An audience with Gloria An extract from Just a boy from Bristol Part2
“Good
riddance to bad rubbish,” said Dad quietly as he lit a cigarette and settled
back into his rocking chair. Only a few minutes earlier we had been dancing around the living room, playing happy
families, as we held hands and sang Auld Lang Sine together. Now, it was all over. The church bells
had stopped chiming, the car horns had ceased beeping, and the dustbin lids
were no longer clattering. The streets of Bristol fell silent again. It was 1st
January 1950; another new year was upon us; it was time for yet another round
of well-intentioned resolutions, but It was also time for a period of reflection. Time to look back on last year’s shattered
illusions and broken dreams. “A new decade, which is rich with promise. Now, we
will see and taste the fruits of victory.” Dad was waxing lyrical. He always waxed lyrical after a couple of pints.
I had been
looking forward to 1950 with anticipation, because it was a particularly special time
for me and all the other children of my generation. 1950 was the year when we
became teenagers. One by one our little gang reached, and celebrated the
milestone. Patrick was first, at the start of the year, and then it was my turn in May.
Johnny, as ever, brought up the rear. Like many of the milestones in life it proved to be a bit
of an anti-climax. The only changes I noticed were the spots and pimples, the temper tantrums, the mood swings, and the ever increasing problems
with that ‘little bit of skin between your legs’ that Granny Kelly had warned
me about. But in truth, there were also many exciting changes. We now had our very own
special world. A self contained world in which we created our own collection of heroes. We no longer worshipped at the altar of the past, we had our very own sporting, musical and
screen heroes to fire our imaginations. All that I was lacking now was the elusive girl
of my dreams. Someone to share my special world with.
The girls of
my generation had also become teenagers, and we watched with growing awe and lustful admiration
as they developed the most delightful curves in all the right places. Sadly,
most of them failed to make the most of the enhancements and the streets of
Kingsdown and St James were awash with nervous looking girls who crept timidly around
with slouched, rounded shoulders and folded arms, as they struggled to hide
their burgeoning assets. One girl, however, was delightfully different. Her name
was Gloria, and Gloria wore her breasts with pride. She walked around the
cobblestoned streets of Kingsdown with shoulders back, and chest out. She invariably wore
a tight fitting, white aertex shirt, and sported a bow of pink ribbon and a white butterfly slide in
her blonde hair. She swayed around the streets with an easy grace and confidence. Her indigo blue eyes closely studied
every passing face, and she rewarded any admiring glance with a toss of her
fair hair, a flirtatious smile, and a nod of appreciation. Sadly, she was from somewhere on
the upper slopes of Kingsdown and as our paths rarely crossed, I was only able to admire her from a distance
and infrequently.
Sunday night
was cinema night for us boys. The Academy or the Scala were our usual chosen
venues, and on this particular Sunday night, we had been to the latter. The film over, we
chatted underneath the arches at the foot of Cotham Brow for a while, before saying our goodnights and
then we made our separate ways home. I headed off up Cotham Brow with Tony Rees who
lived in Victoria Walk. We parted
company half way up the hill and I then headed alone for Somerset Street, which
ran parallel and behind Kingsdown Parade. Somerset Street had always held a
special fascination for me. It was packed with tall, impressive houses, and was narrow and cobblestoned, with a pavement on
one side only. As I reached my destination that night, I remember it started to drizzle,
and I felt the soft summer rain brushing against my face. The rain grew slowly heavier and I started to run. As I
turned right into Spring Hill, my thoughts turned back to earlier days when
I had struggled up and down that hill with the heavy accumulator batteries which we used to power our
precious wireless set. At that very moment Gloria appeared from the little
lane where I had taken the batteries for charging. We almost collided as she stepped out onto the
hill.
“Hello, my
name is Gloria,” she waited for a response, but I had now turned into a
blushing, stammering wreck, and there was no chance of a response. “What’s
wrong, has the cat got your tongue? … Never mind, I will be here next week…same
time, same place,” and then she was gone.
Bob Hope and
Jane Russell were the stars of the film showing at the Academy the following
week. We had already seen Paleface twice before, but with Jane Russell on screen, it was an
easy task to persuade the boys to watch it again. The light was fading as we wandered out into the
night after the viewing, and we lingered at the foot of Ninetree Hill, still chuckling as we talked
about the film. Tony Rees, who never missed an opportunity to entertain, swung
into action, and paraded up and down, his shoulders swaying and his hands hovering over imaginary holster
and pistols as he re-enacted, word for word,
the gun fight between Bob Hope and the gun slinging outlaw.
‘Hey listen,
the man that's after you just killed my brother. Here's a tip: He draws from
the left, so lean to the right.
He draws from the left so lean to the right.
Son, I'll
let you in on something. Along towards sunset there's a wind from the east. So
you better aim to the west.
He draws from the left so lean to the right.
There's a wind from the east so better aim to the west.
I know this Joe like a book. He crouches when
he shoots so stand on your toes.
He draws from the left so lean to the right.
There's a wind from the east so better aim to the west. He crouches when he
shoots so stand on your toes.
He draws from the left so stand on your
toes... There's a wind from the east, better lean to the right... He crouches
when he shoots, better aim to the west... He draws from his toes, so lean
toward the wind. Ah ha! I got it!’
For the
umpteenth time that tight we howled with laughter. Tony bowed to his fans. “I
thank you,” he said in his best Arthur Askey voice and made his way home.
The conversation switched to Jane Russell and, inevitably to
her breasts. We fell silent for a while, before Patrick spoke. “They aren’t
really shaped like that you know. Underneath her sweater there is a contraption
built with tiny scaffolding poles, which holds it all in place.” It was a
perfect conversation stopper, and we all stood and stared at Patrick in
silence. I felt a wave of envy sweep over me. I wanted to emulate my cousin, Patrick. I
was also desperate to acquire just a fraction of his knowledge of the female anatomy. But the talk about breasts had made my mind up. I
mumbled my excuses and goodnights and headed off, at speed, up Ninetree Hill. I had an urgent appointment;
I had an audience with Gloria
