“Anyway we were both working that summer, Jenny had got more hours at the Bounty and I was working in Kendal’s in town.” She turned the page. “When we got time off we went to Knebworth – brilliant, Lynnyrd Skynnyrd, 10cc, the Stones,” she pointed to a picture of the two girls beside a small, drooping tent, their hair was plaited and they had hearts and stars painted on their cheeks. “Just look at us, and those trousers, flapping around like bedsheets, came back in fashion last year, skinny rib sweaters. God, when I think of what we got up to, we’d no fear,” she shook her head. “That’s when we saw Bob Marley. That was incredible – just after the Handsworth riots and everyone was saying Moss Side would be next, police everywhere – but it was fine.”
She looked across at me. “She couldn’t wait to leave home. Her parents,” she paused, swung her aquamarine gaze away from me, considered a while, “looking back I just don’t think they’d a clue about how to raise a family. There was no love or affection. They weren’t cruel or anything- there was just this absence of any warmth. Jennifer and Roger were their duty, that’s all. Of course they were very strict as well, religious and set in their ways. They hated the way Jenny dressed and all the make-up, they didn’t like her going off to concerts and parties. They couldn’t see she was just having fun, doing normal teenage things. I know at that age we all think our parents are the pits and I had a good few runins with mine but Jenny’s were in a different league really. Her mother was so distant, quiet. Maybe she was depressed. And her father was all stiff upper lip stuff, really formal. Very sad, really. I’m amazed Jenny was as sane as she was. You say Roger’s still at home?”
“Yes.”
She shuddered. “Poor bloke.” She closed the book. “It was brilliant that summer and then,” she flicked her eyes at me as if weighing something up, she decided to tell, “Jenny got pregnant.”
“That summer?” Not once she’d gone to Keele. “Who was the father?”
She sighed impatiently, the memories irritating even at this distance. “Maxwell, he was the sous-chef at the Bounty. She didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t part of the plan. We were so young. God, it was a nightmare. She was so confused. One minute she was talking about abortion – she reckoned she could use part of her grant to pay for it, or we’d scrape the money together and she’d pay us back once she got her grant through. Then she’d go all weepy and talk about the baby and deferring a year.” She tutted with exasperation.
