Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Tea at Astrid’s didn’t disappoint, her mum dished out generous helpings of steaming casserole and still had plenty saved for when her dad returned from the hospital. Ed wolfed it down with a gusto that charmed her. It was almost eight o clock when they were done and decided they better get back. Pete realised, with a slight sinking feeling, that he was dead once he got home, but the other two were returning home out of courtesy for their families. The older lads walked north, closer to the city centre, while Pete was left to make his own way round a couple of blocks where his own rather pleasant, leaf-fronted house was lit in every window. He felt no warmth of home as he trotted up the steps, just a wish to teleport himself straight up into his room to avoid the hiding he was going to get.

“Pete! Do you have any idea what time it is?!” His mother cried, as he stepped in and shucked off his coat and shoes. He didn’t answer at first, then saw his Dad emerge into the hall way with a frown like thunder.

“I’m sorry, I went to a friend’s house for tea, I didn’t realise it would go on this late, swear I didn’t.”

“What about your homework?”

“I’ll go do it now,”

“You could have at least told us, do you have any idea the inconvenience and worry you’ve caused?!”

“Sorry, I just went to a friend’s for tea.” He glanced at the clock over his mother’s shoulder and found it was eight o clock dead on. Not that late, despite the darkness out in the street.

“And what makes you think you’ve got the right to go gallivanting off?” She barked, and Pete was out of things to say to worm his way out of it.

“Go to your room, and don’t come down. You’re not to go out tomorrow, you hear me? Or the rest of this week.” His father ended all exchanges and Pete tramped up the stairs.

*

“Ed wanted me to ask how you are, you know, from him,” Pete informed his sister over breakfast. Jess sighed, and shrugged,

“Tell Ed I’m not interested, he’s an animal.” She decided at length, crunching her toast daintily between her teeth.

*

Ed returned cautiously to the apartment, hoping he wouldn’t wake the twins, and found his mother lulling Amy to sleep in her room, the door open to keep out the dark. She was knelt by Amy’s bed, so engrossed in her soothing and reading of the bed time story that she didn’t notice Ed had come in until he found his fish fingers, chips and mushy peas stone cold on top of the microwave. He slathered the peas on two slices of bread and sandwiched the fish between them for tomorrow’s packed lunch and scooped the chips into a bowl for tomorrow. Having wrapped both items in foil and bunged them into the fridge, he felt his work was done and tiptoed into the bathroom to clean his teeth.

His mother backed slowly, cautiously, out of Amy’s room and clicked the door gently shut; now she was too soundly asleep to be afraid.

“Ed?” She hissed through his bedroom door where he sat with a glass of water on the night stand and a review of the Sex Pistols Astrid had given him. She didn’t notice it when he got up to let her in.

“Huh?”

“Goodnight? Did you get your tea at your friend’s?”

“Yeah,”

“Ok, goodnight,” She embraced him quickly and left him to his reading.

*

 Pete felt something special when he saw Astrid in assembly the rest of the week. She was a fourth year, a fourth year girl, and it was not his place to speak to her in the corridors or sit on her sparse table at lunch. Still, whenever they passed one another, she’d catch his eye and give him a quick smile over the top of her book that made his heart leap with excitement that he had this secret friend. This dangerous, all-knowing, punk had chosen to be his friend. He was still racking his brains for something to put in his ear, when he pierced it on Saturday.

He made sure to be home on time every evening that week, he didn’t even wait for Ed, but got straight on the bus and spent the evenings up in his room or watching the telly with the family, hoping something punk-related might just crop up, but it never did. They’d been banned from the BBC.

On Friday afternoon Astrid approached him where he sat with his class mates at lunch, her tray, already emptied, was wielded almost threateningly in her hands.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, if you like, to show you where the shop is.” She said, right over the chattering heads of the other boys. They halted at once and just gawked at this intruder, scarcely able to believe she was talking to Pete of all people. He flushed and nodded

“Yes, of course,” He shrank under the astonished and horrified faces of the others, but Astrid didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll meet you next to Queen Victoria at twelve, can you tell Ed and Mark?”

