Prick of the Spindle: Nonfiction: Cashman: Tommy

Tommy
A Memoir by Ruth Cashman

For one blissful Saturday in November I worked in Nippers, South Wales’ self proclaimed premier clothing store—number one for tatty punk stuff and clothes only an underage prostitute or an S&M devotee should, all things considered, find attractive. However, this being the 1980s, Nippers enjoyed quite a following. Among other things, the shop sold studded belts, tarnished chains, ripped T-shirts and spandex leggings, plus a whole range of dubious-looking items fashioned from cheap, almost transparent crinkly leather, to teenagers from all over the area.

I got the job, as a sales assistant, though my hip friend Nicky, who knew the owner’s son. I had wanted to work there for ages as it seemed impossibly cool, mostly because it was staffed by weird looking people, which was what I aspired to be. As an added incentive, the store was in Newport, the nearest large town, which was full of other bored kids, plus many pubs and bars willing to serve underage drinkers. But, above all, I desperately needed the job to get out of the house and away from my parents’ bitter divorce; their arguments had recently become so vicious and expletive-laden that I had seriously begun to wonder whether Dad had developed Tourette's Syndrome since his heart surgery a few weeks previously.

My older sister Maria had, wisely, left home the year before when she was 17, leaving myself and my younger brother John to navigate the complex territories that existed in our large and expensive family home. Maria’s bedroom had been downstairs, next to mine, but once she left, Mum moved into it until the house could be sold, leaving Dad and John to the two bedrooms upstairs. These were all safe areas which could be entered freely by John and myself. The living room, dining room, kitchen and garden were another matter though, forming a kind of no-man’s land that could be calm for days at a time only for an explosion to occur out of nowhere.

Only the night before, I had been curled up on the sofa in the living room reading, enjoying the clean, smoke-free air as Dad had temporarily halted his chain smoking, when Mum burst into the room and marched over to his Victorian reproduction desk, with its fake green embossed leather on top and over-elaborate drawers on either side. Her beige woolen scarf was clearly sticking out through the second drawer down. Dad shuffled painfully into the room after her and watched as she reached her hand down the back of the top drawer, which was locked, and took the scarf out that way.

“Got you!” Dad shouted triumphantly. “Keep your hands off my stuff you fucking nosey bitch.”

“You stupid old fool,” Mum yelled back. “Why do I want to look through your things anyway? You haven’t got anything worth looking at!”

“Because I’m not a bloody five year old,” Mum screamed, before walking smartly out of the room, her scarf in her hand. Dad just shook his head and carefully unlocked and locked the desk once more.

Once they had both left the room John came warily in, helping himself to a few cigarettes from a pack that was lying, discarded, on the sideboard, saying:

We could both hear Mum angrily talking to the cat in the kitchen, saying “the sooner I get away from that mad bastard the better,” while Dad shouted “Why don’t you fuck off out of it then, you fucking bitch?”

“Sounds like,” John agreed, switching on the TV. Unsurprisingly, I had taken to spending as much time away from home as possible.

But by 11.00 on my first Saturday at Nippers it was becoming evident that a career in sales was not going to keep me out of the house for long. Although I looked the part—black tight trousers, black suede boots laced tightly to my calf, oversized red jumper full of holes, backcombed dark brown hair teased into a beehive—I simply could not talk to customers. I would ask if they needed any help then bolt to the back of the store in case any further conversation was required. Luckily it was a slow day so my under-developed social skills were going unnoticed. As I was leaning against the counter, idly staring out into the covered mall in which the store was located, I saw something that made me take a sharp intake of breath. A boy of around 18 or 19 was approaching, not very tall, dressed in tight black jeans festooned with chains, black pointed boots with several silver buckles, an oversized tweed coat, over-long sleeves just revealing one black leather glove on the left hand, with the outfit topped off by a glorious red mohawk, spiked up so that it added an impressive three or four inches to his height. Around his neck he had a heavy chain with a padlock, and some tarnished dog tags. As I gazed, open mouthed with wonder and admiration, my fellow worker, Amanda, lifted her head from her magazine and said disinterestedly:

“You’re late Tommy. You’ll get fired if Sanghani catches you again,” then resumed her reading. Tommy just grunted, before catching sight of my obvious admiration. Switching on a charming smile he glided over, saying smoothly:

“I’m Ruth,” I stammered, flustered and totally intimidated. “Ruth David, the new Saturday girl.”

“Oh yeah?” I replied, keen to get him off the subject in case he fancied her. “What’s your name?” I asked quickly.

“I’m Tommy,” he announced grandly. “No surname, just Tommy, like Madonna,” then he winked. At this Amanda snorted from behind her magazine. “Pleased to meet you,” Tommy continued, ignoring her, and then put out his hand as if to shake mine. In confusion I went to shake it back but he whisked it away, laughing, then suddenly hugged me really tightly, saying loudly, “I like her, she’s cute” to Amanda and the various hangers-on that came into the shop to soak up the punk atmosphere. Smelling his musty coat—mothballs and patchouli oil mingled with the aroma of unwashed body, I didn’t want him to let me go.

I spent the rest of the morning ignoring customers and flirting amateurishly with Tommy, amid much derision from Amanda and the group of girls who were clustered around her, hoping to absorb some of her alternative glamour. Like me she had backcombed hair but she also had an impressive array of piercings in her face, plus a metal chain that linked one of her ear piercings to her nose ring. Every time she moved her head I was mesmerized by the gentle tinkling it made. I had been forbidden from getting any piercings of my own by Dad, who informed me that if I wanted a nose ring I’d have to find alternative accommodation, which didn’t really seem like a worthwhile trade-off. As interesting as Amanda was, I devoted most of the morning to Tommy, following him round and generally looking as besotted as I was feeling, which seemed to amuse him.

