pluck.
At Christmas, the IRA set off a bomb in Oxford Circus, shattering the windows of Selfridges department store. I had got my ears pierced there on the ground floor just six months before on my fifteenth birthday. Now there were gaping holes where the holiday windows had been and the street was covered in broken glass. The whole neighborhood was empty at a time when everyone was usually bustling about, doing their shopping at Marks & Spencer and the other stores. It cast an eerie pall on the season. Even as the bombs seemed to be getting closer, they didn’t stop Mother from enjoying the holidays. We barely saw her on Christmas and only once or twice during the week. On New Year’s Eve, Mother was going to a party in Holland Park. She headed out the door, reeking of Fracas, fishing in her bag for her car keys.
“I’m off. Be good. I’ll be home late.”
The door shut and she was gone. What were we going todo? The only thing on telly was The Bridge on the River Kwai , and the shops were closed, so we sat in front of the electric fire and moped.
Then Robin sat up. “Hey, what about having our own party?” she suggested slyly. “I mean, everyone’s folks are out getting blasted, right?”
“You’re a genius,” I said. We grabbed the phone and made some calls. Within half an hour, kids filled the house while T. Rex blasted from the stereo. The Cassidy girls showed up with a pack of people. Graham Becker, who was a senior, took up a collection and ran down to the off-license to buy beer. And soon, Tracy arrived with her coterie of hangers-on and admirers.
“Wow, great party, Wendy and Robin. Thanks for inviting us,” Tracy said in her customary twang. All the boys’ heads whipped around as she strode coltishly into the room. Someone turned out the lights and there were screams and cheers. While kids were dancing in the front room, I went outside to the garden, where people were smoking.
“It’s bloody freezing,” said Graham Becker, who had returned from the off-license with the goods.
“Let’s make a fire,” I suggested. “Everyone collect sticks and stuff, okay?” Soon we had a flimsy pile of twigs, leaves, and bits of wood from the tube station bombing in the center of the garden. Graham used his Zippo to light it. It mostly smoked.
“Hey,” Graham said, “what else you got around here to burn?”
“I found something!” Lynn dragged a busted wooden chair out of a shed in the back of the garden. It was then that I realized she was wearing my mother’s black Pucci cocktail dress with the tasseled belt and her leopard hat. T. Rex continued to blare through the back windows. Lynn tossed the chair on the fire, and it finally caught. The flames shot up into the evening sky and everyone whirled around them to the pulsating music.
I raced up the stairs and discovered Robbie had thrown open Mother’s closets to the party, and half-naked girls were stripping off to try on her stuff. A few boys stood on the landing watching and laughing. Lynn’s sister, Diane, was in a turquoise Moroccan caftan, draped in red Berber bead jewelry. Tracy was putting on a black wool jumpsuit that tucked into her boots and made her look like Emma Peel. Robin was wearing a Gucci leather gaucho outfit with an Hermès scarf wrapped around her head Gypsy-style, and most of Mother’s jewelry. She saw me and handed me my favorite—a black Chanel toreador jacket with a matching flat hat. I grabbed a fox-fur coat, too, and headed out to the fire, followed by the other dress-ups. The fire needed more fuel, so I found some slats from a bed frame and a few dresser drawers in the shed to chuck on the burning pile. Dancing flamenco-style around the fire, clapping and whooping, banging our beer cans together, we looked like refugees from some fabulous swinging-London fashion-runway pub crawl. The air throbbed with David Bowie singing “Rebel Rebel,” and we all sang along with him, our breath making clouds inthe night air
At Christmas, the IRA set off a bomb in Oxford Circus, shattering the windows of Selfridges department store. I had got my ears pierced there on the ground floor just six months before on my fifteenth birthday. Now there were gaping holes where the holiday windows had been and the street was covered in broken glass. The whole neighborhood was empty at a time when everyone was usually bustling about, doing their shopping at Marks & Spencer and the other stores. It cast an eerie pall on the season. Even as the bombs seemed to be getting closer, they didn’t stop Mother from enjoying the holidays. We barely saw her on Christmas and only once or twice during the week. On New Year’s Eve, Mother was going to a party in Holland Park. She headed out the door, reeking of Fracas, fishing in her bag for her car keys.
“I’m off. Be good. I’ll be home late.”
The door shut and she was gone. What were we going todo? The only thing on telly was The Bridge on the River Kwai , and the shops were closed, so we sat in front of the electric fire and moped.
Then Robin sat up. “Hey, what about having our own party?” she suggested slyly. “I mean, everyone’s folks are out getting blasted, right?”
“You’re a genius,” I said. We grabbed the phone and made some calls. Within half an hour, kids filled the house while T. Rex blasted from the stereo. The Cassidy girls showed up with a pack of people. Graham Becker, who was a senior, took up a collection and ran down to the off-license to buy beer. And soon, Tracy arrived with her coterie of hangers-on and admirers.
“Wow, great party, Wendy and Robin. Thanks for inviting us,” Tracy said in her customary twang. All the boys’ heads whipped around as she strode coltishly into the room. Someone turned out the lights and there were screams and cheers. While kids were dancing in the front room, I went outside to the garden, where people were smoking.
“It’s bloody freezing,” said Graham Becker, who had returned from the off-license with the goods.
“Let’s make a fire,” I suggested. “Everyone collect sticks and stuff, okay?” Soon we had a flimsy pile of twigs, leaves, and bits of wood from the tube station bombing in the center of the garden. Graham used his Zippo to light it. It mostly smoked.
“Hey,” Graham said, “what else you got around here to burn?”
“I found something!” Lynn dragged a busted wooden chair out of a shed in the back of the garden. It was then that I realized she was wearing my mother’s black Pucci cocktail dress with the tasseled belt and her leopard hat. T. Rex continued to blare through the back windows. Lynn tossed the chair on the fire, and it finally caught. The flames shot up into the evening sky and everyone whirled around them to the pulsating music.
I raced up the stairs and discovered Robbie had thrown open Mother’s closets to the party, and half-naked girls were stripping off to try on her stuff. A few boys stood on the landing watching and laughing. Lynn’s sister, Diane, was in a turquoise Moroccan caftan, draped in red Berber bead jewelry. Tracy was putting on a black wool jumpsuit that tucked into her boots and made her look like Emma Peel. Robin was wearing a Gucci leather gaucho outfit with an Hermès scarf wrapped around her head Gypsy-style, and most of Mother’s jewelry. She saw me and handed me my favorite—a black Chanel toreador jacket with a matching flat hat. I grabbed a fox-fur coat, too, and headed out to the fire, followed by the other dress-ups. The fire needed more fuel, so I found some slats from a bed frame and a few dresser drawers in the shed to chuck on the burning pile. Dancing flamenco-style around the fire, clapping and whooping, banging our beer cans together, we looked like refugees from some fabulous swinging-London fashion-runway pub crawl. The air throbbed with David Bowie singing “Rebel Rebel,” and we all sang along with him, our breath making clouds inthe night air
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