Carn Read Online Free Page B

newspaper. That drove them distracted. They argued among themselves which girl he
liked the best. His arrival threatened to shatter the harmony which had previously existed in the flat. He was never a dustbin man or anything like that. Sometimes an antique dealer or record
producer or big time insurance man. An odd time it turned out he was married. Just near the end of the story one of the girls would see this one in a feather boa taking his arm in the hotel foyer
and then she’d spot the ring. This was the end of the world for the girls. They left their clothes lying in disarray around the flat and picked on each other for no reason, staring moonily
out of the window chewing emery boards and twirling beads. Or another time he might make it his business to get to know the least pushy girl, the one that wasn’t quite as up to date as the
rest. This was equally bad for they turned on her then
. How dare she? She should never have been in the flat in the first place,
they said. But all that didn’t matter for he
didn’t marry any of them anyway. They were always to be seen in the last frame swopping handkerchiefs by the dozen and asking themselves why oh why oh why.
    Then off he drove in his MG with his pipe stuck in his gob.
    But men such as this never seemed to include the town of Carn on their itinerary. In any case no MG was ever to be seen parked outside the Golden Chip café which was the stomping ground
of the town’s male inhabitants. It was there Sadie Rooney spent her Saturday nights after she had the rows with her mother, hunched over coffee cups and drawing shapes in the smoke. There was
bubbling fat and formica and the girls from The Park and Jubilee Terrace draped over the jukebox singing. They whispered among themselves, “We will get a man. And his name will be Julio. Or
Clint. Or Jeff. And he will bring us to his beach house. To his beach house with French windows.” They spoke in asthmatic gasps about dreamboats and dishes. Every Saturday they scrubbed the
smell of chickens from them, then ensconced themselves beneath the picture of Florence in the corner of the café, plucking hairs off Paul McCartney’s jacket, twisting on the tiles with
Wayne Fontana and Scott Walker, one dream trying to outdo the next.
    —The races for me. That’s where I’m going.
    —He’ll bring you? He will in his eye.
    —Yes he will he will he will.
    —A hacienda for me. Oh I can hardly wait.
    —A hacienda with Julio.
    —A heart-shaped pool.
    —With Julio?
    —With anyone.
    —Los Angeles for me, The City of Angels.
    —The Palais A-Go Go!
    —We will do the bossa nova!
    —The Hippy Shake Shake!
    —These bloody streets!
    —Farrell the foreman!
    —Have youse them packed yet, girls?
    —Yes Mr Farrell.
    —No Mr Farrell.
    —Go to hell Mr Farrell.
    —Damned rain!
    —Empty streets!
    —Damned rain!
    —And Barney The Buck with his hand on his—
    —Quit!
    Then, as every Saturday, after the initial euphoria had worn off, they settled back to lethargy as they stared at the melting colours on the neon flower that was the centrepiece of the jukebox.
And across from them, eyes sized up their bodies over the rims of teacups, male fingers tapped ash and dredged their flesh hungrily.
The Single Girls Needs A Sweet Lovin’ Man to Lean
On
, sang Sandy Posey. As far as the huddled male youths in the corner were concerned, any one of their number would have been more than willing to oblige with a few extras thrown in for good
measure. They pulled on their cigarettes and tightened sweaty brows.
    —Would I, they said, would I what.
    —Would ya boy, by Jazus I would.
    —The lamps on that.
    —The one in the red.
    —The one in the blue.
    —Hold me back hold me back.
    —All the way and back for more, boys.
    They stubbed their cigarettes in the tray with a vengeance. As Sandy Posey took her leave and the record twisted back inwards, the girls looked up to see Francie Mohan making his Saturday night
speech, dead