Drainpipes and Winklepickers

A short story by Terence Watts

Mickey swore loudly as he jerked his unpolished, size eleven winklepicker boot at the side of the jukebox, trying for yet another free play.

I sat transfixed by Lorna’s steady, dark gaze and faintly challenging smile, lusting after her more than she could ever have realized. But Lorna belonged to Mickey - it was like that in those days - and if he picked up even the faintest idea of what I was thinking, I was a dead man. I tore my eyes away from hers and stared at the floor.

His kick was as well-aimed as usual and some new bloke called Cliff Richard started singing about his Living Doll for the third time; Tom shot a daggers look at us, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he shoved a cup under the espresso coffee machine and tried to drown the music with the equipment’s hissing and gurgling. Tom was the owner of the Bluebird Cafe and a bit of a hard-nut, but I think he was as frightened of Mickey as the rest of us were.

The Bluebird was near the bus station and was frequented mostly by drivers, conductors and delivery men during the day. But at night, it was ours. We’d strut and swagger, resplendent in our drainpipe trousers, winklepicker shoes and sleekly swept back DA hairstyles with the mandatory curly bit at the front. We’d straddle the chairs back-to-front like they did in the American films, and swig coffee or cola into the early hours.

None strutted and swaggered more threateningly than Mickey. He’d made menace into an art-form before most people had even heard of Brando, and it was common knowledge that he carried a cut-throat razor in his pocket.

‘Davey’s rotten quiet tonight,’ Lorna said suddenly. ‘Arncha, Dave? You all right?’

I’d been covertly staring at her breasts, sharply thrusting inside her angora jumper, and I nodded dumbly, wishing she’d not drawn her boyfriend’s attention to me just at that moment. He stared at me, Brylcreemed quiff quivering slightly above his heavy, pock-marked face, and a silence settled abruptly over everybody. It was a sort of expectant hush that I had dreaded being the subject of often enough.

‘She spoke to yer,’ he said with a kind of quiet sarcasm. ‘Aintcha gonna answer her, Davey?’

‘Er… yeah, ‘course,’ I mumbled. I could feel myself shaking and hoped it didn’t show. ‘Sorry, Lorna, I wasn’t thinking. I’m fine. I’m OK.’

‘I’m fine, I’m OK,’ Mickey mimicked, to sycophantic sniggering from the others. ‘Well, Davey, you make sure you stay that way, eh?’ Then, without any warning, his left foot smashed into the leg of my chair and I went sprawling to the floor.

I felt my neck reddening amongst the hoots of laughter as I scrambled to my feet and it was then, in that very moment, that I determined that I would somehow get even for this insult.

. . .

It was a week or two later that Mickey failed to turn up one night. His seat remained empty all evening and every play on the jukebox had to be paid for. Nobody seemed to know what to do; this was an unheard of situation and even though a few of us knew where he lived nobody was sure whether or not it was a good idea to call at his house.

‘Someone oughta find out what’s up,’ Lorna said, at about half-past nine. ‘Go round, like. What about you, Davey?’

I shook my head. I’d known Mickey since school days and was very much aware that you simply didn’t check up on him if you knew what was good for you. Anyway, I’d met his mother in the high-street earlier that day, and it was no surprise to me that he wasn’t there. But I didn’t tell the others what I knew.
‘I’ll go.’ It was Don who had spoken. He was a newish member of our crowd. ‘Anyone got his address?’

Lorna gave him directions, then fixed me with those dark eyes of hers. ‘Let’s hope nothing’s happened to ‘im, eh?’ she said, to nobody in particular. There was a kind of anticipatory edge to her voice which, for some reason, seemed to hold a promise that sent erotic thrills surging around my loins.

Don was back within the hour. ‘Oh, er, he’s in the nick,’ he said in answer to everybody’s question. I knew that wasn’t the truth, but kept quiet. Don would have his own reasons for such a statement. ‘He’ll be in for about three weeks,’ he added airily. ‘Maybe four.’

‘But why?’ Alec said, mystified. ‘What’s ‘e done?’

Don tapped the side of his nose and looked conspiratorial. ‘Can’t tell yer that,’ he said quietly. ‘You know Mickey. I’ll let ‘im tell yer, when ‘e gets out.’
The rest of that evening will stay in my mind for as long as I live. I flirted ardently with Lorna and she, in turn, flirted back, fluttering her lashes and hooking her elbows around the back of her chair, so that those wonderful breasts achieved even more prominence than usual.

. . .

It was the next night that Dawn arrived. Dawn was almost the opposite of Lorna; where Lorna had a sleek black beehive hair-do, Dawn’s golden blonde tresses hung in loose curls down her back. Her eyes were blue and clear and her lithe figure was flattered by the wide belt she wore around bottom hugging, white trousers. Thrusting bosoms, she had not, but there a promise of a softness and feminine warmth beneath her crisp linen blouse that was quite enthralling.

‘Can I join you lot?’ she asked, plonking herself down on an empty chair. ‘Only, I’m new in town and I don’t know anybody yet.’

Alec, Don, Bert and his girlfriend - I never could remember her name - and Johnny all stared; Lorna simply glared. Then the newcomer shot me a smile that turned my legs to jelly. ‘I’m Dawn,’ she announced.

I instantly wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anybody. My God, how I wanted her. It was exquisite.

But Mickey would be back in three weeks, maybe four, and he’d have her. It was the unwritten rule; he had to have first pick and if he wanted her, everybody else would have to pretend not to. And if she didn’t want him… well, that was most unlikely, because he seemed to have some hidden charm, some special power over females, that to my knowledge had never once let him down. That was how he’d got Lorna. But once he’d seen Dawn, Lorna would be history - unless I could think of something. I began to form a plan in my mind.

