1981
It looked like the rucksack was taking a wee. A puddle of clear liquid oozed slowly from it and spread across the floor. Sara shrieked and grabbed the bag, trying to ignore the acrid smell of cheap white wine filling the school corridor.
She and Jo walked quickly away towards the exit, trailing Lambrusco in their wake.
‘That’s our bottle for tonight gone,’ lamented Sara. ‘What are we going to take to the party?’
‘There’s Liebfraumilch in our sideboard left over from Christmas. Leave it with me,’ Jo said.
Sara sighed, watching as Jo carefully decanted broken glass into the waste bin.
They’d reached the end of the ‘No Cycling’ path running alongside the school.
‘Watch out!’ warned Jo, pushing Sara onto the grass verge to avoid her being hit by two Year 3 pupils speeding past on their bikes.
No judgement – everyone cycled on the ‘No Cycling’ path.
Later, shoulder padded, lip glossed and marinating in a sickening fug of Opium perfume, the friends turned onto the street where Lucy lived, both nervous. They were pretty and destined to become even prettier, but they didn’t yet exude confidence. Insecurity and self-doubt still had the upper hand, as they did with so many teenage girls who craved validation from others, until their sense of self-worth kicked in.
They heard and felt the thump of loud rock music.
Sara grabbed Jo’s hand and together they marched up the imposing gravel driveway as quickly as their Chelsea Girl strappy sandals would allow.
Lucy’s house was a regular party house. She lived there mostly unsupervised with her older brother and dad. Rumours were that her mum had run off with the bass player from Thin Lizzy or Nazareth? Nobody was quite sure. She was living with a butcher from Blackness, but that wouldn’t have held the same mystique, although it did explain Lucy’s sudden conversion to vegetarianism.
They rang the bell. Lucy’s brother, Nick, opened the door, and without any exchange of pleasantries, they followed him into the house. The sweet smell of weed permeated the air, mixed with Benson and Hedges.
There were bodies everywhere. Standing, sitting and lying draped over furniture at angles only achievable by lanky, pliant male adolescents.
They looked like they’d been here and drinking for some time.
Sara reckoned this was advantageous, giving them a chance to observe party etiquette and drunken antics without having their perception impaired by their own alcohol consumption. Her sensible rationalising annoyed her. Why couldn’t she be chilled like everyone else? She’d be leaving school next year, and she’d been in classes with most of them for the last 10 years, but she still felt like no one, except Jo, of course, knew the real Sara. Did Sara know the real Sara? If she surrounded herself with the cool, the great and the good, then something might rub off on her.
‘Here, drink,’ said Jo, shoving a plastic cup of warm wine into her hand, and interrupting Sara’s master plan for personal reform. ‘Let’s circulate.’
As Sara followed Jo into the living room, there was an almighty crash. One of Nick’s friends had fallen through the glass coffee table, sending bottles and ashtrays flying and shattering the table into hundreds of pieces.
Sara’s first thought was, Is he hurt? Cut? Her next instinct was to shout, ‘Get a cloth!’ before the carpet was stained with beer, but she bit her lip.
Rather than berate his friend or show concern for possible injury, Nick shouted like a medieval lord for more beers to be brought from the kitchen.
The girls headed upstairs. A heated argument was taking place in the bathroom, and one of Lucy’s friends had been pushed over the edge of the bath, taking the shower curtain and rail with her.
‘Amazing,’ whispered Jo, ‘and we’re seeing it.’
Exactly, thought Sara, we’re seeing it but we’re not part of it, although on reflection, face planting through a glass table or ending up wrapped in a nylon goldfish-covered shower curtain, didn’t hold much appeal.
A quick left turn and they were in what appeared to be Nick’s room. The walls and skirtings were badly painted black, and books on the occult lined the bookshelf above his bed with plastic skulls placed at either end as ghoulish bookends. Iron Maiden posters adorned the walls. Motorhead with Girlschool played on the stereo.
Sitting on the floor were Nick’s friends Danny and Stuart. Danny had a mid-length dark shaggy perm and was wearing a Hawkwind t-shirt. Stuart had blonde, shorter hair with a perfectly gelled quiff, and he sported a Japan, Visions of China t-shirt. Their diverse musical preferences did not appear to hinder their friendship.
‘Pernod?’ said Danny, offering the bottle up.
‘Inferno!’ shouted the girls simultaneously, with the warm collusion that only close friends share.
‘A Liverpool poet fan, Sara?’ he asked, passing her the bottle.
He knew her name and recognised a Roger McGough poem. Sara’s hand involuntarily reached out to accept the bottle, trying to mask her joy at this unexpected double validation.
‘It’s ready mixed,’ added Stuart helpfully as she swigged from the bottle before passing it to Jo, who took a small sip, glad to find that it had been diluted with both blackcurrant and lemonade for good measure. She took a larger gulp.
Feeling the warmth as the aniseed liquid moved through her, she passed the bottle to Stuart but held onto it just long enough for his fingers to wind round hers.
Danny grinned, and Sara returned an awkward smile. He moved over, clearing a space beside him and, heeding the tacit invitation, she sat down beside him.
Lemmy’s dulcet tones had faded, so Stuart stood up and walked across the room to change the record. Jo followed him.
Each couple (because that’s what they were now) then sat on either side of the bed.
And just like that, first loves were found, and friendships faltered…but only for a while.