Oisin
gone but not forgotten
I know, I know... I can't resist but this is me last one for a bit (you hope) 8) . I'm afraid it's another sad refection on life :cry: ...
Old School Friends
Saturday nights at the Clifford Arms were not the epitome of excitement. Most of the young people only used it as a meeting place – a local to congregate in before moving on to more lively venues. This was the first time Peter had met up with his friends since the previous weekend and he was beginning to wonder if that was too soon. He had a distinct feeling of déjàvu.
‘Come on, Pete, you can’t turn down a party.’ Even Betty wouldn’t leave him alone. ‘There’ll be plenty of girls there, won’t there, Deb?’
‘Yeah,’ Debbie concurred, ‘Sandra’s really popular at the office.’
‘You never know your luck, mate,’ Alan grinned mischievously, ‘That Lyn might turn up. You could chance your arm with her again.’
As far as Peter was concerned, Alan was still doing penance for his performance at the White Lion, when his stupidity had caused the rift with Lyn. A glare was enough to remind him of this.
‘Only joking, Pete.’ He back peddled, momentarily, before taking up the slack again. ‘But I was right about her, wasn’t I? You should listen to your old Uncle Al more often.’
Walter stepped in to prevent any further deterioration in the situation.
‘Take no notice, Pete. You don’t have to have anything to do with him once we’re there. Come on give it a go. What you go to lose?’
‘I seem to have heard that somewhere before,’ Peter said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. ‘Look, you and the others carry on. The darts team will be back from the Angel soon, I’ll stop and have a drink with them.’
They could all see from Peter’s mood that any further attempts at persuasion would be futile – his mind was made up. As soon as they had drained their glasses, they wished him well and left.
Having a drink with the darts team was only a ploy. No sooner was the coast clear than Peter had finished his pint and was heading for the door, with every intention of having an early night. However, outside the pub he happened to bump into Victoria Stretton – a girl he had known at school.
‘Hey, Vicky, How’s it going? I haven’t seen you for years. Hardly recognised you,’ he lied. (He could have picked her out anywhere.) Similar to Debbie, she was formed in the Barbara Windsor Mould, only even more so, and had looked like that since the third year of secondary school.
‘Oh, ‘ello, Peter Wilkins, ain’t it? Fancy bumping into you.’
‘What brings you round this neck of the woods?’ he asked.
‘Don’t ask me, Pete!’ The smile dropped from her face. ‘Soddin’ chap dain’t turn up. I’m on me way ‘ome now. What a cowin’ way to spend a Saturday night!’
He was struck by just how little she had changed. At King Street Secondary Modern she had provided a practical introduction to sex education for most of the boys in her class. Many were the lads who had sacrificed their Jammy Dodgers or Wagon Wheels for a grope under Vicky’s bra.
Soon after she had left school a story circulated that she had graduated to having the full rumpy-dumpy with some bloke on a motorbike, without either of them putting a foot to the floor. Peter had always considered it to be an exaggeration. He suspected, if the participants had no contact with the ground the bike must have been on its stand and not actually in motion at the time, which should be considered as cheating.
‘So you’re at a loose end?’
‘You could say that,’ she sighed, ‘You off anywhere special?’
He couldn’t help giving her the once-over. Her black skirt, if anything, was shorter and tighter than Debbie’s. The white, sleeveless, roll-necked sweater clung to her upper body and stained with the pressure exerted by the massive mounds of her breasts. From what he could remember, under the layers of make-up, her features were not unattractive.
‘Tell you what’, he said, ‘why don’t you step in here and have a drink with me?’ He motioned to the pub door. The words were barely out of his mouth and Vicky had a foot on the first step.
‘Thanks, Pete, I could murder a gin and tonic. Me feet are killin’ me, ‘angin’ around for that bugger.’
Peter felt the eyes trained on him as he made his entrance with Vicky, but he didn’t care. He needed cheering up and the, larger than life, infamous, Miss Victoria Stretton was just the woman for the job.
While laughing over old times, they consumed drink after drink as if it was going out of fashion. As the evening wore on, finding difficulty keeping up with Vicky, Peter changed his tipple from beer to whisky. By the time last orders were called he was well on the way to being legless – but in the mood for more.
‘What do you say to somewhere else?’ he asked.
Vicky gave her impression of Mae West.
‘What you got in mind, big boy?’
‘A party.’
‘Luvly!’
‘Right!’ He slapped his hands together. ‘Let’s get a couple of bottles and go.’
The party was in full swing by the time they arrived. The unknown girl who answered the door was reluctant to let them in until Peter remembered Sandra’s name. Once inside, Vicky volunteered to get the drinks while Peter carried out a quick reconnaissance of the two main rooms. Seeing how crowded they were, he settled for a seat on the bottom stair, where Vicky joined him with a glass of red wine in each hand.
