MODS & ROCKERS - CHAPTER 3
Monday 23rd March 1964
Edward
Monday, effing Monday. Someone will make a song about Mondays one day; everybody hates them.
I've woken up with a thumping headache, but at least I made it back home late last night and I'm in my own bed for the first time since Friday morning. Before getting up, I allow my eyes to become accustomed to the sliver of natural daylight filtering through a gap in my curtains, whilst congratulating myself on surviving the weekend in one piece. I'd like to stay put for a while longer because I'm warm and comfy, but I know from experience it takes more time than usual on Monday mornings to get ready for work.
Reluctantly I force myself to roll out of bed and drag my aching body into the bathroom where I immediately notice my hands are still stained with oil and grease from the bikes. Pretty certain of what horrors I would see, I elect not to look at my face in the mirror until I've washed the detritus of the previous two and a half days off my disgustingly filthy skin.
After blessing the plumber who convinced me to install a separate shower cubicle when my replacement bathroom was being installed, I fumble with the various knobs and taps and wait until the water's reached the right temperature before stepping in. I audibly sigh with gratitude to Joe Bloggs, or whatever the plumber's name was, as I stand face-upwards under the soothing cascade of blissful warmth that's doing its very best to revive me.
The water swirling around my feet looks filthy against the white tiles and it takes a while before it runs completely clean. "How the hell have I got this dirty," I ask myself as I scrub my neck and arms with a loofah and have to wash my greasy hair three times to get a stubborn lump of oil out. Then I recall spending a large chunk of the weekend lying on the floor of Emmett's garage in Kilburn, which to be fair is actually a fully kitted-out motorbike workshop. After we left The Ace on Friday night, before going to bed we tinkered with Emmett's Triumph Bonneville plus Sadie and some other bikes that he fixes to earn money, while chatting about all things 'bike'. We stayed up until about three in the morning, and then 'tinkered' again all of Sunday afternoon and evening until I reluctantly set off for home at about midnight.
I hung around with Emmett for the whole weekend, which is what I normally do most weekends. I have to sleep on an uncomfortable, narrow camp bed in his spare room on Friday and Saturday nights, then invariably spend Sunday mornings and the first two hours of the afternoon sleeping off the effects of the previous day and night until lunch is ready, then we mess about in his garage again until I have to return to real life. We always fit in some high-speed adventures and reckless behaviour with the pack, which is exactly what happened when we went out with them all day Saturday.
Emmett is my best mate. He's American and a gentle giant with huge muscles and an even huger heart. He came over to England in September '62 to escape the Draft and is lodging with a middle-aged lady called Carol, who is one of his English mother's old university friends. She also happens to make the most awesome breakfasts and Sunday lunches, so I certainly didn't starve this weekend.
Emmett claims to be a pacifist and supports the CND/Ban the Bomb activists my father insists should be put against a wall and shot as traitors. Whatever he is, he didn't want to risk being called up and sent to Vietnam to get his arse shot off, so when he finished college when he was twenty-one, he came over to England for a 'holiday' with no intention of going back. Through Carol he keeps in regular touch with his folks who are funding him and who are also pacifists, and he reckons he'll stay in England until the war is definitely over. He's not a Rocker in the true sense of the word, but he's a genuine bike enthusiast. What he hasn't learned about fixing or tuning bikes isn't worth knowing, which is how he makes a living now.
The water starts to run cold so I get out and dry off before wandering into the bedroom naked, not caring that my un-netted windows are overlooked by the houses in the next street. Okay, I'll admit it, I'm an exhibitionist, and I don't care who sees me because I'm not ashamed of my body. Maybe I'm making an old lady's day by prancing around the house with everything hanging out? I'll probably never know.
I shave for the first time since Friday morning and after towelling my hair dry, I run some cream into it to encourage it to lie flat then get dressed in my dark navy suit. I've got five work suits, including a black one I only wear on court days. I'm not a barrister yet, that's still a few years off, but I like to dress the part when I'm assisting in court. I remember Friday's trousers which need cleaning so I find a plastic bag at the bottom of the wardrobe and slide them in along with a couple of ties that have stains on them, then go down to the kitchen where I finish off the pint of milk, again without a glass, and demolish the other two hot cross buns that are now slightly stale, so I slather them with butter.
