Paul's Parka (1983)

"Have you hidden my shoes again Claire Williams?"

Why did mum always use my full name when she thought I was in the wrong?

"No," I replied languidly, looking up from the television.

It was true: I did hide her shoes, to stop her hitting me with them, but I hadn't this time.

"It's all right. I've found them."

She was making tense, breathy laps of the living room; collecting lipstick, tissues, purse, keys, and stuffing them into her handbag. The aura of Anaïs Anaïs she left in her wake, made a pleasant change to the usual fug of Zoflora, damp and dog's piss.

"I expect you to be home before I am young lady."

"OK - have a nice time playing Cowboys and Indians," I retorted cheekily as she wafted out of the front door.

Friday was mum's country and western night. It was so embarrassing. I was just grateful that she didn't dress up as a saloon girl or wear a stetson like her creepy friends. Living in their own little fantasy world, they even adopted pseudonyms such as 'Deadwood Dick' and 'Doc Holliday'.

I left the dog-end of my Findus french bread pizza on my plate to give to our incontinent spaniel and went upstairs to get my things. I would change at Kaz's house: it was warmer.

.......

"I always thought you were a sly cat, Claire Williams. It's because you're from a broken home."

Not again. According to Kaz's mum, it was always my divorced parents or teenage hormones, which were to blame for my many deficits of character. I couldn't be bothered to tell her that I was glad to have one less parent at home to make my life a misery.

I had just crept in the back way, through the garage, as was my privilege as Kaz’s best friend, to be met by Mrs Sidaway's formidable bulk. She stood in the kitchen doorway, like a nightclub bouncer, arms folded across her ample chest. She gave me a look of pity, mingled with exasperation, and then turned back to the Soda Stream machine she had just been messing with. They were fizzy pop obsessed in Kaz's house. I wondered what I'd done this time? I didn't wait to find out. I ducked past her and sprinted up the flock wallpapered staircase to Karen's room.

Kaz was standing in her bedroom by the mirror, make-up brush in hand, but hadn't yet begun applying her Boy George stripes of colour. I could see why: she wanted me to notice her tear swollen eyes.

I didn't say anything. Kaz was an expert sulker and I knew any questions would be met with a silent shrug of her shoulders. I busied myself: struggling into my skin-tight jeans and lying on the floor to do the zip up.

Kaz sniffed.

"What's up mate?" I asked.

"You know," she snapped back.

I hadn't got a clue. I thought back to last night's school disco but couldn't remember anything significant. I'd had a fab time. We'd arrived slightly late and I had to dodge the sweaty clutches of our maths teacher Percy Pervert on the way in. It was thrilling to enter the darkened school hall to find it full of my classmates dressed in full Mod gear: parkas, two-tone, pork pie hats; rather than the usual disgusting school uniform. Disco Dave was on the decks and Tainted Love (the Gloria Jones version) was blaring out. Nicola Foy and Tracey Lam were dancing surprisingly gracefully, in spite of their humongous bosoms and huge corned beef thighs. Northern Soul steps: back and forth, pivot, repeat.

I had scanned the room for boys: Matty, Gaz, Chris, Paul...

That was it. I remembered now.

"Oh for fuck's sake Kaz - you're not sulking over Paul Jackson's parka?"

Ever since Kaz's thirteenth birthday party, Paul had been harbouring a soft spot for me. When he found out that Michelle Smith, in the year above us, was planning to beat me up, he had organised a posse of boys to escort me around school for the day. Last night he'd approached me and asked me to look after his parka for him. I'd snuggled up under it and Kaz, in a fit of jealousy, had snatched it off me. She always wanted what I had, and as she had got off with Paul recently on a school trip, snogging at the back of the coach on the way home, she saw it as muscling in on her territory.

Kaz and her family provided me with a second home though: one which offered warmth and comfort, cleanliness and regular meals. I wasn't going to give that up for a boy, no matter how good at kissing he was.

"Come on Kaz. Forget about it - you can have him. Let's go and see who's hanging around outside The Fox and Grapes. Perhaps they'll go in the off licence for us?"

She smiled, thinking she'd won: but I thought we both had.