‘Who do you think I just met in the kitchen?’ she grinned.
A shrug expressed Peter’s indifference. ‘Two old mates of yours – Walt Baxter and Alan Cummings. Do you remember them at school?’
‘Vaguely.’ He teased.
‘That Alan ‘asn’t changed a bit,’ she giggled, ‘I ‘adn’t been there two seconds an’ ‘e was feelin’ me arse.’
‘Did you tell him you’re with me?’
‘No. Didn’t get a chance. Some tart caught ‘im and went mad. I don’t know what ‘er problem was. Anybody could see it was only a bit of fun.’
Alan getting an earful of Debbie was something Peter was sorry to have missed.
Being en route to the bathroom, it wasn’t long before Peter’s friends located him. In the meantime he had topped up his alcohol level beyond the limits of sensibility. Failing in their attempt to hold a reasonable conversation with him, Alan and Walter left Peter engaged in a heavy necking session with Vicky.
Completely oblivious to his surroundings, going at it hammer and tongs, he was unaware of someone trying to squeeze passed him to ascend the stairs, until he reeled to a sharp blow on the side of his head.
‘Oi! Watch it!’ He had difficulty focussing on the assailant.
‘Sorry.’ Lyn Davies smiled sardonically down on him from the step above his head. ‘I must have slipped with my foot.’
Before he could retaliate she had disappeared up the stairs.
‘Like bloody’ New Street station ‘ere,’ Vicky complained. ‘Let’s find somewhere more private.’ She grabbed his arm and led him stumbling up to the landing. Opening the first door they came to she dragged him through.
‘This’ll do.’ It seemed the words had no sooner passed her lips than he was sandwiched between her and the mattress of a single bed. Perhaps, he thought, she had misread his unstable condition and believed he was having some sort of attack. She certainly seemed in a panic to loosen his clothing. And, for some bizarre reason, found it necessary to remove her own. What was her objective? Was she trying to revive him or was she trying to see him off? It was hard to tell. One minute she was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the next she was attempting to sever his jugular vein with her teeth. And then she seemed to be doing her best to suffocate him by forcing large areas of soft naked flesh over his face. Whether he was to live or die was of no consequence. He was lost in a void, somewhere between hell and ecstasy.
Frantic with lust, the cavorting couple failed to notice their chosen place of passion was doubling as a makeshift cloakroom. This oversight was cruelly brought to their attention when the bedroom door suddenly swung open.
‘Excuse me!’ It was that woman again. The unmistakable figure of Lyn Davies stood silhouetted by the landing light. Startled, Peter rolled Vicky to one side and instinctively drew his open shirt across his chest.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped.
‘My coat, if you don’t mind.’
‘Well get it bloody quick. Can’t you see we’re busy?’
Vicky propped herself up on one elbow. Unabashed by her nakedness, with a weary impatient expression, she swatted wisps of bleached blonde hair from her forehead as she watched Lyn’s approach. Lyn cast a disapproving eye over the bed-mates.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to,’ she hissed as she tugged at one of the coats trapped beneath them.
‘Easy,’ Peter explained, ‘We’re having an orgy.’
‘Ignorant pig!’ She spat the words at him. ‘You can’t have an orgy with just two people.’
‘In that case,’ he leered, ‘come and join us.’ He made a grab for her but she was too quick for him. With one almighty heave of the coat she sent him and Vicky sprawling over the far side of the bed and onto the floor. Before they had time to realise what had happened she was gone, leaving them groping around with the banging of the door resounding in their ears.
Vicky was the first to recover. She shot to her feet, grabbed the remaining coats off the bed, marched over to the door and threw them out onto the landing.
‘Now, with that soddin’ lot gone, there’ll be no reason for anybody else to disturb us.’ She flopped back down onto the bed and wrinkled her brow at the corpse-like pallor of her partner.
‘What’s the matter, Pete? Ain’t you feelin’ too good?’ she asked in a manner of genuine concern.
To say he wasn’t ‘feelin’ too good’ was a gross understatement. The shock of being hurled onto the floor had left him feeling dizzy and nauseous. It had taken all his energy to merely crawl back onto the bed. Right then he didn’t know whether he wanted to throw up or pass out. He took a deep breath.
‘I’ll be okay in a minute,’ he groaned.
Vicky was more convinced than him. ‘Course you will. I’ll see to that!’ she giggled before springing on him and re-commencing the mouth-to-mouth treatment.
It didn’t take Vicky long to realise that this passive attempt at resuscitation was having little or no effect. So, in desperation, she resorted to the more active method of straddling his lower body and bouncing up and down on him while muttering vague obscenities to the rhythm.
She was a game girl and her persistence was commendable, but she was fighting a lost cause. He was on the slippery slope to oblivion. And, sadly, contrary to her gallant intentions, her vigorous efforts were only accelerating his demise by causing the room to spin even faster and faster.