Before I leave the house for work, I check the stable doors to make sure they're secure just in case I'd been lazy about the locks when I got in last night. When I'm satisfied my girls are safe, I set off for the station and the inevitable soul-destroying train journey to Blackfriars. I'd love to be able to bike to work but there's nowhere safe in the City to park such valuable bikes, and even if there were I'd be worrying about them all day. Also, more importantly, I don't want this side of my life to be revealed to my colleagues as I prefer to keep this and many other aspects regarding my personal life private.
The train isn't as packed as usual and I remember with glee that the schools broke up last week for the Easter holiday, which means this coming Friday and the following Monday are bank holidays. Two four day weeks and a four day weekend in between – bloody marvellous! I still have to stand all the way to Blackfriars though but there's plenty of room on the train and I find a spot where I can lean against a glass partition and read my morning paper in peace.
Once I'm off the train, I take my clothes into the dry cleaners then carry on to the office in Fleet Street. Margaret, our secretary, who's been with the firm for donkey's years, usually gets in about half an hour before everyone else and stocks the kitchen with enough fresh milk to last the day and keeps us fully supplied with tea, coffee and biscuits. Jane, our dotty receptionist, post girl and switchboard operator, usually appears about ten seconds before nine, just in time to fling her coat on the hook and settle herself in her seat before the deadline. Her desk is empty when I walk through the door so I carry on up the stairs without my arse being stared at, (which I definitely know she does because one of the other guys told me), to where the tiny office I've just inherited from a colleague who retired last week is located.
Margaret, bless her, has a cup of tea and a biscuit waiting for me on my desk. I'm the baby of the law firm and she does tend to mother me, and I totally let her. I recently persuaded Mr Jenks, the boss, to allow Margaret to purchase an electric kettle for the staff, and this has revolutionised our working environment as waiting for the old-fashioned kettle to boil on our ancient two-ring electric hob took forever. Still basking in this success but not wanting to push it, I've decided to leave it a few months before I start trying to convince him to buy a filter coffee machine, as that Nescafe powdered shit which pretends to be coffee isn't worth drinking and I have to resort to going to Lyons for a proper fix occasionally.
I'm not yet in the right frame of mind to start attacking the pile of files Margaret has helpfully arranged on my desk in order of priority, so I sip my tea slowly and stare out the window for a while and watch the hordes of office workers hurrying towards their daily grind.
From my high vantage point which is directly above the reception area and Margaret's office, I can see the Art Deco entrance of the Daily Express newspaper in Fleet Street which is directly opposite our building. Since acquiring my own office and the view last week, I've started watching the Express staff arriving and leaving, and, like I do with my fellow travellers, I try and guess what jobs the employees have.
The typists are easy; the girls all look the same. Short hair, flat shoes, straight skirts, poplin raincoats and over-large fake-leather handbags where they keep their cigarettes and packed lunches. The young, scruffy guys are reporters or photographers, and they rush in and out at all times of the day, probably hoping they've got the scoop of the century. The older men are the editors, and they either arrive in black cabs or a chauffeured car. The actual printing staff come and go from another entrance so they're a mystery to me, but in my imagination they're all hard faced middle-aged men who work during the late afternoon and into the early hours, churning out the right-wing crap that keeps their Tory readership happy, so I'll stick to my left-leaning Guardian, thank you.
I'm watching a group of girls in their late teens or early twenties hanging around outside the entrance. I've seen some of them before and I've noticed they only congregate there if the weather's fine, and last week it rained every day except for Friday. It's only about eight fifty and I guess they don't need to be at their desks until nine, so they're obviously making the most of their last opportunity to be outside before they're cooped up in an airless office for the rest of the day. Most of them are taking their last chance to have a cigarette and I'd guess they're chatting about their weekend activities.
As I said, they all look the same apart from one girl with her back to me who has long, curly, dark brown hair and I notice she's the only one who isn't smoking. Her hair is hanging loose rather than in a bun or a ponytail, and I can't help imagining running my hands through it and feeling how soft it is between my fingers. I adore long hair and have always preferred brunettes to blondes, and this girl's hair is making my dick twitch, which is not ideal in a working environment.
