Read the Story
Guess the Song
here's a clue...
I'm Judy. I was seventeen back then in
1965, my head full of teenage things; fashion, music and boys. Not that there
had been many of those in the short
years since maturity had painfully muscled its way in and thoughts began to
turn to such things. I was the one with the pretty friend and about whom one of
any pair of hopeful lads would invariably say; “Don't fancy your one.”
Not that I was
ugly or anything. At least, I didn't think so. But I was short, had not yet
lost all my puppy fat. My legs were not quite suited to a mini skirt; I
tottered on stilettos. I was sparing with make-up; never too much but perhaps
not quite enough. Boys did look at me, but only rarely twice.
I don't think I
can put my finger on it, even now, but I felt a change in the air. I suppose it
was mostly the difference between the morning when we had left London and now -
early evening in Margate. The family holiday. Regularly for the last ten years
we, mum, dad, my brother Keith and I, had followed the A2 down to the Kent
coast. No jetting off to exotic places in those days. The dubious delights of
Ibiza or Malaga were almost unthinkable then. And I liked Margate. Some people
may scoff at its blatant commercialism; the Golden Mile, souvenir shops, fish
and chips. Dreamland. But there's more to Margate than that. A beautiful clock
tower, the famous Shell Grotto, a sweeping sandy beach.
Dreamland was my
destination now, running down the ramp that led to the cavernous entrance. The
sweet smell of candy floss enfolded me immediately, like the embrace of a long
lost friend. I breathed it in along with the sounds of Rock 'n' Roll that
accompanied every ride, fading as the cars or the metal baskets that could hold
three or four people slowed and shuddered to a halt.
This was the
start of it all. Six days of heaven – seven if Dad had to go back to work on
the Friday and he and Mum allowed Keith and me to stay on the extra night and
take the train home the next day. Six days of sunbathing (though I was too
conscious of my body to dare to wear a bikini) and six nights of riding the
Dodgems, my favourite ride. I was learning to drive, so the practice would be
good, I told myself.
And that is
where I met him. Edward. Although I did not know that just then.
Like me, he
could have done with losing a little weight, yet he leapt lightly onto the back
of my car, held his hand out for the fare. It was my first ride, so I only had
a ten shilling note. “Be back in a minute with yer change,” he said and jumped
off without losing his balance. Cockney, like me, but a little more pronounced.
“You'd better
be,” I called out. I'd been short changed before. He looked back at me, smiled,
winked placed the top of his forefinger against the end of his thumb, forming
an 'O'.
Somebody rammed
me from the side, a grinning idiot who didn't understand the word 'Dodgem'. I
snarled at him and spun the wheel to get away. I heard the laughter as the car
jerked away. Del Shannon's Runaway melted in the night, drowned out by
the klaxon and the hum of the electricity faded into silence. I remained in my car,
watching as some left their cars, others refilled them and the money collectors
pushed the empty cars to the side of the rink.
He did come back
to me, proffered an assortment of silver coins – half crowns, shillings and
sixpences. I checked them; he hadn't cheated me.
“Stayin' on,
darlin'?” he asked. I nodded, gave him the money. He shook his head. 'Ave this
one on me. I'm off for a bit after this round - fancy some chips?'
He didn't wait
for my reply, just winked again and told me to wait for him. I was nodding
feebly, too shocked to actually voice my agreement. The klaxon sounded again,
sparks flashed like fireflies around the overhead contacts and the Beatles
claimed that it was they who wanted to hold my hand.
I drove like a
novice. Cars clattered into me, jolting my bones. At one point I was stuck,
pumping the accelerator pedal like a mad thing until I finally moved. But I
didn't care.
That session
seemed to last twice as long as normal, finished eventually. I climbed out,
looked around. There he was, waiting, smiling, crooking his finger. I swear I
was shaking.
He didn't put
his arm around me, didn't even grab my hand; he just led me through the crowds
to a van selling chips and all sorts, ordered two bags. I offered to pay my
share; he pushed my hand away.
“Won't do my
diet any good,” I tried to make a joke of it.
