled.

  Joel held Bernadette’s arm. “Your baby!”

  Bernadette shook him off. “He’ll survive. Come on!”

  She pushed her way forward. Joel and Laura followed, shoving squabbling fans out of the way.

  It wasn’t hard to get on the stage. Girls milled around, screaming. The other Woodbines, Bert, Paul and Mickey, were wrestling with the Teds. Only Billy stayed back.

  Nick was a shapeless mass on the floor, surrounded by Teds.

  Bernadette screamed. She leapt at one of the Teds, landing on his back. She dug her nails into his cheeks and pulled. She was a tall, heavy girl, and as her nails dragged through his flesh the Ted came off the heap over Nick, yelling and waving his fists.

  As another Ted tried to join the assault on Nick, Joel went to get hold of his jacket. Bernadette yelled, “Not the lapels!” But it was too late.

  When Joel grabbed the Ted’s lapels, he screamed. He couldn’t get free, his fingers somehow snagged. The Ted, a foot taller than Joel, grinned. “Have a mouthful of dandruff, soft lad.” He casually head-butted Joel. Joel went down, his hands torn away, and Laura saw his fingers had been ripped open.

  Laura looked for Nick. He was still on the floor, curled over like a baby in the womb. Now a huge Ted was taking paces back, running up, and kicking Nick’s head like a footballer taking a free kick.

  Nick’s mike stand lay beside him on the blood-stained stage. Laura grabbed it and felt its weight. It was only flimsy, but it had a heavy, weighted base.

  She really didn’t want to kill anybody. But that Ted looked relentless.