I don’t remember much about that night. So, I can’t give you a detailed account, but I can tell you what I do remember. The room was dimly lit, low-ceilinged, and packed with people. The air was thick with cigarette smoke laced with the smell of old beer and stale sweat. The floor was sticky. A bar ran the length of one long wall. On the stage opposite, the house band was playing. The lead singer was called Johnny. If his backup band had a name, I don’t remember ever hearing it. 'The Lounge' was a licenced premises attached to Alphabet Bowling, a bowling alley on Hanover Street.
I can’t remember who I’d planned to meet. It could have been one of about half a dozen people. I’ve lost touch with all my old pals, so there is no one left to ask to corroborate my story. There was often a big group, laughing and loud, taking up two or more of the tables that lay between the bar and the stage, or taking over the tiny dance floor in front of the stage. I loved to dance, and still secretly believe that the band’s signature song 'Cool Dancer' was about me.
It was a Friday or a Saturday. I don’t remember which. But it must have been a Friday or Saturday, because we didn’t go drinking on school nights. And I was drinking that night. That I remember. I had a big falling out with my two best friends. After those two ditched me, I made new friends and started drinking. I favoured Carlsberg Special, that and vodka with some peach - flavoured mixer. I thought Carlsberg was sophisticated, the vodka drink even more so – a proper grown-up drink.
My new pals and I made the arrangements well in advance. We didn’t all have phones. This was long before the mobile phone, way back when even a landline was beyond the reach of many. I don’t remember how old I was, still in school, so under 18, the legal drinking age, over 15, that’s when I started drinking in bars. The Lounge turned a blind eye to underage drinking, for girls, at least. I don’t remember what I wore. But I can picture myself getting ready: ironing the jeans I made myself from a kit, choosing between the long-sleeved, form-fitting, black top covered in tiny, embroidered bursts of colour, and the baby pink, knitted, hooded top, also form-fitting.
That’s where I met Peggy. She was in her twenties, had long red hair, and was super skinny and super cool. For a while, she was my best friend. But it was the man she was with who interested me. Long dark hair, old, faded jeans, paired with a sheepskin-lined denim jacket – double denim with a touch of class. He wore jewellery and spoke with an accent I’d never heard before.
That night we got a carry-out. We all went to Peggy’s and called it a party. Peggy’s flat didn’t have an inside toilet. I remember because I was drunk and had to go frequently. Peggy’s friend was at the party. I can’t remember if I sat down next to him or he sat down next to me, but it was on the floor of a bedroom packed with people that we got talking. I had a can of Tennent’s lager, and I was tracing my finger around the top. He told me what that meant. If it was clockwise, you were selfish and boring and not cool. Anticlockwise meant the opposite or some such nonsense.
He wasn’t a prince or a financier with rich and powerful friends. He was sleeping on his friend’s couch. He worked on a North Sea oil rig, two weeks on and two weeks off. So, for two weeks at a time, he had time on his hands and money to spend. Mostly he bought me stuffed animal toys, and we went drinking and dancing at the Bowl. With all that time and money, why didn’t he get his own place? Why did he continue to live with Peggy if they weren’t involved? I never asked. I never questioned anything. I was a teenager. He was 42, and Pegs was in her 20s. She made sure that a bunch of drunk girls made it to the party. She told me afterwards that she did it so he could find the right girl, and she was so pleased he’d picked me.
LINDSAY OLIVER spends her time writing poetry, fiction and memoir. She also draws and paints on her iPad. Before retiring due to ill health, she worked as a psychology lecturer. Her most recent publication is 'The last sunset' in Writing in Community 2026: LWS Anthology.
