Love and Fallout (37 page)

She shook her head. ‘Kiss you? Because I felt like it. It was spontaneous. It didn't
mean
anything.'

No it didn't mean anything. What could it possibly have meant?

She looked back at the scrappy benders, our patch of muddy ground. ‘This place is all I've got. I made this my life. Now I've got nothing.'

‘I'm sorry.' She walked on and I followed. ‘Please stay.'

She whipped around. ‘You're even more naïve than I thought.' Her voice was full of disgust.

‘Let me talk to them.'

‘You've done enough.'

We were nearly at the road. She picked up speed and I went after her, but she turned aggressively, telling me to leave her alone. I wanted to press a finger to the beauty spot near her lip. I wanted to pull her to me and beg for forgiveness, and then she'd be able to feel my heart struggling against her and know it was breaking and she was breaking it.

She put her hand in the pocket of her new coat. ‘You might as well have this,' she said, her face empty. ‘Happy Christmas.' She turned and walked into the dark.

I fumbled the box open. Inside, on a bed of dark blue velvet, lay her peace symbol earrings, their silver sheen catching the moonlight.

*

I felt as dead as winter. But I couldn't leave. As part of our bail conditions we had to report to Newbury Police Station every day. I was with Jean during one of these visits when the desk sergeant asked if we'd seen a newspaper. We were at the front of the line and the rest of the women formed a shambling queue behind us. Registering our blank response, and pleased with himself, he reached under the counter for a tabloid, flicking through until he found the right place. He folded the page back and laid it before us.

‘There you go.'

LADY MUCK SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY.

I scanned the four short paragraphs below the savage capitals. They told the story of Posh Peace Girl's Bonk with US Airman. They'd got hold of a photograph of Rori in an evening gown. Also illustrating the report was a snapshot of three hardcore members of Sapphire gate during a blockade, a photo of Rori's family home, and a snatched photo of Jocasta with her head down wearing a scarf and fitting her key into her front door. I felt giddy, a wave of nausea rising through me.

In among all those new faces at the fire it would have been easy to plant a journalist. I thought of Rori hearing of the report, and Jocasta seeing the news, their name dragged through the mud. What would her father think? It was all my fault.

Jean sighed and pushed the paper back over the desk. ‘This is of no interest to me,' she said. ‘Is there anything else or can we go?'

He raised his eyebrows, ‘All publicity is good publicity, isn't that what they say?'

The rest of the women were waiting to file into the station, all the women who'd interrupted their lives to witness for peace. I lowered my head as I passed them.

32

Miss Student Body

‘Are you sure about this wig?' I ask Maggie. We're making our way from the bar, which is the main point of illumination and dazzles bluely like a swimming pool at night. Everywhere else is inky dark.

‘Blonde suits you,' she replies over her shoulder, half speaking, half shouting because a heavy baseline has begun to reverberate from an early '80s hip-hop track, so loudly I can feel it in my heart. It's years since I've been inside a nightclub and this cavernous maze, which has the surround sound of a multiplex cinema, is a far cry from the glitterball hang-outs of my Stevenage youth, their tricolour disco lights and boxy amps.

Tuesday night is '80s night at the Punch Bowl in Ipswich and everyone is encouraged to dress the part. Tonight is also the regional semi-final of Miss Student Body, which is why we're here, me in my stone-washed denim and Maggie doing a fair impression of Carol Decker. Maggie insisted on the outfits; she said they'd help us blend in.

‘Where shall we sit?' I defer to Maggie because she was always the one to decide: back in our teens it was all about being noticed but tonight it's more about camouflage.

‘No one will spot us here,' she says, stepping gingerly up two shallow stairs, ‘I can hardly see my own knees.'