“So why haven’t I see you in here before?” he asked as we folded red pleather mini skirts together at the back of the store.

I shrugged nonchalantly “I guess I don’t hang out in Newport that much, mostly I go to Cardiff”—the nearest big city—which was a complete lie. I spent my Saturdays taking the long bus journey from Abersychan, the small, desolate village in the South Wales valleys where I lived, to Newport, then either meeting Nicky for lunchtime drinks or shopping alone, longing for something exciting to happen, something very much like this.

“I like your hair,” he said approvingly, running his hand down the length of my waist length, carefully teased mane, an action that made me shiver. I tossed my head, letting the dozens of tiny braids I had painstakingly put in underneath fall to the front. Instantly Tommy began to leap around enthusiastically, yelling excitedly to me:

“You’ve got to let me have one to put on the back of my hair.” He turned around so I could see that he already had a small length of something welded to the back of his mohawk, possibly a bedraggled piece of acrylic. “Okay,” I agreed, thinking it might be good for him to have a permanent reminder of me. As I lifted up my hair and inclined my head forward, Tommy gently snipped one of my braids off with the scissors we used for opening boxes in the back room. I could feel his breath on my neck and, up to that point, it was the singular most erotic moment of my young life. Tommy carefully folded up my hair and put it in a pocket of his tatty waistcoat.

By 1.00pm Tommy’s friends had crowded into the shop, mostly other punks like him with mohawks, studded leather belts and the same huge coats. As I watched them, Amanda nudged me and said:

“You do know Tommy’s going to court for shoplifting in a few weeks don’t you? He may go to prison so I wouldn’t get too attached. That’s why they all wear those coats, it’s where they stick the stuff on the way out of the store.”

“I know that,” I said, rolling my eyes and trying not to sound impressed. “What did he steal?” I asked, imagining it was jewelry or punk clothes from one of the more expensive shops.

“Pork chops I think,” she said, before moving away to try and sell leopard skin leggings to an overweight teenager who was holding them uncertainly against herself.

Of course, the fact that Tommy was a criminal just made him even more enigmatic and attractive to me. At that moment he had run outside and was enthusiastically kicking an empty beer can around with his friends, his hair wilting slightly with the exertion, oblivious to the disapproving stares of passers-by. As I watched him, leaping around with his huge coat flapping behind him, his chains gently clinking together, stopping every few minutes to hoik his studded belts back up, I knew I had to make him my boyfriend, whether he liked it or not.

But before I could formulate a proper plan he stopped playing around and ran forward to embrace a girl who had just walked towards the shop. I vaguely knew her from school; she was a year older than me and had already left. With white blond spiky hair and more piercings than even Amanda, Annie was probably the coolest person I had ever seen and I was devastated that she was my competition. I sourly watched them hug and sighed as Tommy put his arm around her and led her away. Never one to back away from a challenge, I resolved that girlfriend or no girlfriend, Tommy was going to be mine. Luckily Annie had to leave shortly afterwards so Tommy sauntered back to the shop, smiling to himself before sidling up to me.

“Yeah,” I replied in what I hoped was an appropriately disdainful tone. “It’s shit though.”

He nodded sympathetically and said “I left a year last March. Hey, you could leave now; you’re 16 so they can’t stop you.”

I wondered what Dad, a lecturer, would think about that. I tossed my head, saying, “I think I’ll get my exams and then leave.”

Tommy snorted. “Exams? Don’t tell me you want a job,” spitting the last word out, which was curious because here we both were, working on a Saturday.

“No of course not,” I said hastily, “but if I leave school I have to move out of home and I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”

“You could always stay with me in the squat,” he said casually. “I get unemployment payments plus what I earn in cash from this job, and you could probably get something from the government.” Adjusting a bra strap that had fallen down, as if the teenage hormones running amok inside me had ordered it, I considered his offer. “Thanks,” I said, trying not to grin. “I’ll let you know.” Unfortunately Amanda came over and demanded that I go to the front of the shop and do some work, so I reluctantly left.

Later on, after lunch, I had the opportunity to lean companionably against Tommy as we both huddled by the heater, which was tucked away in a small space behind the cash desk. He was annoying Amanda by thwacking the end of one of his studded belts onto a table with a suggestive expression on his face while she tried to paint her nails black. On the third go she grabbed a pair of scissors and skewered the belt to the wood, hissing:

Tommy pulled the scissors out, laughed and tossed his head, making his ear and nose rings jangle adorably. He turned his attentions to me, saying plaintively “Look what she did.” He then came in closer to me, making my heart jump, and leered “Wanna kiss it better?” I tried in those few seconds to come up with a reply which would both signal my complete and utter availability to him, but also make me seem mysterious. In the end I didn’t say anything, but just bit my lower lip and stared wide-eyed at him. A few seconds later my chance had gone as his attention went on to something else, and I spent the next few hours thinking of what I should have said or done.

Five o’clock came much too soon, and I reluctantly prepared to go home. As I hadn’t sold anything and had spent the day gazing up at Tommy, the owner, Mr. Sanghani wasn’t keen to have me back the next Saturday:

He sighed, worn down by years of dealing with teenaged Saturday staff, and reached round to his back pocket.

“Listen love, no offence but you’re not cut out for sales. Here’s £10 for today but I really need staff to shift the clothes and I don’t think you can do that.” With that he turned abruptly and shouted, “Oy, Tommy, I want to talk to you. Amanda said you were late, again,” then disappeared into the back room.

I was completely crushed not to be asked back, mostly because I now didn’t have an excuse to see Tommy. As I shrugged into my fluffy grey thrift store coat and walked sadly out of the door, Tommy ran up behind me. Grinning, he said: “Never mind, it’s a shit job anyway. Come and see me on Saturday though,” then walked back into the shop.