A week later, I went into action. It was a Thursday evening and everybody was there. First, I selected an Elvis Presley record on the jukebox; Elvis was persona non grata as far as Mickey was concerned and I got some odd looks from the others. But it was two-and-a-half minutes later that I really began to stake my claim. As the record came to the end, I strolled over to the jukebox to deliver a sideways kick in what I hoped was the right place.
It worked perfectly. Everybody stared in disbelief as the strains of “Blue Suede

Shoes” filled the room again, and even Tom forgot to be angry at this abuse of the machine. It was him, in fact, that started a very slow hand-clap and within seconds all the others joined in. ‘You ain’t arf gonna be in trouble when Mickey gets to ‘ear about this,’ Bert muttered, with a leer. ”e’s gonna paste yer.’

I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly and without a word, grabbed Lorna by the wrist and jerked her onto the clear bit of floor between the tables and the yellow laconite counter. As the others stared in open mouthed disbelief, I began to jive with her. The six easy lessons I’d had at Mimi Legrand’s dance academy the previous week paid off, and her stupefied expression gave way first to amazement, then impressed pleasure, as I spun her from one hand to the other.

‘Mickey’s gonna kill ‘im,’ Alec whispered.

The others nodded in agreement and Dawn looked from one to the other of them with a puzzled expression on her face; she didn’t yet know how it was with Mickey.

Dawn was truly nice. She even took the trouble to see where had Don had got to when he didn’t turn up for a couple of nights and loudly admonished everybody for laughing when she announced that he’d got measles. I noticed that she was grinning faintly herself, though, and was entranced when she caught my eye and the grin suddenly became a radiant smile. My plan simply had to work. It just had to. Dawn had to be mine.

For the next two weeks I lorded it over the rest. I kicked the jukebox every evening and was rewarded by Tom making the expresso machine hiss and gurgle even more loudly than he had for Mickey; I danced with Lorna frequently enough that we moved in a practised unison that was almost sexual in its own way; and I took charge of the evening meetings, setting the pace and the tone of the conversation. I even changed the sitting habits of the entire group, from the reverse straddle, to balancing precariously on the back legs.
Everybody seemed to accept my leadership without much question, even apparently growing tired of speculating how Mickey would kill me on his return. They began, instead, to idly contemplate how I might defend myself or maybe even try to maintain my new position, though the consensus of opinion was that this was unlikely and anyway, it was akin to blasphemy to even think such a thing.

My own stubborn refusal to answer any questions seemed to convince them all, Lorna included, that I possessed some special power like Karate or Judo, or something. But they were wrong. I had nothing but my wits.

All in all, I was having a wonderful time, and actually began to feel quite cocky. But all good things come to an end and one evening, Bert came bursting through the door, his eyes alight with excitement.

‘Mickey’s back!’ he yelled. ‘I was on the top of the bus an’ I saw him in the garage with ‘is bike.’ He grinned triumphantly around at everybody. ‘Gettin’ petrol,’ he added, unnecessarily. I had long been aware that Bert could scarcely wait for this moment and now his enthusiasm began to rub off on the others.

‘You’d better run, Davey!’ Alec advised.

‘You might as well just die now,’ Johnny said, to laughter.

‘Watcha gonna do, Davey?’ Bert leered.

In answer, I strolled to the jukebox and dropped my threepenny bit into the slot. I deliberated for a while, somehow controlling the shaking which had started in my stomach, then jabbed at the button to play “Blue Suede Shoes”. Then, to gasps from everyone present, I grabbed hold of Lorna’s wrist and jerked her onto the floor.

I had timed it to perfection. The door opened just before the record stopped, and Mickey stood there staring, open-mouthed; his gape became an angry snarl when I nonchalantly tapped the side of the jukebox with the side of my foot to start the music again, and I thought he’d burst a blood vessel when I began to twirl Lorna back and forth.

‘Oy!’ he yelled, finding his voice suddenly.

I let go of Lorna’s hand. ‘Stay there!’ I commanded her, and she obediently did so. As I said, that was how it was in those days.

I walked up to Mickey, staring fixedly at him, as the others looked on expectantly. ‘Everyone thinks you’re a tough guy who’s been in the nick,’ I said, quietly enough that only he could hear it above the music. ‘But if you hurt me, I’m going to tell them all that you’ve simply had measles. I saw your mum and she told me. And now Don’s got it - caught it from you, of course, so they’ll all have to believe it.’

It was touch and go. He glowered at me for what felt like half an hour, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Have you told anybody?’ he asked.

‘Not even Lorna,’ I answered steadily. There was a kind of honour in it, now I came to think about it.

He pushed past me, kicked the jukebox in a different place so that the record stopped with a screech, and glowered challengingly at me for a long moment before taking his usual seat and stabbing his forefinger at the chair next to him. Lorna practically fell over in her haste to get there, and everybody watched me, waiting for the next move.

But I had already achieved my objective. I had been seen to encroach on every single bit of Mickey’s territory and yet live to tell the tale. And more importantly, he had been seen to reclaim his property.

‘What on earth did you say to him?’ Bert’s girlfriend asked me in an amazed whisper. I knew that every single one of them was just as astonished as she was and I revelled in their awed silence.

I smiled mysteriously at her, put my forefinger theatrically to my lips, then went and sat down next to Dawn.

Copyright © 1996, 1999-2008 Terence Watts
All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Terence Watts is a writer and hypnotherapist.  Hypnosense, his web page, contains a wealth of information about hypnosis.

No related posts.

Leave a Reply

Name (required)

Mail (will not be published) (required)

Website