Short Story: Hot Love

Short Story: Hot Love

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

Marc Bolan looked down at me from my bedroom wall. I saw his beautiful face through a fathom of tears. How could he have left me?

Metal Guru was played and replayed. My father banged on the door. 'Turn that bloody din down. Or I will.' I didn't and neither did he. I guessed mother, diplomat in apron, had spoken to him about my grief.

My serious musical love affair ended that day, 16th September 1977. I had toyed with the Bay City Rollers, tartan scarf and all, but no-one before or since had ever lit up my teenage years more than the Mighty Marc. He epitomised all that was unattainable to a young girl with spots; his silver high heels, his curls and pout, made him the man of my dreams.

I remember running for the bus one Saturday in platform boots, my Oxford Bags flapping against thin legs. It was Karen Evan's party. I thought I looked dead cool and was looking forward to going to the ice rink. Mum and my little sister Jo followed, they were going into town to do some shopping. She had been promised a strawberry milkshake at the Wimpy to make up for the fact that I was having a bit of fun and she was excluded. I swaggered to the back row and sat down, before seeing, to my horror, an apple core, all soft and brown, covered in fluff, in the turn up of my trousers. My sister's metal brace grinned at me over the head rest of the seat in front. I hit her and she screamed loudly. No birthday cake and snog with Chris Blasdale in the deserted corridors of Silver Blades for me that year. Grounded.

Stuck inside I listened to Telegram Sam a million times, in denial. If I could hear him sing, he must surely still be here. There was a slight scratch on the vinyl, the imperfection proved me wrong. 'You've gone away, but do I care?' the needle jumped as I sang, altering his words. 'But do I care?' I murmoured, hugging my pillow and swaying forwards and backwards. Yes, actually, I did.

My record player had belonged to my cousin, Nicki, she was 12 years older than me and, because she had no siblings of her own, treated me to her hand-downs. One of my earliest memories of her, at some gathering, was very strong perfume, loud voice and even louder shirt, the combination confusing the senses, but in a nice way. I stared at her and she smiled, recognising a fellow rebel, even at my early age. 'You like?' she asked, twirling round twice but not wasting words on one as young as me. I nodded, spellbound and crossed my eyes so the white swirled around the cherry and tangerine cocktail on her chest, like single cream.

I couldn't have been the only one who thought this, a young man who may have been her boyfriend whispered in her ear, but loud enough for me to hear, 'You look good enough to eat.'

She got me a glass of wine which I drank under the table, hidden by the overhanging white cloth. Having downed the drink I staggered to the doorway and through blurred vision, watched as she danced round the room, waving her arms in the air so that the afternoon sun rays enhanced the summer colours, reflected through the pale material on her sleeves, and made her appear like an angel. I was about six at the time.

'Nicki' I cried out in pain, knowing she would be the only one who could fully understand how I felt, but she was far away, working in a kibbutz on the shores of the Dead Sea.

Feeling terribly alone I stomped downstairs, hunger temporarily bringing me back into the bosom of the family. We all sat at the distressed pine, straight backs and knives and forks. Mother brought in egg and chips, I felt sick.

'Try and eat something, love,' she said, frowning a little. 'She's losing weight,' I heard her say to my father as I rushed into the toilet.

'She's losing her marbles,' was his reply before I, in turn, lost his words together with the contents of my stomach.

I lay in bed listening to my radio turned up loud, Mom and Dad having their monthly steak at the Berni Inn. They were talking about Marc (the radio guys, not my parents, they were probably moaning about me). Like a lullaby it rocked me to sleep. I dreamt I was up in the clouds, about to ride a white swan. Funny that.

Christmas had crept up on me, somehow school work and balancing on shoes that defied gravity (well the opposite actually but I liked the saying) had meant time passed relatively quickly. Mull of bloody Kintyre taunted me wherever I went.

I remained faithful, listened to Children of the Revolution, and slammed doors. How dare my father say I wasn't acting like a 'normal' teenager. I saw him come in late on Christmas Eve with my present sack. He looked tired and I felt a pang of guilt, but it didn't last long.

Christmas Day that year I played all his songs as my final tribute, drowning out the carols from St. Paul's Cathedral. Then I put the records tidily away and pulled the poster down from the wall. The room looked sparse and so, after a decent period of mourning; certainly an hour or two, I found some pictures of John Travolta.

That evening I looked in the bathroom mirror, my face had cleared up at last. Was Chris Blasdale a decent dancer I wondered?