Saturday Night, circa 1944

We came together in the summer. When the hornets were angry and the wasps were lazy. When the windows were wide open throughout the night and the scent of honeysuckle and salt water were woven into the blanket of humidity against the skin.

Sat on the roof of the boarding house we could choose between cider or elderberry wine. We chose both. Summer made our humanity take a back seat to the more pressing needs of animal survival. So, naturally we began to bitch. About Barbara. About men. About the heat.

Selena had been making us laugh again. It had been her turn to cycle for rations and P.C. Scott had stopped her at Squires Gate. Having loaded up her basket with black market gammon joints for Uncle Bob she had set off home for us on the family bicycle - with no brakes. We all knew how to stop the metal monster with our feet against the front tyre but the loaded bike was so heavy, and Lena was so little, she'd just ridden straight over the cross roads. P.C. Scott had given her a five shilling fine but Uncle Bob hadn't clipped her. After all, the helpful policeman had insisted in steering her home with a bike full of illegal pork products. They thanked him for his help and hung the ham in the attic.

As the sun set over South Shore Pier our little group raised it's glasses and watched the resident RAF boys file out into Blackpool to do battle with the American lads on the dance floor of the Tower Ballroom. The prize? The easy favours of a Manchester girl out for the night and a pair of silk stockings.

"Right then, Cissy," Mary turned to me and popped half a cigarette between my lips, "Me first."

This said, she kicked off her shoes, pulled her skirt up and tucked it into her knickers. Selena opened the tin of gravy browning and began rubbing it smoothly over Mary's legs to create a pair of stockings and I dipped a sliver of charcoal in to my cider ready to run a seam down her legs. We three always wore the best silk stockings in town - until it rained. The trick was to wear a dark skirt on the dance floor.

Even though the pink glow of evening had darkened to violet, the heat had not diminished. The air hung heavy and hit back as we pushed our way next to the dance floor. Selena's light brown curls bobbed away through the throng of tables for a few minutes and then returned triumphant. In the crook of her arm she had acquired three, very nearly full, pop bottles from a deserted table. As we toasted each other, she yelped, eyes filled with panic, by the authoritative hand placed on her shoulder.

"Wouldn't you ladies prefer your own drinks?" Came an amused voice.

"Oh, Tony Gommer!" Selena chided him, slapping his hand away in mock disgust, "You shouldn't go creeping up on folk; people will think you have gone daft."

"I have!" he laughed at her, "Want to dance?" She grinned, pressed her pop bottle into Mary's hand and turned into his arms.

Then there were two. Not for long though. Mary had hair like Veronica Lake and sure enough an adoring circle of manly laughter began to gather around her. I was just about to go and find another lemonade when I found my way blocked by Barbara Jones. Red hair, green eyes and Betty Grable legs all the way up to here. No-one liked her. We hated her. She seemed to take a perverse delight in tormenting Mary - her only real competitor.

"Let me guess," she grinned, like a cat playing with it's dinner. "This week you're from... Rochdale? You need some rich Yankee to take you to the station. He'll give you some smokes and chocolate, and you'll give him a quick kiss goodbye. This I gotta see, Cissy."

"Actually, we're from Salford," I retorted, then realised I'd given the game away. How did she do that? Her lips twitched in pleasure, she arched her eyebrow and broke in to Mary's circle.

"Mary! What a surprise." She hugged her, "Oh, you better hurry, dear - the last train to Manchester will be here in twenty minutes."

A look of bewildered confusion crossed Mary's face before I crashed in on them. "Yes, Barbara's right," I gently pulled her hand. "We better go."

A bright, pine scented chin jutted in on me, "Don't you worry now, miss," he smiled, ushering our group toward the door. "My boys'll escort you to the station. You won't miss your train; we'll make sure of that."

---------------------------------------------------

Our feet hurt. Mary leaned on me while she knocked the stones from her shoes on an old styal.

"I hate Barbara," she muttered, and we set off again, back toward Blackpool from the Kirkham station five miles away.

"Me too," I agreed through barely parted, sugared lips, "but these bon-bons make up for it."

She smiled and ruffled my hair, laughing.

"Same again next weekend, Cissy. Same again."

(858 words)