I spent the rest of the week bitching to my friends in school about being fired and dreamily reliving all my encounters with Tommy, imagining a soft-focus future with him—us going on our first date, our first kiss, and introducing him to everyone I knew as my cool new boyfriend. Finally, after an interminable week, it was Saturday again and I spent most of the morning carefully choosing what to wear. I decided my outfit had to show that I was edgy, sexy and, above all, old enough to be taken seriously. I had always looked young for my age, something that depressed me, especially when compared to my peers, such as Nicky, who effortlessly dated older boys and never got turned away from bars. I chose black leggings, a black bra-top and a huge black crochet jumper to wear over the top, which I thought showed an appropriate amount of flesh without looking too try-hard. Once I had teased my hair into its usual beehive at the front, crimped the rest and covered up every last freckle on my face with white foundation, I quietly walked to the front door, hoping to slip out unnoticed. As I put my hand out towards the handle I heard Dad roar:

“Are you trying to kill me, woman? Why are you cooking with lard? I’ve just had heart surgery for Christ’s sake.”

Mum yelled back, “Do the cooking yourself then, you bloody fool, if you don’t like it.”

As I left I could hear, “You fucking cow, you can’t wait ‘til I’m six feet under,” floating out of the open kitchen window.

Within ten minutes I was standing at the bus stop, waiting for the 11.45 to take me to Newport, a seemingly endless journey through bleak countryside and failing towns with boarded-up shops. It usually took more than an hour, but the journey appeared to be even slower that day. Finally the bus creaked into Newport and I impatiently stepped off into the cold grey day. After a speedy visit to the public lavatory to check my make-up, I walked quickly toward Nippers.

By the time I arrived there, my heart was hammering loudly, I was sweaty with anticipation and could barely breathe with excitement and anxiety. Inhaling deeply to try and calm myself, I went inside and said hi to Amanda, who was leaning on the counter looking vacantly into space.

She sniggered when she saw me and immediately bellowed “Tommy! Your fan club’s arrived,” which did little to put me at ease. I was bright red by this point and broke into a huge grin when Tommy walked towards me, holding his coat.

“I’m taking my break,” he said, turning to Amanda, who smirked at him. I followed him happily out of the shop. The tiny braid I had given him was already attached to his hair, something I noted with satisfaction.

We took a walk to the nearby supermarket, where he had been caught shoplifting, to get something to drink. The security guard eyed us warily, insisting that Tommy wait outside while I went in and got us some coke. I’d never been treated like a criminal before and found it thrillingly glamorous. When I came out, I handed Tommy one of the cans and we left the mall to sit in Newport’s main square, a windswept concrete area optimistically designed in the 1960s with a climate other than Northern Europe in mind. Huddling into my coat, I sat next to Tommy on a cold, red brick flowerbed. Though the sky was the color of faded steel and a sharp wind whipped about us, the day seemed suddenly alive with possibilities. Without an audience Tommy was surprisingly easy to talk to. I even relaxed a little, and played with my hair while we chatted about bands Tommy liked (I professed to like them too), bands he didn’t like (ditto) and the general depressing awfulness of having to live in Abersychan, which he sympathized with.

We reluctantly made our way back to the shop about an hour later, and while we walked I was hugely conscious of his presence right beside me. Not surprisingly, given that we were both hormone-saturated teenagers, Tommy brought up the subject of sex, describing how he’d been banned from his cousin Ed’s house for ‘doing’ his girlfriend.

“I’m a virgin,” I offered up to the conversation, hoping it would distinguish me from the type of girls I imagined he knew, based on the ones I’d already seen hanging around him—I severely doubted any of them could have truthfully made this claim, after all.

Tommy’s response was disbelief. “Get out,” he said. “Everybody know there aren’t any virgins over 14 around here.”

“Well, I’m different,” I said, twirling a piece of my hair around my finger.

“Seriously, I am though,” I persisted. “I’m just waiting for the right boy.”

“Well, we’d have to have lots in common, like music and clothes. And he’d have to be older and more experienced of course.” Here I broke off and stole a look up at him. I was pleased to see that he seemed rapt and was breathing a little heavier. “And he’d have to have his own place ‘cos I’m not doing it under a bush somewhere.”

We were outside the shop now so we stopped, hoping to eke out another few minutes of his break time and not wanting to end this suddenly interesting conversation.

“Anyone in mind for the job then?” he asked, moving closer toward me and picking up a piece of my hair. I hadn’t quite mastered the art of playing hard to get so was about to declare my intentions and tell him that he was now the chosen one when Amanda marched outside saying:

“I’m on my own in here. Get back inside and work the cash desk, Tommy.” Dropping my hair with a groan and running inside, Tommy left me, breathless and furious with Amanda for ruining what I was sure had been a pivotal moment.

Frustratingly, even though I went to visit Tommy every Saturday, I didn’t make any more headway with him than this. He was always funny and charming, but showed no signs of wanting to be anything more than friends. From visiting the shop I had learned that he flirted shamelessly with every girl he met, which probably explained how he sold so many clothes. Also, to my distress, he was still dating Annie. Still, I continued to go and see him, in the hope that one day he’d simply realize that we were meant to be together.

School now became even more of an irritation than ever, just something that kept me occupied until I could see Tommy again. I couldn’t adequately describe to my friends how I felt about him. I only knew that I hadn’t felt this way about anyone since Adam Ant when I was 11, and as he was a pop star and not a normal person, it didn’t count anyway. When I thought about Tommy my heart would start to beat irregularly, my breathing would become shallow and anything I was doing at that moment—eating, paying attention in class, listening to my parents argue, crossing the road—would fade into the background and there would only be him, smiling at me with his half-lidded brown eyes.