THE END
Old School Friends
Saturday nights at the Clifford Arms were not the epitome of excitement. Most of the young people only used it as a meeting place – a local to congregate in before moving on to more lively venues. This was the first time Peter had met up with his friends since the previous weekend and he was beginning to wonder if that was too soon. He had a distinct feeling of déjàvu.
‘Come on, Pete, you can’t turn down a party.’ Even Betty wouldn’t leave him alone. ‘There’ll be plenty of girls there, won’t there, Deb?’
‘Yeah,’ Debbie concurred, ‘Sandra’s really popular at the office.’
‘You never know your luck, mate,’ Alan grinned mischievously, ‘That Lyn might turn up. You could chance your arm with her again.’
As far as Peter was concerned, Alan was still doing penance for his performance at the White Lion, when his stupidity had caused the rift with Lyn. A glare was enough to remind him of this.
‘Only joking, Pete.’ He back peddled, momentarily, before taking up the slack again. ‘But I was right about her, wasn’t I? You should listen to your old Uncle Al more often.’
Walter stepped in to prevent any further deterioration in the situation.
‘Take no notice, Pete. You don’t have to have anything to do with him once we’re there. Come on give it a go. What you go to lose?’
‘I seem to have heard that somewhere before,’ Peter said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. ‘Look, you and the others carry on. The darts team will be back from the Angel soon, I’ll stop and have a drink with them.’
They could all see from Peter’s mood that any further attempts at persuasion would be futile – his mind was made up. As soon as they had drained their glasses, they wished him well and left.
Having a drink with the darts team was only a ploy. No sooner was the coast clear than Peter had finished his pint and was heading for the door, with every intention of having an early night. However, outside the pub he happened to bump into Victoria Stretton – a girl he had known at school.
‘Hey, Vicky, How’s it going? I haven’t seen you for years. Hardly recognised you,’ he lied. (He could have picked her out anywhere.) Similar to Debbie, she was formed in the Barbara Windsor Mould, only even more so, and had looked like that since the third year of secondary school.
‘Oh, ‘ello, Peter Wilkins, ain’t it? Fancy bumping into you.’
‘What brings you round this neck of the woods?’ he asked.
‘Don’t ask me, Pete!’ The smile dropped from her face. ‘Soddin’ chap dain’t turn up. I’m on me way ‘ome now. What a cowin’ way to spend a Saturday night!’
He was struck by just how little she had changed. At King Street Secondary Modern she had provided a practical introduction to sex education for most of the boys in her class. Many were the lads who had sacrificed their Jammy Dodgers or Wagon Wheels for a grope under Vicky’s bra.
Soon after she had left school a story circulated that she had graduated to having the full rumpy-dumpy with some bloke on a motorbike, without either of them putting a foot to the floor. Peter had always considered it to be an exaggeration. He suspected, if the participants had no contact with the ground the bike must have been on its stand and not actually in motion at the time, which should be considered as cheating.
‘So you’re at a loose end?’
‘You could say that,’ she sighed, ‘You off anywhere special?’
He couldn’t help giving her the once-over. Her black skirt, if anything, was shorter and tighter than Debbie’s. The white, sleeveless, roll-necked sweater clung to her upper body and stained with the pressure exerted by the massive mounds of her breasts. From what he could remember, under the layers of make-up, her features were not unattractive.
‘Tell you what’, he said, ‘why don’t you step in here and have a drink with me?’ He motioned to the pub door. The words were barely out of his mouth and Vicky had a foot on the first step.
‘Thanks, Pete, I could murder a gin and tonic. Me feet are killin’ me, ‘angin’ around for that bugger.’
Peter felt the eyes trained on him as he made his entrance with Vicky, but he didn’t care. He needed cheering up and the, larger than life, infamous, Miss Victoria Stretton was just the woman for the job.
While laughing over old times, they consumed drink after drink as if it was going out of fashion. As the evening wore on, finding difficulty keeping up with Vicky, Peter changed his tipple from beer to whisky. By the time last orders were called he was well on the way to being legless – but in the mood for more.
‘What do you say to somewhere else?’ he asked.
Vicky gave her impression of Mae West.
‘What you got in mind, big boy?’
‘A party.’
‘Luvly!’
‘Right!’ He slapped his hands together. ‘Let’s get a couple of bottles and go.’
The party was in full swing by the time they arrived. The unknown girl who answered the door was reluctant to let them in until Peter remembered Sandra’s name. Once inside, Vicky volunteered to get the drinks while Peter carried out a quick reconnaissance of the two main rooms. Seeing how crowded they were, he settled for a seat on the bottom stair, where Vicky joined him with a glass of red wine in each hand.
‘Who do you think I just met in the kitchen?’ she grinned.