“Yes.”

“See you,” She dumped her tray on the pile and stalked out staring at the ceiling.

*

Mark made sure he had some money scraped together for the record, in two minds on whether he should buy it. He liked the songs, the style was good, but it felt like this one purchase committed him to full-on dedication to the punk movement. He wasn’t yet decided whether he wanted to give himself over to some crazy girl and her insight. After some thought, that Friday night he chose to go along with Ed and give Astrid’s teachings a trial run. If he didn’t like it, he had plenty of other people to hang out with, and he knew better than try to change Ed’s mind when it was set on something. All week he’d been wetting his hair, despite the danger it would freeze right on his head, tousling and picking it into spikes.

*

Ed walked his paper round with added vigour, boxed in his cousin Anthony’s camel coat. Despite the heavy brown-paper garment he thought his hair added a little edge to his look as he swaggered up and down the walk ways of the tower block stuffing papers into the letter boxes. A quick drum down the steps and swish across the lawn to the next crescent, then the next. There were huddles of older teenagers doing god-knows-what in the dark stair wells, and they smelled even stronger of piss and smoke. He made sure not to carry anything valuable on his paper rounds, except perhaps the papers, and not to make eye contact with any of the shady youths constantly on the walkways, all times of the day or night, all seasons of the year. They were used to him now, knew what job he was doing, and tended to leave him alone. Upon finishing his round, the sky utterly black and free of stars, he turned his empty paper sack into the newsagents and got his 50p. Now he was more cautious than ever, moving swiftly back to his stair well, jogging past the huddled smokers and the leering bloke on floor three with his empty bottles, swaying dangerously over the barrier as he called out.

He saw Julia’s son, his mum’s friend, with some older lads on the stairs and pretended not to know him when he saw he was knocking back something strong-smelling and clear as water.

*

Pete asked if he could stay late in the school library on Friday, making up an additional maths tutoring session which he was keen to attend. It always amazed him how easily his mother bought these things, as though she really believed her thirteen year old son wanted to spend his evenings doing algebra.

His resolve strengthened, he decided he wanted to find himself the best earrings he could, better than Astrid’s safety pins, he would blow them out the water. He would be telling the cashier they were for his sister, a birthday present, to avert any funny looks. He remembered David Bowie had sometimes worn a long, dangling earring a couple of years back, if was perfectly legitimate for him to follow suit.

He got the bus straight to the Northern Quarter of the city where he dabbled in and out of small, dark shops full of strange clothes hanging rumpled from every inch of the walls and ceiling. It was fourth time lucky for Pete, in ‘Cloud 8’ he chanced upon a pair of perfect earrings to set himself apart.

*

Astrid was watching Queen Victoria from a cafe window, under the prim and disapproving gaze, and watched them approach. It was bitter as ever, but bright and clear like cut glass. She’d already finished her drink and gathered her coat and bag, braced herself, and emerged into the street to catch their attention. Pete was wrapped up like a teapot in its cosy, scarf over his mouth, pink cheeks and bright eyes brimming between the wool and his foppish fringe.

“Hey,” Ed waved her over to the statue of the Queen and Mark ran his quick eyes over her appearance, a trench coat and the usual boots, but cherry red and gleaming brightly. He’d never seen someone wearing anything like it except for David Bowie on Top of The Pops. Pete saw the boots and his heart leapt, like Ziggy Stardust!

“I-I like your shoes,” He offered

“Thanks,”

“Um, do you think I could go to boots and pierce my ears later, once we’ve found the shop?”

Astrid laughed sharp as liquor “Alright, I’ll take you, figured out something to plug them with yet?”

“I found these,” Pete took from his coat pocket the brown paper bag the lady at the till had given him, ever since she’d taped it shut and he’d buried it in his duffel coat he hadn’t dared remove it, or even touch the paper, for fear that Astrid might not approve. Now he handed it over, chewing his lip as she opened the bag. She took them out carefully, as though she understood that she was handling his feelings when she did so.

