The Sirens

In those early, uncertain days when we Twydall boys stuck together each break time, we somehow attracted the attention of a bunch of girls, and not just any old girls. These were 2A1 girls, the second year crème de la crème with shapes and curves and things, which made their interest in us all the more baffling. The first time they swooped I instinctively shied away, though I hung around close enough to follow what was going on. 

‘Aw, isn’t he cute!’

‘Hasn’t he got lovely eyes?’

‘And a sexy smile’

‘Ooh, I thay’

Blimey

Paul, Clive, John and Stan responded with wobbly heads, gormless grins and gibberish. A mental paralysis, of sorts, that was astonishing to see. In one incredible minute they’d been completely unhinged.

Any thoughts of this being a one-off were dispelled the following morning when the flirtatious females swooped again. This time I got involved and…

‘What’s your name?’

Sure enough, in telling them my name I found myself grinning like a fool.

The girls? Pat Ridge, the ringleader, had an enchanting smile, a sparkling personality and plenty to say. Paula Ruffe, demure and soft spoken, was the cat’s whiskers. Gillian Hawley, the little short-arse of the group, was more reserved. Blonde haired Julia Partridge had a big smile and liked a laugh, as did big boned Jennifer Ballard. Last but not least was the glamorously named Adele Durant. Her dark hair veiled one side of her face, giving her allure and mystique. It also gave her something to chew on when she wasn’t brushing it from her eye.

Twiggy, modelling the Adele Durant look

Unlike the girls in our year, who didn’t have a tit between them, these girls were something special. In mini skirts that revealed glimpses of granny bloomers which, I couldn’t help but notice, came in a choice of red or blue with white lacy trims, these were stylish young ladies. The fact that they carried their books in wicker baskets instead of satchels only heightened their sophistication and I enjoyed the mock coyness and laughter that always followed their ‘ooh I thay’ catchphrase. 

Pat lived on Trafalgar Road, we discovered, when we walked her way after school. Till then we’d been in the habit of getting to our bus stop by the depot via Copenhagen Road, but Trafalgar Road served us just as well, if not better, and we quickly adapted to going Pat’s way to spend a little bit more time in her company. On one of these occasions she asked for my cap. Naturally, I was flattered and I didn’t hesitate to hand it over. Pat laughed and smiled as she put it on, and everyone laughed with her. I was sure she’d return it when we reached her home but no, she did not. She was still wearing it when she waved us goodbye at her garden gate and that left me perplexed.

Why hasn’t she given it back? She must know she’s wearing it. Perhaps she wants to keep it overnight… as a love token or something.

Around this same time we Twydall boys took to walking home, stopping off at Benham’s, on Canadian Avenue to blow our bus money on sweets and chocolate.  Either side of this little enterprise there was just one topic of conversation. This led to the lads working very hard to fit the girls’ names into the popular songs of the day. Paul topped everyone when he came up with a song for Paula. Indeed, when he started singing Paula Ruffe (pronounced Ruffy) to the Small Faces All or Nothing, the rest joined in.

‘Paula Ruffe, Paula Ruffe, Paula Ruffe for me!’

Back in the playground I found myself drawn to Gillian, who was quickly drawn to extracting a present from me. ‘A bar of chocolate or a pair of tights,’ she said.

Tights? Bloody hell! What do I know about tights? Tights come in different sizes, colours and shapes, don’t they? How much do tights cost? And where would I get them?

Buying tights was out of the question; I knew more about algebra than I knew about tights. It’d have to be chocolate, Cadbury’s, and not a measly sixpenny bar, either. I’d impress her with a big shilling one.

Kevin might have got snared too, if he hadn’t resisted so strongly. It happened when the fat and chubby one (he looked a bit like Oliver Hardy without the moustache) came under Jennifer’s radar. She did everything she could to get near him but every time she got close, Kevin bolted, as he did when she tried sneaking up behind him.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Ivan!’ Kev shouted, as he fled.

How we laughed, and we laughed louder still when Jennifer gave chase calling ‘Ivan, come back! I just want to talk to you!’

Too late, Ivan had gone; at a speed unseen since the day we were caught scrumping in the orchard off Pump Lane. 

After a few sacrifices I duly scraped up a bob and presented Gillian with a large bar of Cadbury’s, but even as I handed it over, I felt cheated. Grateful, slobbering kisses? No. Adoring eyes? No. A smile and a peck on the cheek? Not even that. ‘Thanks,’ that’s what I got, like I’d just passed her the salt at the dinner table. My interest in her died on the spot.

She’s had me for a berk. Sod it! I don’t like her that much anyway. She looks like Rita Webb.

Being an object of affection was fun while it lasted but all good things come to an end. When the end came, it came suddenly. Abandoned overnight, we Twydall boys shrugged it off and resumed being objects of little interest again, happy, once more, to spend break times kicking a ball around.

In time… I stopped worrying that my mam would question me on the whereabouts of my cap. That she never did is just as well, for the guilt I suffered for my part in its misappropriation was punishment enough. I learned later that Pat was a serial cap thief. I don’t know how many she had in her collection but the sorry truth came out when Brian Lack admitted she’d claimed his cap, too.

In time… I realised the girls had simply been testing their charms on safe and willing guinea pigs.

In time… toward the end of that school year Kevin developed a crush on Jennifer, but it was way too late. Jennifer wasn’t interested. Such is life.