By no one she means Pippa. When I mentioned the competition to Maggie she threw back her head and laughed,
Wouldn't
you
love
to
be
a
fly
on
the
wall?
And that one casual remark has somehow resulted in us driving across the east of England dressed like extras from a Bananarama video. Our plan is to slip into the club, watch the competition and then slip away. But the operation is more than idle curiosity on my part: it's being done in an effort to understand my daughter, to shed the blinkers of what she calls my lefty prejudices. Despite its name, I want to believe that Miss Student Body is for confident and even, yes, empowered young women.

Our circular table overlooks the low runway around which a young crowd is assembling. A veil of dry ice begins to roll over the platform like lakeside mist.

‘What
are
Rockshots anyway?' I ask, eying up the screens emblazoned with electric pink branding. The contestants must be waiting behind them.

‘Flavoured tequila shots. Yuk.' Maggie pulls a face. ‘One of their reps came into the pub. Taste like melted ice-pops laced with booze. How's the G&T?'

‘All right. It's taking the edge off.' For the last twenty minutes I've been swinging between nervous excitement and all-out anxiety. ‘Think I'll ditch these,' I say, unrolling my legwarmers.

‘They go with the outfit,' she says, laying a restraining hand on my arm.

‘I've had my share of looking daft recently,' I say, then immediately regret alluding to the make-over show because we've agreed to put it behind us.

‘Honestly Tessa, I thought I was helping out, thought it might even bring you and Pete closer together…' She knows about Pete and the supply teacher, but I don't want to go over it all tonight. ‘Still, it's not as if I'm a relationship guru, is it?' She shrugs and takes a sip from her blue-tinted glass. ‘Actually I'm having a break from the internet stuff.'

‘Are you?'

She nods. ‘It's wearing me out.'

‘You'll meet someone, you're bound to,' I say pointlessly because what do I know, and what if she does and he turns out like her ex-husband Rick who got himself a gambling habit and worked his way through their joint account? And who says she'd be happier if she met someone anyway? How many relationships start off the same way, two people sharing a lovely bubble which carries them high over the dreary factories of daily life until they're dropped onto a stretch of waste ground, blinking, wondering what happened.

‘What's on your mind?' asks Maggie, and I check myself.

‘Nothing.' I raise my glass,
‘Here's to a good night out.' We clink and chat about nothing much until a brassy fanfare sounds and a voice announces: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Miss Student Body.' Squeals from the crowd. My stomach turns over. ‘Please welcome your host for the evening…' I've a feeling the host in question is behind the screen giving his own introduction ‘…Gary Bunch.' Maggie squeezes my arm and Gary springs on stage looking suitably pumped up, his hair a study of highlighted spikes. He addresses us with holiday camp bravura before introducing the four judges who each take their seats at the foot of the runway. One of them is the owner of the nightclub, a porky chap in a cummerbund who looks all set for a dinner dance.

‘Are you ready Ipswich?' cries Gary after some more spiel. Ipswich confirms that it is and Gary's voice hits a high. ‘Right then, let's meet the girls!' He waves an arm to herd them in and the sound system erupts with a diva belting out a song the crowd knows – something about letting me show you what I've got – and a dozen young women stride onto the runway dressed in party outfits. They've obviously been instructed to dance because there's plenty of jigging and twirling. One girl mimes the stirring of a giant bowl of invisible cake mixture.

‘There she is!' says Maggie. I catch sight of Pippa, her hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders. ‘She looks fantastic.'

And she does. Moving fluidly in a short tulip-shaped skirt with a long-sleeved red top, she spots a friend in the crowd and waves.

‘Let's hear it for our Miss Student Body finalists!' calls Gary, still whooping up the audience. When the contestants have done a circuit of the runway they form a line, ready for Gary to approach with his microphone. They are all lovely and all wearing numbered wristbands. ‘And what's your name?' he asks a tall girl in a sequined mini dress, turning to the crowd as if to speak on their behalf. He could very well have a day job demonstrating food mixers in shopping centres.