“I like them,” She turned them over on her palm and handed them back to him: handcuffs moulded in miniature, some cheap imitation of silver but real, weighty metal. Pete tried to hide his delight, just nodded and put them back into the depths of his pocket in the little paper bag, nestled next to his money for the record.

“Where’s the shop then?” Mark asked with a sigh “I hope they have enough copies,”

“They had a few of them; it’s in the North Quarter, called Spin Inn.” She pointed, Pete realising with a jolt that this was the very record shop he’d passed on the way home after Friday’s purchase. They hadn’t come too cheap, but he had quite a lot of allowance from his parents, and he could spare enough for at least three LPs on top of the earrings. Ed lead them, despite not knowing where the place was, Pete hadn’t seen him since they’d had tea with Astrid, but noticed his hair was on end like a toilet brush. Mark looked like his normal self, if not slightly bemused by the back of Ed’s head as they walked.

*

The Spin Inn was your standard independent record store, pained front and a wide glass window in the front with LPs taped up to entice passersby. They filed in through the narrow door and Ed took a deep sniff of the cardboard record sleeves. They had a clean, arranged and robust sort of feel to them, just like the magazines in the corner shop. He loved the feeling of the thin sleeves and the slight clap of the card as he leafed through the weighty stacks. There were always so many titles in places like this, so many tempting photos or illustrations, it always made him feel pleasantly helpless, to know that he could never have them all, never hear them all. When he was older, he envisioned himself in a room full of records, in his Spanish villa he could have a music room and work his way through.

Now, there was a quid in his pocket, and one Damned LP he needed to hear over and over in his tiny bedroom. Astrid roved the shelves briskly and with a purpose, while the others succumbed to the temptation to browse.

“Here it is,” She presented the sleeve to them, checking it was to their liking, but it was just the same as the one she already owned. Pete took it at once, eager to pay and get his ears seen to.

“Pass me one, would you? Cheers.” Grimly, Ed coughed up his hard-earned money, resolving to keep saving and not to spend again in a hurry. They were quiet, reading the back of the sleeves, on the way to Boots.

“What did Jess say?” he quizzed Pete en route.

“She said she was... fine thanks.”

*

It took almost all of Pete’s nerve to walk into the chemists and up to the counter, and ask the middle-aged, rather straight-laced man to have his ears pierced. The man blinked, opened his mouth slightly and closed it, then cleared his throat, colour rising in his cheeks and said

“Right this way,”

“Come on, Pete,” Ed assured, him, though no way was he getting an earring himself. Mark, equally pleased to leave his ears in one piece, just gave him a supportive nod as they were taken round to the back of the shop and to the piercing room.

“Can we come in with him?” Ed asked,

“I don’t see why not.” The man spluttered, seeming to feel that this anarchy may as well reach its full conclusion and be attended by an audience. They were all admitted into a room with two padded chairs, manned by attendants wielding their piercing guns with some relish.

“Ruth, we have a young man here... wants his ears pierced.” He informed one woman, who also had to do a double take upon seeing little Pete unzipping his duffel coat and folding it over his arm, settling into the chair with an anxious swallow.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” He checked with Astrid, who shook her head

“Not really,”

“It’ll only be a second and then it’s done,” Ruth assured him, pushing him back into the chair to prevent escape.

“Now hold still,” The piercing gun was correctly positioned, the lobe sandwiched in between the poised pre-sterilised earring and Pete curled his toes, not his fists, so nobody would notice. 

“Ow!” Pete yelped, despite himself, as the point of the stud went straight through and into the backing on the other side. The gun, thankfully, was moved away, and Ruth handed him a damp paper towel to hold to his smarting ear.

“Just cool it with that, it will hurt a bit, love,” She knelt to examine her handy work. “That looks fine, that’s a starter earring, alright? I tried to find the most masculine.” She added with a smile, and held up a small mirror for Pete to behold his angry-coloured ear and the plain silver square which now dotted it.

