Time: five minutes later
Context: Denmark Hill, SE5
The warmth caused Margo to zone out as she waited for one of the bar staff to nod her turn.
‘Gorgeous eyes’
|Ohferfucksakeswhatnow?|
The compliment came from her right. After placing her order she reoriented her body slightly that way, without losing eye contact with the tap pouring her pint.
‘Yeh’ he continued. ‘Go ever so nice wiv your pretty skirt’
|Why do they always go and ruin it? Maybe I’ve a perfectly good reason for wearing black cords. Not that this chimp is ever gonna find out|
After slowly pocketing her change she went to turn. A grin was cemented to the front of his head though the stare suggested some of his bravado might already have begun leaking out. She resisted the temptation to look down, for fear he’d interpret it as checking him out.
Committed to the field now, he had no option but forwards.
‘Where you from then love?’
‘Smart lad like you should be able to work that out.’
The chase was on.
‘Say something then.’
‘Ap norf.’
‘That’s a terrible London accent. But which part up norf?’
‘I thought anywhere above Watford Gap got confusing for the likes of you.’
‘Feisty arntcha? I like that.’
His demeanour indicated otherwise, yet he chose to press on.
‘I’m guessing Yorkshire, am I right?’
‘No. Not even close.’
The glance over his shoulder told her he craved a top-up from the peanut gallery.
‘What you do then sweet’eart?’
That old chestnut. She might’ve sighed out loud if she hadn’t been expecting the question.
‘Me? I wait on tables.’
‘Oh.’
He’d been hoping for glamorous, as they all did. Or at least a gentle return of serve, opening up the court for him to showcase his finest strokes. What he received instead was a bullet down the tramlines.
‘That bother you does it?’
She watched his intended next line being sucked out of the fuselage, his cabin filling with grinding noises and smoke. Sensing a desperation as he flailed for the emergency exits, she kept going.
‘I mean, I can tell you must do something dead impressive yourself. Something high powered in The City maybe. Or a doctor or …’
His look of astonishment suggested that she had just managed to nail two of the professions he’d likely have pulled out of the bag tonight, if only the silly mare had given him a chance to respond.
‘Anyway, we can’t all be out saving the world can we. My loss. Great chatting to you.’
Margo reached for her bitter and headed across the wooden floor for the table where she’d dumped her parka, safe in the knowledge neither he nor his mate would be game for a second crack later that evening.
҉
Bobby was last to arrive, in celebration of which Margo shouted a jug of Long Island Iced Tea. Shortly afterwards, a pause in some spirited if inconclusive banter about the relative failings of The Sun versus The Daily Mirror allowed the jukebox to cut through.
‘Voodoo Ray’ called out Eileen, Charlie’s girlfriend as well as Margo’s best bet when in need of a laugh. The girl gave a passable imitation of the track’s harmonious wail before asking ‘Did you slap this on?’
‘Nope’ Margo responded. ‘That would be uncharacteristic piece of good taste by Bobby. Trying to impress us no doubt.’
Hearing his name he looked up from his own conversation and casually saluted although, from the quizzical smile, it was clear he hadn’t caught the rest. There was no chance to fill him in however, with Charlie already up and checking their next order.
They couldn’t help but chuckle as they watched the trademark sashay to the bar, shoulders rising and falling with the beat as a bent elbow glided up and down each side of the rib cage. It amazed Margo that the moves had hardly evolved since she’d first had to chaperone Charlie to the community disco, only to be horrified at witnessing her sibling leap up at the initial strains of the ‘Birdie Song’.
Head tilted back, Margo listened to the long mellow intro to a remix of ‘Sueňo Latino’, another monster underground hit in the clubs last year. The selection of vinyl on the wall opposite was reason enough to frequent this pub.
‘It was you who originally got me hooked on all this stuff was it not?’ she asked Eileen. ‘Passing us that Balearic Beats album.’
‘Don’t even know why I bought it. Just give me anything with lyrics nowadays.’
‘Tell you what though. I wouldn’t ʼalf mind heading to Ibiza this year’ said Margo.
‘Turntable-tastic’ chipped in Bobby, who felt left out whenever the other three started waxing about their shared tastes in dance music.
Margo raised a finger in mock warning. ‘Careful. No funny buggers now.’
‘Acieeed!’
As Bobby parodied the ravers’ shriek Margo watched his hands flail up at the ceiling, fascinated to see if he would inadvertently whack the stranger in the booth behind. She knew he was pissed already. And taking the piss so, still eyeballing him, Margo exchanged her index for a middle finger.
‘I’m gonna ignore that, you barmy bastard and eventually you’ll self combust. Meantime I’ll continue to ʼave wet dreams about our New Years Eve.’
Bobby lowered his arms and began to cackle instead. ‘Without question the best night out I ever had in Slough.’
He rhymed it with “snuff” rather than “cow”. It was the joke pronunciation the two of them shared for the much-maligned town west of the capital.
‘Come to think of it’ he punchlined, ‘First and last night out I’ll ever have in Slough.’
‘Last time anyone invites you. I practically had to snog Tony’s missis for that extra rave pass, so If I don’t start getting some appreciation I’ll be grabbing it right back off you.’
At this point a stacked tray appeared, bags of salt and vinegar crisps tossed amongst glasses of assorted spirits and small bottles of mixers.
‘Rave?’ called out Charlie. ‘Planning another one are we?’
‘Nah, we were just reminiscing about last New Years at Biology.’
‘Total dive that warehouse weren’t it? But it ended up going off, especially with them saucer eyed Scallies.’
Amidst much laughter Eileen and Margo repeated their story how, after a couple of hours’ hard dancing, they’d shared cigarettes and lights in the lee of an adjacent factory with some ex-skinheads who had recently adopted the baggy look and vibe.
This group, forevermore christened in Eileen’s uncanny Liverpool accent as “That Scatter of Scleral Scousers”, had left home almost twenty-four hours earlier. At that stage they’d been clutching tickets to an entirely different event, only to get the run-around once the authorities had decided to lean on the man who owned the land where Sunrise was to occur.
As organisers tried at short notice to whistle up an alternate venue, the Merseysiders had been forced to spend hour upon hour circling London on the new M25 motorway. Boredom had resulted in one of them prematurely swallowing both his ecstasy tablets so, each time their car cassette player reached top volume, he experienced an overwhelming urge to boogie. Meaning his friends, when not waving to goggle-eyed little faces turned back at them, had repeatedly needed to restrain him from accessing an imaginary dance podium on the roof.
Then there had been the attempts to find a functioning telephone box at various motorway service stations, to ring the designated number and receive their next instructions via the Voicebank recording. As afternoon had worn into evening, with it clear now that something was amiss, the northerners had thought it hilarious to have their pal seek directions from shopworkers. Who might not have known how to communicate with the gurning creature before them, but definitely knew they weren’t being paid sufficient to handle his ranting.
In the end some arrangement had been struck between the promoters of Biology Genesis and Sunrise to pool resources and ticket holders were therefore forwarded to their present, industrial park location. To conclude the tale the Liverpudlians had pointed out their hapless mate – slumped in the early morning wind, suffering a bad drug come-down – and told how, on arrival, he’d dropped to his knees like the Pope following a particularly turbulent flight and planted a huge smacker onto the filthy tarmac.
҉
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