I turn away from the window and drag the file off the paper mountain onto the ink blotter in front of me and open it up. It's a cut and dried case of constructive dismissal. A rogue company wanted to get rid of some of its staff but thought they could get around paying redundancy by sacking ten workers for theft. One of the managers gave them 'bonuses' in cash just before Christmas and then reported the theft of money to the police. The workers had their houses raided that night and numbered notes were seized. The company got the money back and gave the workers the option of being sacked with no charges being pressed, or denying the charge and going to Court with the chance of being sent to prison. All the workers opted to be sacked and then went to their Union. My job was to investigate the company and assist the Union in an Employment Tribunal which was due to be held next week. What I found out through going through old Court records was this company had pulled this scam twice before and got away with it, so this would be the basis of our case and I expected to win. Bastards!
I look across the street again and the girls are moving towards the building. The brown haired girl is one of the last to go through the heavy glass doors but annoyingly she doesn't turn her head so I can see her face. She's very slim and I would guess only about five foot four or five, but there's something about the way she moves that attracts me. She's light on her feet when she runs up the steps, like a dancer, which intrigues me even more. I turn back to the file when she disappears and attempt to dismiss her from my thoughts by focusing on the job in hand, while trying to convince myself she's probably only about sixteen and more than likely not very bright if the only job she could get is in a typing pool. Then I admonish myself for being an arse for thinking like that.
Margaret sticks her head around the door and gives me a motherly smile.
"Did you have a nice weekend, Mr. Cullen?" she asks.
Memories of the carnal and dangerous activities which filled my weekend flash through my mind and I swallow hard. If Margaret really knew what I'd got up to, it would turn her mousey-brown hair white.
"Lovely thank you, Margaret," I reply with a radiant smile. "I went out of town to stay with friends who live north of London then we met up with some other pals on Saturday and went for a super drive in the countryside and had a nice pub lunch. It was very pleasant."
"Oh, that sounds lovely, and so much nicer than wasting your time in those new-fangled discotheques or night clubs. I'm sure the girls in those places aren't the type you would want to take home to your parents."
"You're absolutely correct, Margaret, and Margaret, I keep saying you can call me Edward. Only call me Mr Cullen when I have visitor, or in front of Mr Jenks."
I give her another smile as she leaves, knowing full well she'll ignore my invitation to be less formal and will carry on calling me Mr Cullen, and then I chuckle under my breath.
I didn't exactly lie to her as I did visit 'friends' in North London. The Ace Café and Emmett's place are technically in North-West London, just not in the posh bits like Hampstead or Barnet, and we did drive out into the countryside and meet other friends, but not in the manner I'm sure Margaret is imagining.
About twenty-five Rockers from the Ace met up on Saturday morning and took off for a high-speed adventure through the first bit of decent countryside a traveller meets when you escape the London sprawl. It was the first warm weekend of the year and it was great to be able to ride without being restricted by unforgiving leather trousers, double-thickness gloves and annoying scarves. I was still chilled to the bone when we set off, as the fresh morning air slapped my unprotected face, making my cheeks tingle and my eyes water. My bare fingers felt numb as we hurtled down country lanes at ridiculous speeds, but I was relishing sensing my first hint of freedom from the depressing yoke of a five-month, cold, wet winter, and as the sun rose to its full height I could genuinely feel my blood warming in my veins.
Riding amongst the pack was what I loved the most, even though the noise from over twenty muscular bikes roaring around me practically made my ears bleed. Cars and lorries dived out of our way when they heard us approaching and pedestrians would stop and stare; some protectively clutching their children as we roared past as though they were scared we were going to kidnap them. Sometimes we would hear cheering if we passed a group of girls and we would wave back, but mainly the reaction of the general public was to steer clear of us and let us pass through as quickly as possible in the hope we'd bother another sleepy town further away.
We were out on the country roads for about two hours, roaring through small villages and careering down leafy lanes only wide enough for a tractor. We had a few near-misses with cars travelling in the opposite direction and it was funny to see drivers initially having a go at the first bike they encountered, but when they saw the cavalry coming up behind they would quickly wind their windows up, lock their car doors and give way. I'm not a bully at heart, but it would be very easy for this sort of pack mentality to go to your head, so it was important for me to always smile and wave at the nervous drivers as we rode past.