My friends, none of whom liked the same clothes, music or boys as me, simply didn’t understand the spell Tommy had me under. My only likely ally, Nicky, was dating an older boy so would disappear off every break to see him. The rest of us would sit in the cloakroom at lunchtime, leaning back against the coats and discussing the hot issues of the day—pop music, boys, exams, who wasn’t speaking to whom, and inevitably I would turn the conversation to Tommy.

“So,” I would begin. “Don’t you think Tommy and Annie are really bad together?” Lisa would groan and say:

“What do you see in him anyway? He’s smelly, got awful hair and a horrible rough girlfriend.”

“You don’t understand,” I would retort. “He’s a very spiritual person and I know he really likes me. Annie’s probably really needy so he can’t get rid of her.”

Davina would snort, “He’s only interested in you because you threw yourself at him. And you’ll probably get hepatitis from him anyway, he’s so gross. Or even something worse,” she said darkly.

“Ugh. How can you want to kiss that? Doesn’t he rattle with all that crap in his face?” Meaning his ear and nose rings and various other piercings. “And I can’t believe you gave him some of your hair when you have panic attacks if anyone even touches it,” she added.

These conversations usually ended with me looking dreamily into the middle distance saying dramatically, “But I love him.” At which point they would collectively push me off the bench and move the conversation onto the boys they fancied, who were inevitably clean and tidy, didn’t live in squats or wear funny clothes, in whom I had absolutely no interest and who had even less interest in me.

Things with Tommy continued to stagnate throughout the winter until one December evening. I was moping in the living room watching TV and wishing that it was Saturday when the phone rang in the hall and Dad, who was passing by, picked it up:

“Hello, Terry speaking,” he said authoritatively, as the rest of us braced ourselves in case the call was for Mum, something that was likely to provoke a vicious argument.

“Ruth? Yes, I’ll get her for you now,” I heard Dad say disapprovingly, as I leapt up and ran into the hall.

“No” Dad said, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow. “Some boy called Tommy, calling from a pay phone.” Always adept at hiding my emotions, I went bright red and began sweating profusely.

“Are you sure?” I asked, frowning unconvincingly. “Um, I’m not sure if I know a Tommy.” I was hoping Dad would walk into the other room and leave me alone. Unfortunately he stood next to me, arms folded, and regarded me grimly. Taking the receiver from him I squeaked nervously “Hello? What do you want Tommy?”

I’d never heard Tommy at a loss for words before but I don’t think it was the reaction he was expecting from me. “I just wanted to invite you to a party at the squat,” he stammered.

“I can’t go,” I said, trying to keep any emotion out of my voice and hoping that somehow, perhaps by osmosis, he would realize that I couldn’t talk due to the fact that an over-protective father whom I didn’t want to upset due to a recent surgery, was standing over me.

“Okay then,” he said, sounding deflated. “Just thought I’d ask. Bye,” he said, then put the phone down. Still holding the receiver I felt like crying. Why couldn’t Mum have answered the phone? Or even John? I put the phone back in its usual spot and said to Dad:

“Well, that’s all right then,” Dad said stiffly, and went back into the living room to watch TV. I walked heavily downstairs to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the orange 1970s sofa I slept on instead of a bed; my parents’ money worries had become more and more severe over the years, and both John and I had to scavenge whatever bedroom furniture we could find from the rest of the house. I was shocked and horrified that Tommy had finally asked me out and I had turned him down. One thing I knew, I was going to that party. In school the next day I grabbed Nicky before assembly and told her what had happened.

“So you’ve got to find out when the party is and we have to go so I can stay at yours,” I said urgently, jittery from lack of sleep and from replaying the brief conversation over and over in my head.

Nicky frowned and shook her head. “No way. I’ll find out about the party for you but I’m not going. I’ve been to those type of things before and they just get out of hand.”

“What do you mean out of hand? How?” I stuttered excitedly, fired up by the prospect of an abandoned and deviant time.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Nicky said mysteriously, “but I’m not going with you.” To my immense frustration she wouldn’t elaborate, but would only hint darkly at drug taking and wild orgies. “I’m past that phase in my life,” she declared, which I thought was grossly unfair as we were both 16, yet I’d never even had the chance to get started on that kind of debauchery.

“Anyway,” she added impatiently, “you saying no to him for once is probably a good thing. Don’t you know anything about boys?” Unfortunately we both knew the answer to that.

The only thing that was keeping me going was the thought of seeing Tommy on Saturday and explaining my weird behavior on the phone. But when I turned up at the shop, almost the moment it opened, Amanda informed me with malicious amusement that “Tommy’s been fired, and not before time,” and insisted she didn’t know where I could find him. I was heartbroken.

The December days dragged on, and Christmas passed without incident. I now spent my Saturdays hanging around town in the hope that I would bump into Tommy, and I resumed my routine of meeting Nicky and going to the pub. Frustratingly I never did see Tommy around until several months later, just as I was beginning to give up hope.

It was a sunny day in May, which also happened to be Dad’s 54 th birthday. He always asked us not to get him presents, and actually seemed to mean it, not like Mum who would say it was okay then sulk for weeks. I had woken up early that morning so had already given him my card and was preparing to ride with him into Newport, where he worked, to go to the library and study as my exams started in two weeks time. It meant setting off at 7 a.m. but was a small price to pay to escape Abersychan for the day. Dad had now recovered from his surgery and had been assigned to teach at an adult education center that specialized in adult literacy. I hung around the building, which was an old, shabby Victorian house just outside Newport town center, until about 8.45, doodling on the blackboard and making cups of coffee, then set off for the 15-minute walk to the library. It was an unseasonably warm day and I thought glumly what a shame it was that I had to waste it studying. As I got close to the main square, I caught sight of two figures sitting down in the underpass.