“Why do you
think you need to diet?” he asked through a mouthful of fried potatoes. I
looked at him. He was serious. Not taking the mickey.
I shrugged, not
wanting to get into any conversation about my figure. Instead: “Where are you
from – er ..?”
“Edward. Eddie
if you prefer. Which I do, to be honest. Edmonton. London. Not Canada.” he
smiled as if he had the need to explain.
“Judith,” I
replied. “Judy, if you prefer. Which I do.” He laughed at my mimicry.
“And where does
Judy come from?”
“Crouch End. And
there's only one.”
“How long you
here for, Judy?”
“Until the end
of the week. Friday. But I may be able to stay and extra day. Depends on my
parents.”
“Mmm,” he said,
screwing the chip paper into a greasy ball, wiped his hands on his jeans and
tossed it casually into a large waste bin a yard away. “Me too. Season ends on
Friday night.”
“What will you
do?”
“Dunno. Might go
to Brighton. A couple of weeks there before they shut down.”
“Oh,” I said.
Was I disappointed that he wasn't returning directly to London?
We talked.
Easily, uncomplicated stuff. He was neither forward nor shy. When he had to go
and I had to fulfil my promise of not being late, he kissed me.
Straightforward, neither passionate nor uncaring. No tongues. A perfect
gentleman. Almost.
I didn't go to Broadstairs with
the family the next day; I wanted time on my own. In the sun, with my book.
With my thoughts. So when they left the guest house in Dad's green and cactus
Triumph Herald I made my way to the beach selected my hereditary spot near the
sun deck, paid for a deck chair, set myself up for a morning (at least) of
reading, reflection and relaxation.
But I couldn't
concentrate on my book. The words blurred and I reread so many passages that
made no sense that I put the book down in exasperation. It could wait, I had
read it so many times that I almost knew it word for word.
I sank into the
colourful canvas of the deck chair and closed my eyes. For early September, the
weather was glorious; warm sun diffused by the gentlest of breezes. Edward.
Eddie. What was special about him? Why did he make me feel this way? Indeed,
what exactly did I feel about him? It couldn't be love; love grew, didn't hit
you like an express train. The term 'crush' is well named; I felt as though my
heart was squeezed from all angles. And it hurt. Even through closed eyes
covered by sunglasses I saw his face. His expressions when he spoke, his lips
when he smiled, his eyes when he kissed me. Ouch! My heart groaned as another
barb lanced home.
I drifted into a
snooze to a symphony of squawking seagulls, gentle surf, excited cries of
children who surely should be back at school by now. Intermittent pop music
from tinny transistor radios. For how long I lay like that I don't know, but I
actually felt the shadow over my face. Even before he spoke, I knew who cast
that shadow.
“'Ello Judy.
Whatcha readin'?
Be still my
heart! Why did it jump like that? I wasn't a fan of Mills & Boon but
suddenly I understood them so much better.
I removed my
sunglasses and touched the open book resting cover upwards on my lap. “Jane
Eyre,” I said. “My favourite book. Ever.”
Eddie sat down
on the sand beside me. “Not my sort. I like some action. James Bond. Yeah. Sex,
sadism and snobbery, that's what it says on the covers! Can I get you an ice
cream?”
I perked up.
“Let me pay,” I pleaded. “You bought me chips last night, after all.” I fished
in my purse. Eddie stood up. “I'll go get them,” he said as he took the money
from me. What do you want?”
“A '99'” I
confirmed.
“Right. Be back
in a jiffy. Don't go away.”
As if.
It was perhaps
the loveliest afternoon of my life. We spoke and we sat in silence. The hours
passed. We paddled in the retreating tide and he put his arm around my waist as
I stumbled in the shrinking sand. We laughed and, briefly, we kissed again.
And then he had
to go to work. We parted with a promise that we would meet up later. He'd take
me around the fairground and have some rides; the Scenic Railway, the Waltzer,
the Big Wheel. I watched his back as he walked away and that wasn't a tear in
my eye, surely? Some sand had got in, probably. Yes, that would be it.
