The Harbour Lights was pretty hectic at the best of times, but on weekends the place was mayhem, packed wall to wall with leather-clad bikers and their feisty biker birds in boob tubes and thigh-high boots. A smell of dope hung in the air and it was almost impossible to go to the loos without being offered a bag of speed or an E, both of which, back then, were what posh people and politicians call ‘endemic’.
Derek – or Dork, as we called him – bought us all drinks at the bar, and then vanished in the direction of the pool table, dragging his girlfriend behind him.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ Shelley said, looking nervously around.
‘Not sure about what?’ I laughed, sipping my snakebite.
‘I’m not sure I feel comfortable here. What if someone asks for ID?’
‘It’s full of drunks and junkies,’ I said trying to sound confident, even though secretly I knew what she meant. ‘No one’s going to ask for ID.’ I took her free hand and, saying, ‘There’s a band about to play. Let’s get up front,’ I dragged her into the crowd.
The band – Billy and the Riddles – were pretty average if truth be told, playing covers of well-known heavy metal tracks – AC/DC and Led Zep, you know the kind of thing. But lead singer Billy was tall with blue eyes and blond curly hair – he was indisputably cute. The thought of how wonderful it would be to be his girlfriend crossed my mind even before I realised he was the lead singer, as soon as I spotted him plugging in cables in fact.
As Billy sang ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’ I gulped down my snakebite, and, by the time he reached the guitar break in ‘Comfortably Numb’, I was right in front of him, performing my sexiest hip-swerve. And he’d noticed me, I could see that. By the end of ‘Highway to Hell’, he’d even sent me a wink.
When the interval came, we followed the band to the bar and I lingered as close as I could. Again, Billy noticed me, and offered us drinks. I asked for another snakebite and rolled my eyes when Shelley said she was ‘fine thanks’.
‘She’ll have the same,’ I told Billy, overruling her absurd refusal of a free drink.
‘Come outside for a bit,’ Billy said, once he’d handed us our glasses. ‘It’s boiling in here and I’m sweating like a pig.’
Shelley whined and pawed at my arm, but I broke away and followed him to a fire door at the rear, trying to think what I could say that might sound witty. ‘I’m not surprised you’re hot,’ I finally told him as I stepped outside. ‘Your outfit’s cool, but I’m guessing it’s not so cool to actually wear, is it?’
Billy looked down at himself. He was wearing a US Air Force one-piece jumpsuit made out of that slightly shiny, camouflage-green nylon they use, and some highly polished paratrooper boots. The ensemble made him uniquely visible in a room where almost every other person was wearing a uniform of denim and leather.
‘It’s not anoutfit,’ he said, his nose wrinkling. ‘It’s just what I wear. It’s what I wear every day.’
I wondered if that was true. I tried to imagine someone being brave enough to dress that way outdoors, but I simply couldn’t picture it. If you went down Margate High Street like that, someone would probably beat you up.
At seventeen, I’d spent the last few years trying to build my own stand-out punk persona while most of my friends had been vanishing into the folds of fashion. Clothes, especially clothes that were different from the norm, were a big deal round our way, and if Billy had the balls to wear something like that day to day, it was something I wanted to witness.
‘Cigarette?’ he asked, pointing a Marlboro packet at me while moving to lean against the wall to the left of the fire door. His jumpsuit shimmered in the orange light from a streetlamp.
I gave him my cutest smile – the one I’d practised in front of the mirror – and said ‘sure’, smoothly taking a cigarette and leaning beside him as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Simple gestures like that took a lot of effort for me because, at seventeen, very little came naturally. Most of the time I felt like a frightened kid in the driving seat of a big ungainly machine. Getting my body to do pretty much anything in a cool, natural manner was quite the personal victory.
‘Slaves to the military–industrial complex,’ Billy said as he lit my cigarette with his Zippo.
‘I’m sorry?’ I asked, assuming, rather stupidly, that he was referring to his Air Force jumpsuit.
‘These. Ciggies. Slaves to nicotine.’
‘Oh, yeah. Of course,’ I said, cringing at the thought that he was too clever or too posh, or probably both, to go out with a Millmead girl like me.
‘Still, someone has to keep the cigarette-rolling comrades in work, right?’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘I s’pose.’
‘I like your badge,’ he said. ‘I’m a member too.’
I glanced down at the lapel of my charity shop jacket, where a fluorescent peace symbol was pinned. I nodded and said, ‘Cool,’ even though I had no actual idea what he was talking about.
‘CND?’ he said, and I was embarrassed that he’d picked up on my ignorance. ‘The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. That’s what that symbol is. You know that, right?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Of course. I’m not actually a member or anything, but I definitely support them. Definitely!’
‘So is that what you are then?’ he asked, grinning at me. ‘A trendy lefty?’
‘I s’pose I must be,’ I said. ‘And you?’