A shrug expressed Peter’s indifference. ‘Two old mates of yours – Walt Baxter and Alan Cummings. Do you remember them at school?’
‘Vaguely.’ He teased.
‘That Alan ‘asn’t changed a bit,’ she giggled, ‘I ‘adn’t been there two seconds an’ ‘e was feelin’ me arse.’
‘Did you tell him you’re with me?’
‘No. Didn’t get a chance. Some tart caught ‘im and went mad. I don’t know what ‘er problem was. Anybody could see it was only a bit of fun.’
Alan getting an earful of Debbie was something Peter was sorry to have missed.
Being en route to the bathroom, it wasn’t long before Peter’s friends located him. In the meantime he had topped up his alcohol level beyond the limits of sensibility. Failing in their attempt to hold a reasonable conversation with him, Alan and Walter left Peter engaged in a heavy necking session with Vicky.
Completely oblivious to his surroundings, going at it hammer and tongs, he was unaware of someone trying to squeeze passed him to ascend the stairs, until he reeled to a sharp blow on the side of his head.
‘Oi! Watch it!’ He had difficulty focussing on the assailant.
‘Sorry.’ Lyn Davies smiled sardonically down on him from the step above his head. ‘I must have slipped with my foot.’
Before he could retaliate she had disappeared up the stairs.
‘Like bloody’ New Street station ‘ere,’ Vicky complained. ‘Let’s find somewhere more private.’ She grabbed his arm and led him stumbling up to the landing. Opening the first door they came to she dragged him through.
‘This’ll do.’ It seemed the words had no sooner passed her lips than he was sandwiched between her and the mattress of a single bed. Perhaps, he thought, she had misread his unstable condition and believed he was having some sort of attack. She certainly seemed in a panic to loosen his clothing. And, for some bizarre reason, found it necessary to remove her own. What was her objective? Was she trying to revive him or was she trying to see him off? It was hard to tell. One minute she was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the next she was attempting to sever his jugular vein with her teeth. And then she seemed to be doing her best to suffocate him by forcing large areas of soft naked flesh over his face. Whether he was to live or die was of no consequence. He was lost in a void, somewhere between hell and ecstasy.
Frantic with lust, the cavorting couple failed to notice their chosen place of passion was doubling as a makeshift cloakroom. This oversight was cruelly brought to their attention when the bedroom door suddenly swung open.
‘Excuse me!’ It was that woman again. The unmistakable figure of Lyn Davies stood silhouetted by the landing light. Startled, Peter rolled Vicky to one side and instinctively drew his open shirt across his chest.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped.
‘My coat, if you don’t mind.’
‘Well get it bloody quick. Can’t you see we’re busy?’
Vicky propped herself up on one elbow. Unabashed by her nakedness, with a weary impatient expression, she swatted wisps of bleached blonde hair from her forehead as she watched Lyn’s approach. Lyn cast a disapproving eye over the bed-mates.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to,’ she hissed as she tugged at one of the coats trapped beneath them.
‘Easy,’ Peter explained, ‘We’re having an orgy.’
‘Ignorant pig!’ She spat the words at him. ‘You can’t have an orgy with just two people.’
‘In that case,’ he leered, ‘come and join us.’ He made a grab for her but she was too quick for him. With one almighty heave of the coat she sent him and Vicky sprawling over the far side of the bed and onto the floor. Before they had time to realise what had happened she was gone, leaving them groping around with the banging of the door resounding in their ears.
Vicky was the first to recover. She shot to her feet, grabbed the remaining coats off the bed, marched over to the door and threw them out onto the landing.
‘Now, with that soddin’ lot gone, there’ll be no reason for anybody else to disturb us.’ She flopped back down onto the bed and wrinkled her brow at the corpse-like pallor of her partner.
‘What’s the matter, Pete? Ain’t you feelin’ too good?’ she asked in a manner of genuine concern.
To say he wasn’t ‘feelin’ too good’ was a gross understatement. The shock of being hurled onto the floor had left him feeling dizzy and nauseous. It had taken all his energy to merely crawl back onto the bed. Right then he didn’t know whether he wanted to throw up or pass out. He took a deep breath.
‘I’ll be okay in a minute,’ he groaned.
Vicky was more convinced than him. ‘Course you will. I’ll see to that!’ she giggled before springing on him and re-commencing the mouth-to-mouth treatment.
It didn’t take Vicky long to realise that this passive attempt at resuscitation was having little or no effect. So, in desperation, she resorted to the more active method of straddling his lower body and bouncing up and down on him while muttering vague obscenities to the rhythm.
She was a game girl and her persistence was commendable, but she was fighting a lost cause. He was on the slippery slope to oblivion. And, sadly, contrary to her gallant intentions, her vigorous efforts were only accelerating his demise by causing the room to spin even faster and faster.
THE END
Well :!: what more can one say :?: I think Sue has said it all... 'cept