Some of the Rockers were definitely a bit nuts, but most of us in the Ace pack were just motorbike enthusiasts who enjoyed being out on the road together. There were a few guys at the Ace who always looked for trouble but we didn't make them feel welcome whenever they turned up, and we didn't let on about meet-ups like the one on Saturday. Some of the Rockers were already in their thirties and I was aware they had wives and children at home, but the talk when we got to the pub was never about anything other than bikes, or reminiscing about adventures we'd had in the past.
Our infamous rivalry with the Mods was hardly ever discussed until a bank holiday weekend was approaching, so where to go over Easter was an early topic of conversation. The warmer resorts around the south coast were always the most popular destinations, because if the Mods didn't turn up, at least we could have a bit of fun on the beach or in the town, and there were always plenty of girls anxious to 'have a go' on our bikes as pillion passengers.
We started drinking in the pub at about twelve o'clock and as the day went on, more Rockers from other packs turned up and a heavy drinking session ensued. I stayed outside the pub most of the time keeping my eye on Sadie. She was the Rockers' main attraction and some of the guys asked whether they could have a ride on her. I declined, obviously. They could look but not touch. To me it would be the same as someone asking whether they could borrow my wife or girlfriend for the night, and that certainly wasn't going to happen.
As the afternoon wore on, I could tell that some of the guys from our pack and other packs had drunk way too much and tempers were starting to fray, so I suggested to Emmett we should head back to the Ace before the fights started breaking out. It was inevitable someone would say something offensive to a member of another pack and a few tables and several noses would get broken, so we got on our way at just after three. A guy called Sam who was carrying Tanya on pillion said he would come with us and in the end about ten of our original group hit the road.
We'd had a blast, but a six-sense always told me when enough was enough. I'd had about eight pints of beer over three hours so still felt okay, but some of the guys had drunk way more than me. I wasn't too drunk to have sex, so I shagged Tanya in the ladies loo at the Ace before going back to Emmett's which was a great way to end the day.
My Tanya really is a game girl as she accepts I'll never be a 'boyfriend' in the true sense of the word. She likes having sex with me and I take advantage. Who wouldn't? I sometimes feel guilty about this, but having a regular girlfriend has never been a burning ambition of mine. I know it will happen one day, but until then I'm not actively looking for love as I don't feel I have anything missing from my life. Occasionally Emmett gives me a disapproving stare when Tanya and I emerge from our 'love nest', but I've never pressed any girl to have sex if she's giving out signals she's not up for it.
On Sunday morning I slept off my drinking and sex-session in Carol's spare room and woke up in time for an awesome Sunday lunch. After recovering from over-eating, I spent the rest of the day on Emmett's garage floor tinkering with the bikes and talking about America. Emmett's family live in Connecticut but he tells me about cities like New York and Boston and of course Washington, where he was in the crowd with his parents when Kennedy was inaugurated. I know he misses his home country and he feels guilty about other guys filling the space he's left vacant in the army, but he's passionately anti-war, believing that dialogue is the only way to sort out the world's problems.
I dismiss memories of the weekend from my mind and turn my attention back to the pile of files in front of me. To be honest I enjoy what I do. Life is tough for the ordinary working man or woman in 1960's Britain, and despite all the progress that's happening in the country since the end of the war, the working classes are still shit on from a great height by those in power. I'm talking about company bosses and their management, the banks, and, I hate to admit it, the judiciary, who ninety-nine percent of the time takes the side of all those arses I've mentioned before.
Jenks' law firm is widely known in this part of London as willing to fight these injustices. We take Legal Aid cases mainly, or for a fraction of the fee that most lawyers charge, we represent people who have been taken advantage of by those who should know better. Our most lucrative clients are the Trades Unions, who are now getting more organised and are setting up their own legal teams, but at the moment don't have access to the information qualified lawyers can get their hands on, which is where we come in.
Mr Jenks grunts a welcome as he passes my door then carries on towards his much larger office which overlooks a quiet courtyard at the back of the building. He's roughly the same age as my father and I wonder what will happen to this firm when he retires. I would hope another philanthropic lawyer would offer to take over, but as we are generally hated by the courts and considered to be 'traitors' by some sections of the legal profession, I can't see this happening to be honest.
I look out the window again and think about the girl with the long brown hair and wonder what she's doing and whether I'll see her again today. I presume she'll go for a walk at lunchtime so I'll be able to see what she looks like then. I'm not expecting her to be anything special but I'm still intrigued.