Every evening we spent in each
other’s company. Nights of fun, cuddles and kisses. But no frolics. We had more
in common than I had thought. Was it enough? And now, Friday already. Mum and
Dad had, as I had hoped, left for London and Keith and I stayed on for the
extra night. The rooms were paid for anyway, I had argued and they had
acquiesced. Keith, a year younger than I, knew something was up with me and
every day I had been treated to sniggers and winks. The parents failed to
notice.
My heart was
unbalanced. It was light and jumping in anticipation that I would see my love
again. It was heavy because it was our last night. Nothing had happened between
us. Unlike other girls I knew, we had not 'done it'. Not that there had been
much chance; I could not take him back to the guest house and he did not invite
me to … to wherever he stayed.
I had already
decided that I would stay until the fairground shut down for the night, shut
down for the season. If I was being reckless, I didn't care about that either.
I was determined to make the most of this night and if Keith breathed a word to
anyone I would kill him.
It was all I
hoped it would be. I spent all my time on the Dodgems except when Eddie was on
a break. His arm around my waist, he said “Kiss and Chips?'” I laughed and
obliged. But I could not hide the tears as the night wore on, skipping away
from us.
I stood and
watched as he finished his last shift, collected his wages and came back
towards me. I was shivering, but not all of it was due to the night air.
Something was slung over his shoulder. I cocked my head to one side. My heart
failed to find a stable place to rest within me. A blanket.
“What's with -”
I began.
“Tradition of
mine,” he replied easily. “Last night of the season, sleep on the beach.”
“And – er ...”
“If you want to.
I won't make you. Your decision. Do you want to?”
I did and, for
the record, we did. There's not much of a harbour at Margate, but the stone
pier afforded some lights and, from under the sun deck across the bay, we sat
and watched the small fishing boats bobbing in the gentle waves, a narrow
stream of moonlight shimmering on the sea, the silhouette of a tanker on the
horizon. Playing in my head was the last song I had heard as we walked out of
Dreamland: the Shirelles, Will you still love me tomorrow. I knew how
Carole King must have felt when she wrote it.
Love. It was
love and I could not deny it. This was no mere crush; it was deeper than that.
And I had allowed him into my inner self; he knew my secrets as no one had ever
before. He promised he'd write to me; it was the last thing he said to me in
the morning. Could I believe him? Would he really? Or was this just another
conquest for him? A holiday romance. Ships that pass in the night. A foolish
girl and an experienced seducer? Two star crossed and frustrated lovers, his
Romeo to my Juliet, my Columbine to his Pierrot?
There is an
ending to my story; I quote my favourite book:
“Reader, I married him ….”
“Reader, I married him ….”
© Richard Tearle
Did you guess the song title?
The Seekers The Carnival is Over (1967)
The Seekers The Carnival is Over (1967)
(Official You Tube Video)
Richard is our senior reviewer
His blog - well worth a visit - is
he is working on his debut novel
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The Full List of Authors
December
4th Helen Hollick Promises, Promises
5th Paul Marriner Memories
6th Pam Webber One Door Closing
8th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Sticks and Stones
9th Judith Arnopp Secrets
10th Erica Lainé Silk Stockings
11th Anna Belfrage Hold Me, Love Me, Leave Me?
12th Annie Whitehead Frozen
13th Tony Riches Alas, My Love
14th Clare Flynn, Zipless
15th J.G. Harlond The Last Assignment
16th Elizabeth St John Under The Clock
17th Alison Morton Honoria’s Battle
18th Jean Gill The Hunter
19th Patricia Bracewell Daddy's Gift
20th Debbie Young It Doesn't Feel Like Christmas
21st
23rd Elizabeth Chadwick The Cloak
24th / 25th CHRISTMAS BREAK
27th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Just The One... Or Maybe Two
28th Deborah Swift Just Another Day
30th Cryssa Bazos River Mud
31st HAPPY NEW YEAR
Note: There is copyright legislation for song lyrics
but no copyright in names, titles or ideas
