light. He took off the cap and leaned
against a wall to relight his cigarette.
Blast this, blast that, blast that cold
, blast that heat. Then he donned his cap once more and set off again. After that they all did their turn, the
minute hand of a clock pressing predictably onward. Sadie knew them, every one, their time and their place, where they were coming from and where they were going to.
At the top of his garden, just beneath the window, Mr Galvin began his day’s work with the snip of a garden shears.
The meat plant horn hooted.
Lawn mowers began to whirr.
Carpets were beaten in the lane.
The churchbell went ding dong four times an hour.
The chickenhouse fan hummed.
On it goes, thought Sadie, on and on and on.
The tick tock days of Carn, a market town half a mile from the border.
She clipped on an earring and said to herself in the wardrobe mirror, “Wotcher, gel! Going down the Old Kent Road, then?”
Through the markets of Portobello she sauntered and then home to the flat in Walm Lane Willesden, armed to the teeth with trinkets.
“That’s wot I want, innit?” she said to The Infant Of Prague. “Oh, Carn’s okay, but I ’aven’t started living yet, ’ave I? Do you get my drift,
Infant Of Prague?”
She sat on the edge of the bed and wiggled her toes. Sandie Shaw Sadie. Mr Galvin came into her head. “You’re all the modern girl,” he smiled, “that’s what you are
young Rooney. All mad for the pop orchestras and the short skirts. What would the likes of us around here know about the like of that? We went out with the ark.”
Sadie shook her head. “Well one way or another, I’m getting out Mr Galvin. I’m not staying here to spend my life waiting for Blast to come around the corner every
morning.”
“I don’t blame you one little bit,” he replied, “that Blast would drive anybody out.”
Sadie tidied up her room and went downstairs where her mother put her breakfast brusquely in front of her villifying a guitar-playing priest she had heard talking about teenage parties on the
radio the night before.
“That’s what we’ve come to expect,” she said acidly. “But not in this house, I can tell you.”
Sadie finished up her breakfast and set off for the packing shed of Carn Poultry Products where she was due to begin work at two.
“They’re coming today.”
Una Lacey put down the phone. “We’ll have some action now Sadie,” she said.
So they were coming. All the way from London. There were two girls. Carol and Jane. And a boy. A fella. A bloke. All Una’s cousins. From redbus London, with tales by the score of mods and
rockers and with-it princes in clubs and discoes that stayed open the whole night long. Sadie could not wait.
They both lay on the fairgreen looking up at the blue glass of the sky. “You just want to see their clothes,” said Una. “They have everything they want. They get far more money
that we ever see. But they’re good crack. At least the girls are. I don’t know what he’s like.”
Sadie tried to imagine what he looked like. She thought of a thousand faces but could not choose any single one. “What does he work at?” she asked Una.
“He doesn’t work. He goes to art college.”
Art College. John Lennon had been to one. They lived a wild life in those places. There were girls there. Girls who were not afraid to speak their mind and live whatever way they wanted. He
would be well used to girls.
So that’s that
, she said to herself resignedly.
They lay there until it was time to go and meet them. Sadie’s spine tingled as they watched the vehicles from the distant towns and the more remote hamlets of the hinterland unload.
Then Una stood on her tiptoes and waved. When Sadie saw them appear, she instantly felt as if she were dressed in rags. She wanted to rush into the public toilet and bar the door. They wore
pearls and their slim wrists jangled with bracelets. Their lipstick was bright pink, their faces made up to the
against a wall to relight his cigarette.
Blast this, blast that, blast that cold
, blast that heat. Then he donned his cap once more and set off again. After that they all did their turn, the
minute hand of a clock pressing predictably onward. Sadie knew them, every one, their time and their place, where they were coming from and where they were going to.
At the top of his garden, just beneath the window, Mr Galvin began his day’s work with the snip of a garden shears.
The meat plant horn hooted.
Lawn mowers began to whirr.
Carpets were beaten in the lane.
The churchbell went ding dong four times an hour.
The chickenhouse fan hummed.
On it goes, thought Sadie, on and on and on.
The tick tock days of Carn, a market town half a mile from the border.
She clipped on an earring and said to herself in the wardrobe mirror, “Wotcher, gel! Going down the Old Kent Road, then?”
Through the markets of Portobello she sauntered and then home to the flat in Walm Lane Willesden, armed to the teeth with trinkets.
“That’s wot I want, innit?” she said to The Infant Of Prague. “Oh, Carn’s okay, but I ’aven’t started living yet, ’ave I? Do you get my drift,
Infant Of Prague?”
She sat on the edge of the bed and wiggled her toes. Sandie Shaw Sadie. Mr Galvin came into her head. “You’re all the modern girl,” he smiled, “that’s what you are
young Rooney. All mad for the pop orchestras and the short skirts. What would the likes of us around here know about the like of that? We went out with the ark.”
Sadie shook her head. “Well one way or another, I’m getting out Mr Galvin. I’m not staying here to spend my life waiting for Blast to come around the corner every
morning.”
“I don’t blame you one little bit,” he replied, “that Blast would drive anybody out.”
Sadie tidied up her room and went downstairs where her mother put her breakfast brusquely in front of her villifying a guitar-playing priest she had heard talking about teenage parties on the
radio the night before.
“That’s what we’ve come to expect,” she said acidly. “But not in this house, I can tell you.”
Sadie finished up her breakfast and set off for the packing shed of Carn Poultry Products where she was due to begin work at two.
“They’re coming today.”
Una Lacey put down the phone. “We’ll have some action now Sadie,” she said.
So they were coming. All the way from London. There were two girls. Carol and Jane. And a boy. A fella. A bloke. All Una’s cousins. From redbus London, with tales by the score of mods and
rockers and with-it princes in clubs and discoes that stayed open the whole night long. Sadie could not wait.
They both lay on the fairgreen looking up at the blue glass of the sky. “You just want to see their clothes,” said Una. “They have everything they want. They get far more money
that we ever see. But they’re good crack. At least the girls are. I don’t know what he’s like.”
Sadie tried to imagine what he looked like. She thought of a thousand faces but could not choose any single one. “What does he work at?” she asked Una.
“He doesn’t work. He goes to art college.”
Art College. John Lennon had been to one. They lived a wild life in those places. There were girls there. Girls who were not afraid to speak their mind and live whatever way they wanted. He
would be well used to girls.
So that’s that
, she said to herself resignedly.
They lay there until it was time to go and meet them. Sadie’s spine tingled as they watched the vehicles from the distant towns and the more remote hamlets of the hinterland unload.
Then Una stood on her tiptoes and waved. When Sadie saw them appear, she instantly felt as if she were dressed in rags. She wanted to rush into the public toilet and bar the door. They wore
pearls and their slim wrists jangled with bracelets. Their lipstick was bright pink, their faces made up to the
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