The pavements are much quieter now as the worker ants have disappeared into their nests. They won't appear again until lunchtime, so I look down at grandpa's watch and it's just before nine thirty. Only three hours and a bit to wait until the brown haired girl appears again. Maybe I'll see her face this time?
I adjust myself in my trousers and put my hands on either side of my eyes, forcing myself to concentrate on the file in front of me. "This is f… is ridiculous," I say to myself and then my phone rings, distracting me from my carnal thoughts.
Bella
I honestly can't remember my bus ride to work. I've been staring into space for the last fifteen minutes still thinking about being asked out on a date, and by Jacob Black no less. Thankfully the lady sitting next to me by the window asks me to move so she can get off just as the bus arrives at my stop, otherwise I would probably be on my way to the West End by now. I'd been day-dreaming about Friday night and what could possibly happen on Wednesday when Jake takes me to the cinema, and frankly The Beatles, Elvis Presley and Cliff Richard could have been passengers on the bus and I wouldn't have noticed.
I can see Sue waving at me as I walk the fifty yards or so to the entrance of the Express building. She's lighting up a cigarette so I try and stand out of the way of the smoke, but it's a waste of time as most of the other girls light up as soon as they arrive and I'm then immersed in a cloud of nicotine. Ugh!
"How was your weekend?" Sue asks out of politeness as she's not expecting me to have any exciting tales to tell.
"Pretty good, actually," I respond and I can't help a smug grin appearing on my face.
"Come on, tell," Sue says excitedly. "Actually don't tell me, let me guess. You won the football pools?"
I chuckle with laughter. If I'd won the pools, I wouldn't be dragging myself out of bed at god-awful o'clock to work in a typing pool all day. I'd be in the West End with Alice and my mum by now, buying some decent clothes and then booking a holiday in the sun.
"No, nothing like that," I reply.
"What then?" she squeals, which attracts the attention of some of the other girls.
"Oh … just that I got asked out on Friday night by a really nice boy, and we're going to the pictures on Wednesday, that's all."
"Wow! Did you hear that girls? Bella's got a boyfriend. What's his name? Is he handsome? Did he pay for you? How far did you let him go?"
"Sue!" I exclaim. "I only got off with him on Friday. I'm not a floosy."
Sue chuckles and takes a long drag on her cigarette then coughs like an old man. I can't understand why she wastes her money on those horrible things. She says they stop her feeling hungry but I think she's nuts. I know she's read the stories in the papers about doctors linking cigarettes to cancer now, but she says that's tosh because her grandad has been smoking Woodbines since he was twelve and he's still okay.
"Well come on then, spill," Sue says between puffs, determined to get the full story.
"Okay, well, his name's Jake and he's very tall and handsome and he's got a really nice scooter. He asked me out when we were at a dance on Friday and we're going to the pictures on Wednesday."
"Cool, but come on, how far did you go?"
"French kissing, that's all. He didn't try anything else on. We were in The Roxy for heaven's sake."
"But you're seeing him again on Wednesday? It'll be hand under the blouse on the second date."
"No it blumin' won't!"
Sue and some of the other girls who were listening laugh when I say that, but they weren't being mean. It's a 'been there, done that' kind of laugh, which if you translate it into words would say "Oh yeah, it totally will!"
"Come on," a girl called Frances calls out. "It's nearly nine. We'd better move or Eva Braun will be kicking our arses."
At five to nine we all file into the cloakroom to hang our coats up. The cigarette smoke has made my throat dry, so I pop a fruity Polo in my mouth to take the taste away but I can still smell nicotine in my hair. We won't get a drink until ten thirty when the tea lady comes round, and I know I'll be parched by then, which is another reason why I hate inhaling all that smoke. Our lunch break is at twelve thirty but we only get three quarters of an hour to grab something to eat and get some air, which really isn't enough, but there's no point complaining as it would fall on deaf ears.
I get myself comfortable at my allocated desk and plug my headphones into the Dictaphone machine and switch it on. Oh joy! Creepy Hands Carswill and his mumbling voice again, dictating tedious letters about paper suppliers, printing ink and other boring stuff. Just what I (don't) need for a Monday morning.