“Ruth!” one of them called out. I turned round and my stomach tightened when I saw who it was. Tommy! He was with a boy I knew fairly well, both from school, although he had since left, and also from Nicky’s youth theatre group.

“Hi Tommy,” I said, trying to keep an excited tremor out of my voice. “Hi Richie, how’s the theater?” I asked, stopping when Richie made frantic hand gestures to me to change the subject. Instantly I realized that youth theatre and punk were an unhappy mix so gladly turned my attention back to Tommy, gazing foolishly at him and smiling broadly. He slowly got to his feet and tucked the pieces of paper he had been holding into his back pocket.

“So” he said, in the suggestive tone he always adopted when talking to me in front of someone else. “What shall we do today?”

“I’ve got to go to the library and revise,” I said primly, indicating toward my bag full of books. “My exams start soon.”

“Don’t bother with all that,” Tommy said dismissively. “Come for a drink with us.”

“Well, all right then,” I said as calmly as I could, secretly thrilled at how the morning was turning out.

When we got to the library it was already filling up with keen young students, eager to cram in a day of study.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked Tommy dubiously, already willing to dump it and do whatever he wanted.

“Yeah, it’ll be great,” he said, grinning and sauntering over to a free table, and sitting down. I shrugged and followed him over, with Richie trailing behind. “What shall we start with?” said Tommy loudly, grabbing my books. “How about biology,” he said looking at me in a way which made me quiver.

“Um, how about math?” I said nervously. “How are you with equations?” But he’d already leapt up and was running towards the children’s play area, much to the consternation of the library staff. While he was gone, a middle-aged librarian approached the table, saying pompously:

“I don’t think your friend is here to learn and it’s not fair on everyone else. Either he leaves or you all do.”

I looked up and saw a few dozen disapproving faces, mostly staring straight down at their books and trying not to get drawn into a possible argument with Tommy, who by now was examining the toy cars while a small child looked up at his hair, open mouthed.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “We were just leaving.” Gathering up my books, Richie and I tiptoed over to Tommy and whispered that we had just been chucked out.

“Cool,” he said, and handed back the toy fire engine he was holding to an upset-looking little boy.

Once we were outside, the large concrete clock at the other side of the square reminded me that it was only 9.30. One and a half hours until alcohol could work its magic on the situation, hopefully making Tommy pay me a bit more attention.

We spent the time sitting on the oversized brick flowerbeds in the square, making cruel comments about unsuspecting passers-by and derogatory remarks about almost everyone that we all knew. I also tried to get some information on Tommy’s current romantic status, and was crushed to learn that he was still with Annie. After he had delivered this bombshell, he and Richie wandered off to a nearby underground car park to smoke a joint. They refused to let me come with them:

“You’re too cute for this kind of thing,” Tommy said, ruffling my hair as I impatiently brushed his hand away.

“I’m not cute,” I muttered in frustration, not because I wanted to share their stupid drugs but because he refused to acknowledge that I was just as grown up as he was. I sat on the flowerbed sulking until they at last returned, pink eyed and giggling. As they sat back down Tommy got the piece of paper I’d seen earlier out of his pocket.

“Listen to this,” he laughed. “If you can tick three of the following boxes, you may be having trouble coping with unemployment. Number one—do you have difficulty getting out of bed in the morning?”

“Number two—are you drinking more than usual in an effort to pass the time?” They both guffawed. “Number three—are you hanging around street corners corrupting innocent school girls?”

“That’s not on there,” I scoffed, grabbing the leaflet off him. It was government literature for the long-term unemployed with tips on how to stay active and not get depressed. Tommy snatched it back from me, scrumpled it into a ball and kicked it away.

“Come on” he said authoritatively. “The pubs just opened and we’ve got time to waste.” He grabbed my hand and we began to walk to the nearest bar that we knew would serve underage drinkers—namely me and Richie, who was 17. When we got inside, Tommy threw himself on one of the torn PVC-padded seats in a dusty corner, while Richie followed. I was the only one with any money, and so went to the bar:

“Two pints of Brains bitter and a Pernod and blackcurrant please,” I said breathlessly, dying to get back to the table to spend more time with Tommy. I could hear him drumming on the table and laughing maniacally about something. I watched impatiently as the barman slowly filled the pint glasses from the pump, being careful not to spill a drop. Finally he was done, although it seemed to take forever to get my change:

“Three, four, and five makes ten,” he said ponderously, putting various coins and a five-pound note into my outstretched hand. I carefully took the two pints over to Tommy and Richie, then went back to the bar to get my drink, noting resentfully that if Richie didn’t have the decency to make himself scarce when he clearly wasn’t wanted, then he could at least carry the drinks. I sat next to Tommy and looked up at him, unsure of what to say next. He saved me the trouble by lifting up his pint, grinning at me and saying:

“Cheers! Good pocket money week for you was it?” before taking a large gulp.

“It’s not pocket money,” I said indignantly. “It’s supposed to pay for my lunch in school.”

“I’m just teasing,” he said, smiling at me. “I think it’s sweet that you’re still in school. How old are you now? 14?”

“Almost 17,” I replied, taking a prim sip of my drink. “So only a bit younger than you really.”

“I’m more mature than most though,” he said gravely, before leaping up and saying winningly: “Gotta take a piss,” and disappearing toward the back of the pub.

I leaned over toward Richie and said pleadingly “If you’re really my friend, make some excuse and go off for a bit.”

“But I’ve just started my pint,” he said plaintively. “Besides, you seem to be doing okay with me here.”

“Really?” I said, eyes wide with anticipation. “What did Tommy say about me?”