“Thanks,”

“You want to be keeping that in for the rest of the day, take it out before bed for a little bit, but make sure you put it back before you go to sleep or it’ll heal. Do that for a week, a bit more can’t hurt of course, and then you can try whatever earrings you like. Got that, duck?”

“Yeah,”

“How was it?” Ed asked, eyes wide. Being a boy, this was not something he normally got to see, nor which often crossed his mind. His mother had worn earrings when there were husbands or boyfriends, and now you’d never know they’d been there at all.

“Didn’t hurt,” Pete replied coolly, as they returned to the shop

Mark glanced mischievously his way “You yelled a fair bit,”

Pete blushed to almost the colour of his ear, protesting that his cry was merely in surprise. Astrid flicked Mark on the ear “I don’t see you getting one,” she laughed, as their battle for masculinity raged on.

It was lunchtime, so Astrid suggested they went to a cafe for sandwiches and coffee, but Ed turned out his pockets and explained he was wiped out. Mark nodded; he didn’t want to waste his earnings on food when he could get it at home. Astrid shrugged and asked if they wanted to go back to hers. Ed almost leapt in enthusiasm, her mother knew how to treat a guest, and besides, she told them, she could get them looking the part a little more.

Astrid’s mother was delighted to see them again, if not a little shocked that Astrid was holding onto some friends. Pete swelled with pride as he showed her his new earring, which she complimented in a way his own mother would never dream of doing. Astrid’s father was at home, a wiry, slender man �" though not by any means small, with a thick head of jet hair. Again, it was up to Astrid’s room with a sandwich platter and a pot of tea.

Astrid wanted to talk fashion but Ed only said “I really don’t have the money for clothes,” “You don’t need it, you just alter what you’ve got, it’s not hard. You get some jeans, and you rip them, sew things on, put pins in them, down the side where the seam is.” She took off her trench coat and tossed it onto the bed, to show the knees of her jeans were slashed to ribbons, ripped all the way up her thighs.

“You’ve gone and wreaked your jeans.” Mark observed dryly

“Looks damn good though,”

“Are you kidding, Ed?”

“No, it looks brilliant, right Pete?”

“I like it, Mark,”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t look good, it looks great, but you’ve ruined your jeans, its just... it just seems wrong to trash them when there was nothing wrong with them just as they were.” Mark stared down at his own trousers, all his clothes were fairly new, since he’d just put on another inch or two and out grown almost everything. He’d given a lot of the smaller stuff to Ed, who needed all the spare clothes he could get. Astrid nodded, but then shook her head, and Mark frowned.

“Part of the punk ethos is just to say: I don’t care about the past. It’s about saying, these are my jeans, and I’m making them my jeans, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks or what they say jeans are supposed to look like. So, actually, Mark’s right to go with whatever he wants. If he doesn’t want to rip his jeans, he’s being a lot more punk to not do it, than to do it just for the sake of fitting into what someone else tells him it has to be. Get me?”

Mark opened and closed his mouth, exasperated by Ed and Pete’s lack of appreciation for what she’d just sprouted.

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” He said, and his view of her bloomed in his mind. Heedless to this, while he and Astrid sipped their drinks and chewed their sandwiches, Ed and Pete borrowed scissors from Astrid’s kitchen draw, her mother merely raising an eyebrow, as they worked holes into the fabric of their trousers, not bothering to remove them.

“Now you jump around, bend your knees a bit and they’ll split across.” She lazily instructed them, from where she and Mark were sitting exchanging their reading recommendations. The two bounced, wiggled, prompted Mark to snort in amused contempt, but succeeded in creating ragged, DIY tears in their jeans.

They walked back down to the bus stop before splitting, the cold air numbing the last throes of Pete’s ear pain and whistling in through the gaps in his trousers. It was only once he was hitting his stride on the short work home, growing closer and closer to his street, that Pete began wondering what his father might say.