The tall girl, Eve, tells Gary she's studying medicine. Cue a toe-curling remark about doctors and nurses. Eve laughs along because seven years at medical school must be expensive. He moves down the line, giving out vital statistics and engaging in the same embarrassing banter. Is this irony? It's hard to tell. And is he meant to be sending himself up too? I remember Dom in our living room, crossing one giant Goth boot over the other and shaking his head.

‘And next we have…' My heart is bolting as the mic is presented to Pippa. She leans towards it and gives her name.

‘P-p-p-p-Pippa,' says Gary with a stagger. ‘And what are you studying over there in Kent…' He glances at his clipboard but thankfully doesn't have any double entendres for European Studies and Economics. Seeing her up there I feel the same anxiety as when she played the Fairy Godmother in an infant school production of Cinderella.

‘So you're here to win?' asks Gary.

‘I'm here to have a good time,' she replies, less comfortable now, one hand locked to her hip.

Is she having a good time? I take another sip of gin and tonic and try to relax, but the next thing to come out of Gary's mouth puts paid to that.

‘I heard a whisper that someone in your family wasn't a big fan of this competition.'

Pippa seems surprised by the question and hesitates. ‘My mum wasn't too keen.'

‘And why's that?' asks Gary cocking his head in mock innocence.

Pippa stands too close to the mic and it pops. Gary pulls it back. ‘Um, she's a bit old school.'

‘What?' I say aloud.

‘Is that right?' says Gary, who then asks her something about burning her bra, which elicits cheers from a group of lads in the front. Pippa bites her lip then remembers to smile. It's like watching a car crash. The only problem is that my daughter is one of the victims and there's no way I can pull her from the wreckage.

‘Is this as bad as I think it is?' I ask when the girls have finally been interviewed and the break arrives.

Maggie grimaces. ‘It's pretty bad,' she says like a doctor confirming test results. ‘I'll get you another drink.' She's gone for ages and I sit in the deafening gloom, wondering whether to leave. Duran Duran pumps through the speakers. A girl with a charity bucket is circulating, and when Maggie sets down the drinks there's hardly time to discuss what we've seen before Gary is back to introduce the talent round. The crowd has swollen. The anticipation is palpable, reminding me of the one and only time I went to a greyhound race, that moment before the traps sprang open.

By the time Pippa is introduced we've had one too many contestants singing warbly American ballads and the audience are restless. My fingers play fretfully with my nylon hair. Please don't sing, I whisper, trying to remember if I've heard her sing anything since she used to entertain us with The Dingle Dangle Scarecrow. When her name is called she walks on wearing the party outfit and high heels, a basket over her arm. Some sections of the audience are talking amongst themselves. At the centre of the stage she stops, puts the basket down and signals for music. But the music isn't the intro to a ballad, it's a burst of Scott Joplin, and from the basket Pippa removes three beanbags which she throws and catches in a simple loop. After a few seconds she halts, silences the music, gives the crowd a knowing look and replaces the beanbags. The incidental chatter dies down. This time she removes from the basket a banana, a tangerine and an apple, holding up each piece of fruit deliberately. She cues the music again, flings the fruit up and begins to juggle. A few cheers. I'd forgotten all about her childhood talent. When she was little she'd to come to rallies with me, there were always kids for her to play with, and by the time she was thirteen she could juggle five beanbags and do tricks. At a change in the music she dips into the basket and removes another banana which she presents with a theatrical bow.

Standing square, holding the four pieces of fruit, she throws the apple up and follows it with the orange, but she's off balance and catches them prematurely, rocking on the high heels.
Come on Pip
. This time, she kicks the heels off and stands barefoot, looking at the top centre of the imaginary arc to keep focus. One banana goes up, the tangerine, another banana then the apple until she's throwing and catching in a fluid loop. She walks in a circle, faces the audience and reverses the direction of the loop to the sound of applause. As the piano music reaches a last chorus she changes the pattern by crossing the bananas so they're arcing high over the other fruit. The urge to call out like a stage-school mum is nearly overwhelming. Me and Maggie are already clapping hard even before the music stops.