“Nothing in particular,” he said offhandedly. “He said earlier that he thinks you’re pretty, but a bit young.”

“A bit young? I’m only six months younger than you are,” I said, disappointed.

“Yeah but he probably doesn’t want to do to me what he’d like to do to you so I don’t think it matters,” he said grinning.

“Tommy wants to do stuff to me?” I squeaked excitedly, bouncing up and down in my seat. “So go for a walk or something,” I said desperately. “He can’t make a move if you’re here.”

“Okay,” he agreed, “but you owe me one and I’m finishing my drink first.”

“Fine,” I said, pouting and slumping back in my seat with my arms crossed. “But if you stop us from getting together I’ll tell everyone about the time you played Puck.”

Just then Tommy sauntered back to the table and sat down on the other side of me.

“So,” he said, reaching over me for his pint. “Did you talk about me while I was gone?”

“Maybe,” I said, smiling and tossing my hair back, hoping he’d notice that I still had dozens of little braids underneath. Remembering the one I gave him I looked at the back of his head to see if it was still there. “What happened to the hair I gave you?” I said, upset to see it gone.

“It came out,” he said apologetically. “I’ve still got it though, I didn’t throw it out.”

“I keep it under my pillow,” he said, giving me a sidelong look as he took another swig of his beer.

“That’s nice,” I murmured, looking meaningfully over at Richie and motioning with my head for him to go. He ignored me and got his cigarettes out of his leather jacket, throwing the pack on the table in front of Tommy, who took one out then offered the pack to me.

“Not right now,” I said coolly, neglecting to mention that I spent most of my time at home trying to persuade Dad to quit by yelling at him that it was a disgusting habit and I couldn’t stand the smell. Once they had finished their cigarettes and stubbed them out on the threadbare red carpet, Tommy looked slyly at me, saying:

“So how hungry do you actually get at school?” which was my cue to buy more drinks. I made Richie come to the bar with me and whispered:

“I’ll buy you one more round if you put in a good word for me with Tommy and say how great I am or something.” He rolled his eyes but nodded his agreement. When we had delivered the drinks to our table, I left to use the bathroom and to give Richie a chance to say some nice things about me. Once inside the cubicle I leaned against the door and took some deep breaths. I certainly hadn’t expected to have such an exciting day and was glad I had worn my new black jacket with batwing sleeves. I carefully put some more make-up on in front of the mirror, adjusted my backcombed beehive and undid a few buttons on my shirt, which was tucked into tight black trousers. I fervently thanked God that I’d been skipping lunch to save money for going out as I felt I was looking particularly good that day. After another look at my reflection, I went back out, determined to flirt as hard as I could.

It seemed there was no need. We chatted some more and as I relaxed I forgot to always try to impress Tommy. Another hour and another round of drinks passed then Tommy suddenly got up and drained his glass. “Come on,” he said to Richie. “We’ve got to sign on at 1.00,” signing on being what you had to do to qualify for unemployment benefits, a regular occurrence for anyone I knew who had left school and wasn’t going on to college or some kind of training. He turned to me and said, “Do you want to come?”

“I can’t,” I said regretfully. “I’ve got to meet my friend.” In fact I was supposed to meet Lisa an hour and a half before but hadn’t wanted to leave Tommy.

“Great,” I said perkily, thrilled I was going to see his inner sanctum, a real live punk squat. Richie had disappeared by that point—at last showing some tact. As I walked outside with Tommy we stood outside the pub, squinting in the bright sunlight.

“So” he said, moving towards me. Suddenly he leant forward with an uncharacteristically hesitant look on his face, put his arms around my waist and kissed me on the lips. As we stood kissing on the quiet street, my only thought was what to do with my hands—Tommy had taken me completely by surprise so by this point they were hanging limply at my side, like jellyfish tentacles, then flailing wildly as if shocked into action. Finally I put them firmly on his back and pressed myself as closely to him as was possible. He tasted of beer and cigarettes and his leather jacket smelt of damp and smoke, but I couldn’t have imagined a more satisfactory outcome to the morning. It was over all too soon though. Tommy stepped back, smiling at me, then hugged me really close once more. Still reeling from finally getting what I wanted, I stumbled backwards. “Meet me later at 2.30,” he commanded. “Outside the Labour Club,” which was on a nearby street.

“Okay,” I beamed, on too much of a high to hide my feelings. After another prolonged make-out session, we reluctantly left in opposite directions. I grinned widely all the way to Lisa’s house, an uphill trudge of around 10 minutes. Normally I’d complain about the hill as soon as I got there but this time I just stood outside her front door, waiting for her to answer, with a dreamy look on my face, already reliving The Kiss.

Lisa flung open the door. “You’re over an hour late,” she said accusingly. “I started revising without you.”

“Oh my God you’ll never believe what just happened,” I gabbled, telling her the day’s events so far. Predictably she was less than impressed.

“I really, really don’t know why you like him, but I’ll let you off the lateness given that you’ve been completely in love with him for, like, a year or something.”

At that point Lisa put down her book with a sigh. “If I have to hear every little detail about this, I’m going to need some alcohol.” Ten minutes later we were comfortably seated in a booth at her local pub—also happy to serve 16-year-olds—with two halves of cider in front of us.

“So what are you going to do now you’ve got him?” Lisa asked, taking a huge gulp of her drink. I shrugged, “I don’t know. I’m meeting him later so maybe he’s going to dump Annie.”

Lisa sniffed dubiously “Why would he when he knows you’re madly in love with him? So far you’ve told him you love him, you want him to the ‘the first,’ and that you’d do anything for him.”

I reflected on what she said while I picked up my cold glass. “Well I didn’t actually tell him that I loved him. I think he just heard about it,” I said sheepishly. However, it was true that I’d hinted fairly heavily on numerous occasions that I was happy, eager even, for him to ‘make me a woman.’

