Without Sandra
THE WEEK DRAGGED ON. When Mum got in from work on Tuesday I was watching Five O’Clock Club on telly. Although Five O’Clock Club had been a programme that gave the Beatles one of their first TV appearances, it was a children’s programme and I didn’t normally watch it. Mum said, ‘Why are you lolling about looking so miserable?’
‘No reason. I’ve got nothing to do. Sandra’s gone away.’ I sat up straight. ‘To stay with a friend,’ I added quickly. ‘For a few days.’
‘Well, if you really are at a loose end, why don’t you go to the CND meeting tonight? You enjoyed it last time, didn’t you?’
‘Is there a film?’
‘No, it’s a talk tonight, Helen Grenville was saying.’
I sighed.
‘I think it’s Pat Arrowsmith. She’s one of the founders of CND. She’s a good speaker, I’ve heard. She doesn’t just talk about nuclear disarmament. She’s been to prison for her beliefs, and I think she’s even been force-fed, rather like the suffragettes. So she talks about prison conditions, too, which should interest you.’
‘Are you going?’
‘No, it’s our Women’s Fellowship meeting tonight. And anyway, it’s being organised by the Youth CND group, so I don’t think they’d appreciate older folk.’
‘So I’d have to go on my own?’
‘Well, you know where it is, and you’re sure to know one or two people.’
‘Yes, people with beards. The question is, do I want to know them?’
‘Don’t be so silly. Lay the table.’
As the tablecloth billowed across the table, I remembered the Aldermaston march. I remembered the singing and the banners, and the feeling of everyone fighting for something they believed in, the sense that I might be part of something that was actually making a difference. I thought of the conversations we’d had, about politics, but also about music and even telly. I remembered the jokes, the laughter. I wanted to have those conversations regularly, not just once a year on the march – I wondered if going to the Youth CND meeting would be like that.
*
I caught the bus into town. During tea I’d thought about what to wear. I was always pleased with how I looked as a mod, but I didn’t always fit in. I had decided to wear my big thin black jumper and my brown and white dogtooth check skirt. Combined with my moccasins, I felt I was still being true to mod, but not too mod. And I thought the duffel coat was sensible.
The Friends’ Meeting House was in Rainsford Road. When I got off the bus at the bus station, I stood uncertainly on the pavement. Suddenly I really wanted to turn left, stroll into the centre of town, along London Road and slip down into the Orpheus, say hello to a few people, buy a glass of milk and put ‘Hi-Heel Sneakers’ on the jukebox. But I knew I had to move on. I had at least to try something different. This could be a new part of my life. Perhaps it was only because Sandra had gone that I could do this.
I turned right and walked towards the low neat modern building that was the Friends’ Meeting House.
I walked up the steps and into a wide, light foyer which seemed to be full of beatniks. The men all appeared to have beards. The girls all wore sloppy jumpers, but not like mine – theirs were thick and patterned, not thin and plain. There was a lot of backcombed hair. It was like the back seat of the coach to the Aldermaston march.
As the doors closed slowly behind me the conversation in the foyer stopped and everyone turned to look at me.
A girl I thought I recognised walked towards me, smiling. She was holding two glasses of water. ‘Linda? You’re Linda, aren’t you? How nice to see you.’ It was Olivia Pearson from school. She was in the year above me. I was surprised she recognised me. I knew her because she always looked very stylish in her school uniform; she managed to make her skirt swing really elegantly, and she had metal tips on the heels of her shoes that clicked in a really cool way when she walked out of assembly. She was wearing a straight black dress that came to her knees and thick black stockings. Her curly hair was pulled back into a pony tail. ‘This is your first meeting, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Come with me.’ As she spoke to me the conversation in the room began again.
We walked into a large, light room. Olivia put the glasses of water onto a table at the front of the room, then guided me to a seat in a middle row and sat down beside me.
She looked at her watch. ‘I think they’ll give it a couple more minutes. One or two haven’t arrived yet.’
‘Do I have to sign in or anything?’ I asked.
‘Not at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I remember when you wore your CND badge to school. I was really impressed.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, and I’ve been hoping you would come to the meetings.’
‘But I haven’t seen you on the Aldermaston,’ I said.
‘Ah, that’s because I usually march with Hertford CND, because my sister and my dad live there.’
I looked around the room. People were wandering in. ‘Do you think meetings like this can change things?’
‘If we didn’t have meetings like this we wouldn’t have the numbers of people that come on the march. It’s all about organisation. If we all do something, then big things happen.’
A man with a thick black beard and black horn-rimmed glasses walked in with a woman in jeans and a big overcoat, with short dark hair. The man called the meeting to order, told us he was Don, the chairman of the group, and introduced Pat Arrowsmith.
It was a small meeting – there were only fifteen of us – and there were empty seats in the front row. Later Olivia said that was an excellent turnout. Pat Arrowsmith didn’t seem concerned at the size of the gathering and thanked the group for inviting her. She spoke about Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the terrible long-lasting damage caused by nuclear weapons. Some things I knew already, other things were new to me: children being born with deformities, strange illnesses appearing in people who had been in the vicinity. Then she talked about being arrested and what prison had been like, not just for her as a political campaigner, but for the ordinary women prisoners. And she talked about what we could do – demonstrate, write letters, have discussions, if necessary get arrested.
I was enthralled by everything she said.
At the end of the meeting one or two people asked questions, about CND and whether the campaign went far enough. A girl with long straight hair asked whether CND was doing enough about the Vietnam War. Someone else called out that they were doing too much. Pat Arrowsmith answered carefully and said you couldn’t divide the two because of the power the Americans had in the world and in the arms race. There was a short discussion about unilateral disarmament, could it ever work and shouldn’t we push for all countries to ban the bomb, not just our own. Then someone at the back asked why were there always trad jazz bands on the Aldermaston march – a question I appreciated – and someone said it was because modern jazz wasn’t loud enough. Everybody laughed. Then Don closed the meeting and thanked Pat Arrowsmith, who had to leave to catch a train back to London to speak at another meeting.
The time had flown.
‘I need a pint and a smoke. Let’s go up to the County Hotel,’ said someone in a tweed jacket with leather patches. He had been holding a pipe during the meeting.
‘That’s Guy,’ Olivia whispered. ‘He’s a poet.’
A poet! Yet he looked so ordinary. Apart from the pipe.
‘The one who made the joke was Greg. He’s got a Morgan.’
‘What’s a Morgan?’
‘It’s a crazy car, and it’s always breaking down and he’s always trying to mend it. He does tend to smell of oil and petrol. But he’s very good at offering lifts.’
*
The group of about ten people ambled up to the County Hotel, still talking about the meeting. I didn’t know if I was dreading the possibility of seeing someone I knew or if I was proud to be in this new group. I decided I rather liked it.
‘So? What did you think?’ Olivia asked as we walked into a small lounge area. ‘Will you come again?’
‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘I enjoyed it. It was . . . inspiring.’ I sat down beside her. Greg asked people what they wanted to drink. Everyone was reaching into their pockets or purses for money. ‘It was just what I wanted.’ I took out half a crown.
‘Put it away,’ Olivia said, ‘this one’s on me.’