black leather, also oozing sex appeal whilst re-sisting arrest.
This was it! Jess had found her look. And it was going to be easy. You could pick up a black leather jacket for next to nothing in a charity shop. She already had a denim miniskirt, and black fishnet tights were a brief shopping trip away. OK, she might have to save up for the biker boots, but so what? It was
so exactly
the look for her: rugged and wild, but immensely cool.
She tucked the newspaper under her arm, climbed down out of the attic and went downstairs. Granny was sitting watching the TV news, looking rather disappointed.
“It's all about the economic summit,” she said. “There haven't been any murders at all. There's a cup of tea in the pot, dear. Would you like a piece of toast?”
“In a minute, Granny,” said Jess. “I just want to show you something I found in the attic.”
“What, dear?” asked Granny. “A treasure?”
“Well, yes, in a way,” said Jess. “Do you know, Granny, I've been trying to work out a new look for myself. You know, I look like a hobo most of the time.”
“I think you look lovely, dear,” said Granny. Well, of course she would. But looking “lovely” according to your granny is hardly going to be cool, is it?
“Thanks, Granny, but I want a change,” said Jess. “And I found this fantastic photo in an old newspaper up there….” She opened out the folded newspaper and showed Grannythe front page. “Look at her!” said Jess. “She's just amazing, isn't she? I mean, not because she's being arrested or any-thing …” (Jess didn't want Granny to panic that she was choosing deviant role models.) “She's just, well, amazing,” said Jess, leaning back and staring in admiration at the feisty and furious girl rocker. Granny looked at the picture and smiled nostalgically.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “The Whitsun Weekend, 1964. I remember every minute. Glad you approve.”
“Approve?” said Jess, not quite following Granny's drift.
“It's the only time I've ever made the front page,” said Granny with a proud sigh.
“What?” gasped Jess. “You mean that's
you
?”
“I'm afraid so, dear,” said Granny. “I was arrested because I sort of lost it, as they say, when they arrested Grandpa.”
“They arrested
Grandpa
?” shrieked Jess.
“Well, he was attacked by three mods, dear, and he sort of lashed out, you know. We were rockers, you see. We rode about on motorbikes and we liked Elvis. The mods had silly little scooters and they were all a bit soft. Sort of wimps, they seemed like, to us.”
Jess stared in total astonishment at the photo. So this iconic girl, with the wild hair and the blazing eyes, in the leather and boots, was her
Granny?
It scarcely seemed possible.
“How old were you?” she asked.
“Oh, about nineteen,” said Granny dreamily. “My dadwas furious. But although we were arrested, we weren't charged. Ah! Those were the days. Elvis's ‘Jailhouse Rock’ was our tune, but it didn't turn out to be spookily appropriate, thank God!”
As she stared at the photo of her younger self, Granny's eyes danced at the memory of that seaside punch-up long ago. Jess was amazed. Slowly it was dawning on her. She wasn't spending the weekend with a wrinkly, bereaved old lady. She was spending it with a magnificent girl biker, who rode motorbikes, wrestled with police officers and blazed out triumphantly from the front pages of newspapers.
“Right,” said Granny briskly. “I'll just make you some toast, and fresh tea, I think, and then, how about
Pulp Fiction
for the fortieth time?”
“Granny,” said Jess, “you're a legend.” And she wasn't kidding.
Jacqueline Wilson
I t's a beautiful gravestone. A little girl angel spreads her wings, head shyly lowered, with neat stone curls never in need of brushing. Her robe is ornately tucked and gathered, a little fancy for an angel frock, as if she's about to attend a heavenly party.
I step over the miniature rosebush and
This was it! Jess had found her look. And it was going to be easy. You could pick up a black leather jacket for next to nothing in a charity shop. She already had a denim miniskirt, and black fishnet tights were a brief shopping trip away. OK, she might have to save up for the biker boots, but so what? It was
so exactly
the look for her: rugged and wild, but immensely cool.
She tucked the newspaper under her arm, climbed down out of the attic and went downstairs. Granny was sitting watching the TV news, looking rather disappointed.
“It's all about the economic summit,” she said. “There haven't been any murders at all. There's a cup of tea in the pot, dear. Would you like a piece of toast?”
“In a minute, Granny,” said Jess. “I just want to show you something I found in the attic.”
“What, dear?” asked Granny. “A treasure?”
“Well, yes, in a way,” said Jess. “Do you know, Granny, I've been trying to work out a new look for myself. You know, I look like a hobo most of the time.”
“I think you look lovely, dear,” said Granny. Well, of course she would. But looking “lovely” according to your granny is hardly going to be cool, is it?
“Thanks, Granny, but I want a change,” said Jess. “And I found this fantastic photo in an old newspaper up there….” She opened out the folded newspaper and showed Grannythe front page. “Look at her!” said Jess. “She's just amazing, isn't she? I mean, not because she's being arrested or any-thing …” (Jess didn't want Granny to panic that she was choosing deviant role models.) “She's just, well, amazing,” said Jess, leaning back and staring in admiration at the feisty and furious girl rocker. Granny looked at the picture and smiled nostalgically.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “The Whitsun Weekend, 1964. I remember every minute. Glad you approve.”
“Approve?” said Jess, not quite following Granny's drift.
“It's the only time I've ever made the front page,” said Granny with a proud sigh.
“What?” gasped Jess. “You mean that's
you
?”
“I'm afraid so, dear,” said Granny. “I was arrested because I sort of lost it, as they say, when they arrested Grandpa.”
“They arrested
Grandpa
?” shrieked Jess.
“Well, he was attacked by three mods, dear, and he sort of lashed out, you know. We were rockers, you see. We rode about on motorbikes and we liked Elvis. The mods had silly little scooters and they were all a bit soft. Sort of wimps, they seemed like, to us.”
Jess stared in total astonishment at the photo. So this iconic girl, with the wild hair and the blazing eyes, in the leather and boots, was her
Granny?
It scarcely seemed possible.
“How old were you?” she asked.
“Oh, about nineteen,” said Granny dreamily. “My dadwas furious. But although we were arrested, we weren't charged. Ah! Those were the days. Elvis's ‘Jailhouse Rock’ was our tune, but it didn't turn out to be spookily appropriate, thank God!”
As she stared at the photo of her younger self, Granny's eyes danced at the memory of that seaside punch-up long ago. Jess was amazed. Slowly it was dawning on her. She wasn't spending the weekend with a wrinkly, bereaved old lady. She was spending it with a magnificent girl biker, who rode motorbikes, wrestled with police officers and blazed out triumphantly from the front pages of newspapers.
“Right,” said Granny briskly. “I'll just make you some toast, and fresh tea, I think, and then, how about
Pulp Fiction
for the fortieth time?”
“Granny,” said Jess, “you're a legend.” And she wasn't kidding.
Jacqueline Wilson
I t's a beautiful gravestone. A little girl angel spreads her wings, head shyly lowered, with neat stone curls never in need of brushing. Her robe is ornately tucked and gathered, a little fancy for an angel frock, as if she's about to attend a heavenly party.
I step over the miniature rosebush and
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