“He probably thinks he can date you both,” she continued. I shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to admit that if he wanted to date me as well as Annie, I would be fairly happy with this arrangement if it meant I got to be his girlfriend as well.

“I don’t care,” I said defiantly. “All that matters is that we’re together.”

Lisa laughed, saying, “It’s just a crush. You wait. A few weeks of being his girlfriend and you’ll be totally in love with someone else you think you can’t have.”

“That’s so not true,” I said indignantly, although I did concede that I was beginning to feel a small sense of anticlimax now that my goal of the past few months looked like it was going to be fulfilled. Plus, while I had been brazenly offering myself to Tommy I had never really expected to get anywhere, so the prospect of going to his squat later was making me a little nervous. Pushing that to the back of my mind, we carried on dissecting the entire event—what he said, what I did, what my Dad was going to say if he ever found out.

Soon it was almost 2.30 so I began to walk quickly back toward our meeting place. As I approached I could see Tommy standing outside the Labour club, with Richie next to him, something I was both relieved and annoyed about. “Hi,” I beamed at Tommy. “Did you sign on okay?”

“Oh yeah,” he smiled back. “I think I’ve got the hang of it after all this time.” He took my hand as we walked up the hill.

“Just up here,” Tommy said, turning into a narrow street full of large run-down Victorian terraced houses. We walked to the fifth one along then Tommy got out a key and we picked our way through the garbage and weeds that filled the tiny front garden. Tommy unlocked the front door, which was swollen with damp, kicked it impatiently when it wouldn’t open, and led us into a narrow, dark hallway. “Come on,” Tommy said, running up a decidedly unsafe-looking staircase opposite the front door, stopping when he got to the top floor of the house three flights up. There were only two doors and he unlocked the one on the left, letting us into a small, stale-smelling room, with two single beds in it, a large window as well as a sink and a fridge.

“I thought you lived in a squat,” I said puzzled. “How come you’ve got running water and electricity?”

Tommy was momentarily at a loss for words, then said quickly, “This is a top-class squat, you see, so we have a few extras.”

“Okay,” I said, content to take things at face value, although it seemed obvious when I thought about it later that it was actually a bedsit paid for by the government as part of his welfare benefits, and was very similar to the place where my sister lived. However, I was more than happy to believe that I was in a real punk squat, so I lay back on one of the beds while Tommy demonstrated enthusiastically how he had connected his stereo with the fridge, so every time he opened the door it played Alien Sex Fiend or Dead Kennedys. I feigned delighted approval, momentarily regretting that I’d said I liked the same music as him. The place was remarkably clean, something that surprised me until there was a knock on the door and a small woman of about 45 with a glossy black beehive higher than even mine, wearing a tight black pencil skirt and black silk blouse with a well-worn pair of fluffy pink slippers, came in.

“Tommy?” she said, “It’s only me love. I’ve brought your clean clothes over.”

Tommy leapt up and ushered her swiftly outside, but I could hear him whine “Mam! I told you not to just come straight in. My friends are here.”

“Sorry son,” she said contritely. “The front door was open and I just wanted you to have some clothes as soon as I’d done them. Are you coming over for your tea tonight?”

“Yeah,” he muttered sulkily. “I’ll see you later.” I could hear her softly walking down the stairs while Tommy came back in. He quickly put a pile of clothes on the other bed then threw himself down next to me. “What shall we do now then?” he grinned, then leaned forward and kissed me. Richie groaned and leapt to his feet.

“No,” said Tommy, smiling at me. “That’s okay,” but Richie had already left the room. Tommy kissed me again, leaving me elated but nervous, then got up and held out his hand. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll do something just the two of us tomorrow.” A little relieved, I stood up, smiling at him and playing with the dog tags around his neck while he put his arms around my waist.

“No,” he laughed. “A friend did it after I’d drunk some Jack Daniels. Do you want me to do yours?”

I could hear a flushing sound in the distance and Richie came back into the room, wiping his hands on his jeans. Tommy turned his head and said to him, “We’ve got to go and meet Mark and get some supplies now I’ve been paid.”

“Supplies of what?” I asked. Tommy patted the top of my hair. “Never you mind,” he said.

We all left the room and Tommy locked up. Once we got outside the house Tommy turned to me and said, “We’ve just got to go and sort something out, but meet up later yeah?”

“Okay,” I said, clinging onto the front of his jacket and gazing trustingly up at him. He kissed me on the forehead, gently dislodged my hands and said:

“See you later then. On the flowerbed in the square in half an hour, say 3.30.” I nodded my agreement and watched them walk down the hill. Once they were out of sight I walked happily toward my favorite clothing store and spent twenty minutes trying on clothes I couldn’t afford and re-applying my make-up in the changing room. When I had killed enough time I began to walk toward our meeting point. All I could think about was Tommy, and I was sure we really were going to be together from now on. I could already imagine introducing him casually to my friends as “my boyfriend Tommy” or “Tommy, my boyfriend and first lover.” But as I walked up to the flowerbed—which I was already referring to in my head as ‘our flowerbed’—I could see that something just wasn’t right. Tommy was there, and so was Richie, but Annie was too, and Tommy had his arms around her. I slowed down, confused, not sure what to do. Tommy saw me as I approached. “Hi Ruth,” he said casually.