After three and a half hours of non-stop typing I need some fresh air and something to give me a lift. I usually go for a walk around the local area on my own as the other girls prefer to sit in a cloud of smoke, but today I'm going to do something different.
I didn't have to spend much money at the weekend as I hadn't needed to buy bus fares or drinks on Friday and I just went round to Alice's on Saturday, so I decide to go to Lyons and treat myself to a cake to have with my sandwich. Lyons Corner House is the nearest shop that sells cakes and sausage rolls and other yummy food, but I don't go in there often because I have to watch my pennies.
There's a long queue in the shop, but this gives me the opportunity to closely examine all the gorgeousness that's neatly arranged behind the glass before I make my choice. I decide on an iced Belgian Bun, which is a large currant bun with a thick layer of white icing and a glacé cherry on top. I love these, even though I usually end up with a sticky face as there's no polite way of eating them. They also remind me of being a kid and fighting with my mother to avoid having my mouth wiped, as I wanted to lick every bit of sugary goodness off my lips before she attacked me with a Kleenex. I'm smiling at the memory as the shop assistant pops my decadent purchase in a paper bag for me and I give her the sixpence.
As I turn away from the counter and make my way towards the door to leave, I notice a good-looking young man staring at me. When our eyes meet for a split second, he quickly turns his head and looks away and I can tell he's embarrassed that I've caught him, as the side of his face is definitely pink. It's also obvious he's only pretending to look at the display of cakes, as his eyes are fixed forward and not scanning the shelves or trying to catch the eye of the shop assistant. I glance at him again as I leave and I definitely don't recognise him. He's very handsome, with lovely thick, dark-auburn hair, and he's smartly dressed, like he's an accountant or something. If I'd seen him before I'm sure I would have remembered him because of his hair colour and his striking facial features. My mum would say he had 'film star good looks' and for once I would agree with her.
I leave the shop and stand on the pavement feeling slightly unnerved by the experience. I've had boys look at me before and I've had the occasional wolf-whistle or a 'toot' from a car horn when I'm walking along the road, but this was different. It was as though he was waiting for me to turn around and check me out for some unknown reason. His eyes were so intense just for the brief second when I caught him looking at me, almost like he was searching for something.
"Maybe he thought he recognised you from behind," I muse, "then looked away when I wasn't who he expected me to be." I nod to myself as this seems to be the most logical explanation. I mean why would a good-looking, well-dressed and obviously professional young guy who's about twenty-five, be looking at someone like me in the first place?
So if that's the case, why do I have the compelling desire to turn around to see whether he's still checking me out? I take a deep breath and quickly spin on my heel.
"Holy Hell. He is."
So, they both work in Fleet Street and Edward has become a stalker! What will his reaction be now he's seen her face. You'll find out in the next chapter.
FYI
Fleet Street was where all the national newspapers had their offices and printing works before they relocated to Wapping or Canary Wharf, or other parts of London. Fleet Street is located in the oldest part of the City of London, near St Paul's Cathedral. It got its name from the Fleet River, which is an underground stream that feeds into the Thames. Even though the Daily Express building has been totally refurbished after the newspaper moved out, the Art Deco entrance, which is Grade II Listed, is still there, and the building is now inhabited by Goldman Sachs. I've given the building steps BTW, using a bit of artistic licence - I hope you don't mind.
Lyons Corner Houses were a chain of coffee shops scattered mainly around London. I've used a bit more artistic licence here as I'm not sure whether there was one in the City of London, but I've mentioned Lyons to jog the memories of some of my readers who may remember them, as the last one closed in 1977. During the war (I'm not that old by the way), their waitresses were called 'Nippies', and being a 'nippy' was a good job to have.
Smoking back then wasn't the issue it is now. Apparently many doctors were yet to be convinced of the link between cigarettes and cancer or heart disease, and smoking was still seen as being 'cool'.
The Football Pools was the only way of winning really big money in Britain before the National Lottery was introduced. You had to pick 8 drawn games to win the jackpot. You could also buy Premium Bonds, but they didn't pay out nearly as much.
The West End is the most popular shopping area in London. It takes in Oxford Street, Regent Street (expensive) and Bond Street (very expensive). All the big department stores were on Oxford Street back then.
Icing is called 'frosting' in America. (I didn't know this until I started reading FanFiction - doh!)
Donkey's years is a slang term for 'ages'.
Joan x