Harley8

The tartan suitcase with all Fiona’s money in it, all Mary’s clothes, a jumble sale of outer worldly possessions, were innocuously perched on the luggage rack up above their heads. Mary slipped and slalomed one way and another with the movements of the express train, her head falling to the side, as she fell asleep mid sentence. Fiona wasn’t listening because she was already dreaming that she was safely back home, chewing on a square sliced sausage sandwich, which was actually a curling tendril of Mary’s hair.

The ticket inspector on the London Express looked over the two young girls on his frequent journeys up and down the corridors. ‘Tickets, please. Tickets,’ he snapped left and right. He knew all the old tricks of hiding in the toilet, people kidding on they were asleep when he passed, or passengers hiding behind rustling newspapers, or in some occasions actually hiding under the seats. There was no escaping the fact, however, that those two passengers were not acting.

Mary wakened first, as the train edged its way into Euston station. She nudged Fiona, but she was already yawning and stretching, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘That didn’t take too long,’ she said, scratching one arm, then another and flinging an arm up, like a windmill, dropping down to itch a spot on her back.

‘I think we might have caught something,’ Mary said, her long nails flicking from on spot to another.

‘Oh, My God. I think you’re right. We’ll need to get fumigated.’ Fiona jumped up off her seat, making the black suit sitting across from them rustle the pink pages of The Financial Times and risk a smile. ‘What do we do? What do we do?’ asked Fiona, lifting her A-line mini skirt to eye magnet levels and scratching at her thin white pipe- cleaner legs like a mangy dog.

‘The first thing we do is go to a hotel, dump everything. And I mean everything and get a shower.’ Mary pulled down the suitcase from the rack.

‘What about the money?’ said Fiona.

The train jolted as they came into the station, flinging Mary forward, so that she sat down again. She looked across at Fiona and raised her eyebrows as the newspaperagerian unfolded himself, scurrying to get his brief case and brolley from the rack above them, so that Mary felt like poking through the black pinstriped into the soft dough of the belly-button to see what he would do.

They stood on the train concourse, soaking in the sights and letting the waves of people wash over them. There were Zapata moustaches, beards, Afros, mop tops, dandified, greased and black and corkscrewed curled hair and every colour of hat, some carried swing raincoats, but no one carried a smile. Everyone hurried and avoided catching their eye as if they already knew they were newcomers and bugsy.

Fiona had nipped into the train toilet to pee and touch up her mascara. She looked about her, doe-eyed, frightened, and ready to bolt home, until Mary lit a fag for both of them, breathing it in and sucking it out, which gave them their own space.

‘Lets get a Hackney,’ shouted Mary above the tannoy din of displacement.

‘Where you going Jock?’ The taxi driver had already rolled the cab out and swept it into the ongoing traffic, one arm perched imperiously out of the window, owner of all he surveyed.

Mary watched the meter turning. It cost two shillings before they even left the station and was turning that fast she was sure it ran at the same speed as the back wheels. She chose not to comment on this. Instead, she concentrated on the bull neck and the squinty blue eyes snatching glances at them in the rear view mirror. She sat up straighter, Dux of Clydebank High, years of elocution lessons, watching and listening to her Ma dealing with the local gangsters, were not wasted. Her eyes were more grey granite than green and her words sharp as billiard cue in the ribs: ‘Lose the attitude and take us to a bed and breakfast establishment that is moderately priced and clean. If we like it we’ll call your company later and ask specifically for you. What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Harry,’ he said.

‘Harold. We also need to go to Carnaby Street for some clothes and from there to Harley Street. Do you think you can do that for us?’

The Hackney had already done a U-turn before she had finished speaking, doubling back towards the station, up a side street to a white neoGeorgian block, five minutes walk from the station.

‘We’ll phone you later Harold.’ Mary let him keep the change from a £1 note and rewarded him with a prim little-girl smile.

Fiona sprung got out of the cab first and looked up at the black lettered vacancy sign, which was posted to open, but beneath it was a typed card. ‘No coloureds, or Irish, or dogs.’

‘What about cats?’ said Fiona, shrugging her shoulders.

‘I don’t like it,’ said Mary scratching. She looked up the street and across the road to Euston Station. It was a hop-skip-and-a-jump home and they could go anywhere in London from there. ‘It’ll need to do,’ she said, picking up the suitcase, taking the steps two at a time and pushing through the first set of double-doors.

‘It can’t be any worse than The George.’ Fiona’s voice quietened when they got inside. It was just like a normal house. They both looked at each other and wondered if they’d made a mistake.

‘Can I help you?’ A thin woman with blond hair came down the carpeted stairs. Her accent was hard to place. She was wearing what seemed more a shirt than a mini dress, and also seemed too glamorous to be carrying bed linen.

‘We’d like a room.’

Mary and the other woman looked at each other. Then her white pointed boots daintily descended down the last three steps and her feet made a landing.

‘A double,’ she said.

Fiona nodded back at her, glad that the place looked so very white, like a ballroom, glad to be included in the conversation.

‘How much is it?’ Mary asked.

Fiona somehow thought it was vulgar talking about money so she quickly added, ‘Does our room have a shower, or a bath?’

‘It’s one pound and two shillings, per night,’ she said, but couldn’t get the sibilant s quite right. Her head and hair and whole body swept round as if to compensate, ‘each bathroom is ensuite, but you can share a shower, if you desire.’

Mary smiled. Fiona giggled. ‘Thanks,’ she said, feeling more at home. There’d been girls like her at school.

‘I’ll just get your keys and some towels,’ said the laundry girl.