“Uh, hi” I said uncertainly, looking from him to Annie, not really knowing what was happening. Annie simply ignored me, which is what she always did, so I couldn’t tell whether she knew anything was amiss. I looked helplessly at Richie who shrugged his shoulders sympathetically and then looked away. “Well okay then,” I said uselessly, and turned around to walk away, trying not to cry, at least until I was at a safe distance. I couldn’t work out what had just happened. I kept going over the day’s events until I came to the awful conclusion that Tommy had only hung out with me because he didn’t have any money to buy drinks. He’d picked up his welfare payment when he went to sign on so he presumably now had some cash. I felt sick. I was nearly out of the square when I heard Richie call my name. I ignored him so he ran up to me and gave me a hug.

“Why did he bother hanging around with me if he doesn’t even like me.” I wailed. “You just wanted me to buy you drinks,” and then, shamefully, I burst into tears.

“No, he really does like you,” he said helplessly. “Really. And me and you have been for drinks loads of times and you didn’t pay.” I sniffed, that was true, so it was just Tommy who was a turd then.

“Honestly I don’t know why you like him so much,” he said impatiently. “You could probably have anyone you wanted of your own age.” Even through my misery I had to smile at this, it really wasn’t true. I knew that most of the boys in school thought I was ‘weird.’ (It would astound me when, a mere two years later, these same boys would be prepared to overlook this simply because I began to wear drastically fewer clothes, most of them skin tight and/or leather).

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know, I can’t help it,” I replied sadly.

“Come into town on Saturday and meet me for a drink,” he said. “Tommy won’t be around so we can bitch about him.”

I smiled weakly. “Okay then,” I agreed and forlornly left. I didn’t look back until they were almost out of sight. Tommy still had his arm around Annie while the rest of the gang sat around smoking.

After spending half an hour crying in the public toilets, I returned to the library and pretended to study, all the while going over and over the day’s events and wondering what I did wrong. Maybe Richie was right. Maybe Tommy didn’t know Annie was going to be there. But even so, he hadn’t looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. After an hour of torturing myself with these thoughts, I slowly packed up my books and trudged back to meet Dad outside the adult education center. He was just getting into the car when I approached:

“Well these exams are important,” he said sternly. “You don’t want to end up like your bloody mother do you? A secretary?”

I didn’t answer, but just got into the passenger seat and looked out of the window in silence all the way home.

I did meet Richie the following Saturday and spent the day, and the rest of the summer, with him and the other punk kids our age who hung around the main square, plus various older local lowlifes, probably attracted by the ready custom for the drugs that they sold, not to mention the easy access to impressionable teenage girls. Their criminal activities and general aura of deviance completely outdid Tommy, and if I had wanted a real bad boy, I certainly had plenty to choose from. One, Dave, was a heroin addict enjoying his last few days before going into government-sponsored rehab, after which he became a born again Christian whom I spent the next few months avoiding. Another, Chris, was an Oxford dropout with a coke habit; he looked like Billy Idol and funded his addiction through house breaking. A third guy, Mark, wasn’t a punk at all, but a 26-year-old drug dealer freshly released from prison, who made me uncomfortable by asking me outright to have sex with him in the underground car park. (I refused.) They didn’t have Tommy’s scruples about offering me drugs either, but I still declined, feeling that being off my face with such obvious opportunists wouldn’t be wise.

Although I still thought about Tommy, and asked about him incessantly, I was strangely unconcerned when he was sentenced to two weeks in prison just as my exams finished, despite hearing in detail from Mark (who had friends in Cardiff prison) how he’d cried for most of the time and generally behaved like the teenage kid he was. In fact, with breathtaking insensitivity, I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to see him for a while, and vindictively pleased that at least this would split him and Annie up. I even recovered enough to go on a date with a friend of Richie’s, although he wasn’t my type, being good looking, well-brought up, considerate and polite. I hated to admit it, but it looked as if my friends were right—it was just a crush. A small part of me still hoped that we would be together, but it never happened.

By the time school started again in September, I didn’t really believe I loved Tommy anymore. This meant that when I did see him I could convincingly feign indifference, which only made him more interested. Although we enjoyed a few furtive make-out sessions in dark nightclubs over the next few months, predictably I gradually forgot all about him. The last time I saw Tommy was about a year later, in 1986, after my parents had finally divorced. Mum was dropping me off outside her office in Newport one Friday—I stayed with her on Thursday nights as I’d chosen to live with Dad. She had just got out of the car and while I was standing on the pavement I saw Tommy and an older man I recognized as his brother coming toward us. Tommy still had his tight trousers and black leather jacket, but his glorious mohawk had been replaced by short black spiky hair, and he only had a few piercings left. His padlock and dogtags were also missing. My first instinct was to jump back into the car, but it was too late. Tommy saw me and walked over to say hello.

“Hi Tommy,” I said warily, hoping he wouldn’t say something about stealing, prison, drugs or anything else that might embarrass me.

No, I’ve been busy,” I said off-handedly, turning around to say goodbye to Mum.

“So who’s this then?” he said, grinning inanely at Mum. I gazed at him open-mouthed. Although Mum was slim and relatively well-dressed, she was ancient—43—and he was acting like she was a particularly attractive teenage girl. Mum just looked dismissively at him—the working-classes had always been invisible to her—turned to me and said:

Tommy looked approvingly after her as she walked away and called out, “anytime you girls feel like a threesome you give me a call,” while I looked at him in horror and his brother cackled and winked at me. Luckily Mum wasn’t listening, or pretended she wasn’t. In any case we certainly never referred to it again. It wasn’t long after this incident that I decided to give up on bad boys altogether. Instead I began to date a series of fey Goth pretty-boys, none of whom lived on welfare benefits, had been to prison, looked upon personal hygiene as optional, or, most importantly, showed any interest in my mother.

Ruth Cashman is a freelance writer based in New York. She is currently working on a memoir about growing up amid the economic turmoil, social unrest and questionable hairstyles of 1980s Britain. Ruth relocated from London in 2007 but, distressingly, no one has yet told her that she has a cute accent.