Pretty Woman

‘See you tomorrow’. Sue shouted over her shoulder, pulling the door shut. Zipping her jacket, she shivered to dispel the chill of the darkening September sky. Leaving Jenny’s house, tucked behind the shops on the main road, she turned into Prospect Place lined with terraced houses rising up the hill, the horizon a patch of evening blue sky.

Most days they would go to Jenny’s after work. Friends at school, they found jobs together at the factory. It was all they could expect with the meagre education they were given in that grimy red brick town. They would spend their days folding cardboard boxes, filling them with metal or plastic objects, with no interest in finding out what they were. At least they had each other, chatting idly all day, listening to music on the radio.

Friday nights were different. At Jenny’s after work they would prepare for their evening out. Sue fancied being a hairdresser. She had seen Helen Shapiro on the telly and tried to copy her bouffant hair style, cementing its shape with hair spray. Their flaring skirts, shockingly knee length, filled out by layers of nylon net sewn into petticoats by Jenny’s Mum, turned them into pirouetting ballerinas. A dash of Soir de Paris from Woolworths and they were ready.

Not that there were many places to go. The pictures, sometimes, but why dress up to sit in the dark? A penny ha’penny bus ride into town and they could go to a social at the Mechanics’ Institute. The Everley Brothers playing on a Dansette record player. They would sip watered down orange squash and practice their rock’n’roll steps, taking turns to be ‘the man’. Any couple taking to the dance floor would be considered ‘engaged’. And probably would be married within a year, as the bride appeared to put on a little weight.

Young men stood morosely round the edge of the dance floor. One might nudge his mate and nod towards a young woman they deemed attractive. But none would cross the floor. Not until the last slow dance of the evening when fragrant femininity would be assailed by the more courageous.

The last waltz would be a chaste affair, couples holding each other at arm’s length. Conversation was limited, the young men unable to think of anything to say to a young woman. And then a final ‘thank you’ and the gender division was restored. Sue and Jenny’s comfortable companionship reinstated, they returned home arm in arm.

But there was nothing special about this evening as Sue hurried homewards up the hill. The sky dimmed to a bruised violet as dusk slipped into night. The street was empty, families busy behind the net curtains of their small houses, preparing evening meals.

Slowly she became aware of footsteps. A dark shape wearing a hat, a few yards behind.  Not thinking it meant anything she turned to cross the road, quickening her steps. She didn’t dare look back. She knew the figure had followed her.

The gas streetlamps flickered, glowing pale yellow, unreliable beacons in a world suddenly too silent. The man's footsteps were steady, deliberate. Was he just walking home? Instinct screamed louder than reason. The rows of houses lining the street a claustrophobic tunnel. She could not turn back. Walking faster, her heart pounded as she looked for an escape.

Almost at the top of the hill, her mind in whirl, she heard the sound of jaunty music, an old tune, played on a barrel organ. Was it fear playing a trick on her? Was this the overture of some horror film? At the summit, she stopped. Below her, in the valley, a cacophony of light and noise. Lights flashed, red, blue, green. Lights swung in arcs. Generators coughed grey smoke. Roy Orbison’s melancholy voice, floated through the noise. Oh, pretty woman. She hurried down, drawn to the light and soothed by his words. She looked back. The figure had disappeared. Likely to get his supper.