Cath Staincliffe - Trio

She doesn’t care. She swung her toffee-coloured hair out of the way and nestled the infant against her shoulder. She’d have more affection if we’d bought a bloody dog. She decided then that she would never come again. Blast tradition. She would not subject her wonderful, brilliant new daughter to these loveless afternoons of stifling boredom. If Peter wished to come, he could come alone. And if his parents ever woke up and realised just exactly what they were missing, then they could damn well come and see Pamela and Lilian in their own house.

Joan

‘It’s perfect,’ Lena pronounced. ‘I love you!’ She leapt across the carpet and planted a kiss on Joan’s head. ‘Do it again, the chorus.’

‘Walk my way,’ Joan sang in a breathy voice and picked the chords out on the guitar. ‘Make my day. You can take what you need but you’re never going to take this away. Oh, baby, walk my way.’

When she had finished Lena sang the song all the way through, her voice rich and full.

‘Wonderful. It needs strings, do you think? Or maybe a really moody sax? You're so clever, Joan. I knew you could do it. Tonight we celebrate.’

Joan laughed at her friend’s exuberance. Lena wasn’t all stuffy and bossy like you heard Germans were. She was like a child. Full of life and always excited about something.

‘You’re working tonight,’ Joan pointed out.

‘After.’

‘Some of us sleep at night.’

‘This is a special day. What do you call it – a letter day?’

‘Red-letter day.’

‘So?’ She cocked her head, smiling as ever.

‘OK.’

‘Good. Ooh, wait till Roger hears this. Shall we tell him it’s your song?’

‘No. Only if it’s a hit.’

‘When it’s a hit. It has to be. Forget Doris Day, Connie Francis, here comes Lena!’

Joan didn’t enjoy waiting in the club for Lena. It was a seedy place, noisy and thick with smoke. Lena’s act provided background but few of the patrons paid much attention, they were here for the exotic dancers who topped the bill. Joan worried that someone would think she was a working girl, a hostess who could be approached. She sat at a small table near to the toilets and avoided any eye contact. She drank her Martini too quickly and sat twiddling her glass waiting for Lena to finish. When Lena swept up to her table Joan felt she’d been rescued.

‘Come on.’ Lena pulled her shoulder bag over her white mac. ‘You hungry?’

‘Now?’

‘You English! In bed by ten, tea at five. You never grow up.’

They bought fish and chips from the corner and ate as they walked.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Club I know.’

Joan groaned. ‘Another dive?’

‘No, you’ll like it. Come on, live dangerously.’

She followed Lena down a side street. A wooden sign proclaimed the Zebra Club. They went down steep basement steps to a plain door. Inside there was a large room crammed with dancers. About half of them were coloured. There had been places in Manchester where the West Indians went, but Joan would never have dreamed of going there. This seemed more mixed. On a small stage a trio were playing. At the tiny bar Lena bought drinks. Joan was aware of some of the men looking their way. Well, she thought, if Lena found a friend she should have just enough for a taxi home, if she was careful.

After the first drink Joan found herself relaxing. The music was good, quite varied too. They played some jazz and calypso-type songs with a strong beat. Lena insisted on dancing and got Joan up too. Some of the movements the black couples were doing were quite astonishing but no one seemed to mind and the atmosphere was fun. When Lena caught her yawning she dragged her to the ladies’.

‘Here.’ She took a couple of yellow capsules from her pocket.

Joan shook her head.

‘Stop you being tired.’ Lena put one in her mouth and bent to drink from the tap. ‘They’re great, really. Make you feel like you’re full of champagne.’

Joan smiled.

‘Try one.’

She might as well. Everyone else liked them. And it would be nice to have a bit more energy.

She took the pill and drank from the tap.

Hours later, almost four in the morning and in paroxysms of giggles the two wove their way, arm in arm, to Lena’s flat.

It too was downstairs, a damp basement with a powerful smell of mildew and fungus on the ceilings. There was a main room with a tiny kitchen area in one corner behind a curtain. The toilet and washbasin were outside, in a small yard crammed with broken furniture. In the room Lena had a single bed, a small wooden table and two stools, an armchair that had seen better days and a wardrobe with a broken door. She had brightened the place up by putting multicolored crocheted blankets over the chair and bed. Posters adorned the walls: Adam Faith and Elvis.

Joan was still tittering and then she couldn’t remember why they’d been laughing and that seemed even funnier. She collapsed on the bed, kicking off her shoes. Lena was singing as she switched on a lamp and the electric fire. She put a stack of records on the dansette in the corner. The strains of ‘Apache’ by The Shadows filled the room.

Joan felt the bed bounce as Lena sat beside her. She felt a hand brush her fringe aside. Opened her eyes. Lena smiling, warm lips, her hair falling forward. Bending down. Lips against hers, touching her own, the faint stickiness of lipstick. Joan’s giggles quietened. Her thoughts were scrambling, trying to run without legs. No, wrong, wicked. Mustn’t. But she didn't move.

Lena sat up. Joan’s lips were empty. A look passed between them. Lena’s eyes like silver, swimming like mercury. Joan could smell smoke on her, and perfume. She should get up, move, break the spell, claim the armchair. Soon. She parted her lips, took a breath. Lena stopped smiling. She bent down, kissed Joan, the tip of her tongue tracing the inside edge of her lips. Joan closed her eyes, felt Lena’s hand brush down her shoulder and over her breast, the lightest pressure that filled Joan’s veins with warmth and sent small shocks of pleasure to her sex.

Joan moaned, moved her head a fraction, changing the pressure of the kiss. Wanting more. Everything. It was wicked but she didn’t want to stop. The thought of the wickedness gave her an additional thrill and she felt her body stiffening and getting hotter.

But she musn’t… if… with a jolt of understanding she realised that however wicked it was Lena could never make her pregnant and a great feeling of recklessness and liberation made her moan and wriggle. She reached up with one arm, tangling her fingers in Lena’s thick, smooth hair. Ran her other hand down her back, round the curve of her hip and along her thigh.

Lena made a gurgling noise and then parted from her. Her mouth was dark, the lipstick smeared and her lips swollen. Joan swallowed. Lena smiled, a small, intent smile, and began to unbutton her dress. Joan lay and watched her, her heart beating fast and anticipation tingling along the length of her spine.

Megan Marjorie

Nina

Marjorie

‘Speaking. Hello, Sister.’

Robert Underwood noted the excitement in his wife’s voice and she waved him over with one hand.

‘Yes?’ Her hazel eyes crinkled with a smile. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, fiddling with it, and then with the coiled phone wire. ‘Oh, lovely. How old? Yes. When can we… Eleven. Thank you. Yes, he’s fine. We’ll bring him with us.’

She replaced the receiver. ‘They’ve got a little girl. Four weeks old. We could have her in the next couple of weeks.’ She grinned and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Robert!’

He hugged her briefly. ‘You’re sure now?’