House Of Fun: May-June 1982

The summer began with a strange mixture of sunshine and unease. The Falklands war filled every front page, while the television showed grainy footage of ships in the South Atlantic; men waving from decks, the sea grey and endless. In England, the weather was warm but unsettled: bright mornings, sudden showers and evenings that smelled of cut grass and diesel.

Kevin stood outside Woolworths with a small carrier bag of bargain bin cassette tapes and a grin that wouldn’t quite settle. After giving his mum the week’s housekeeping, the pay from his job at the petrol station had left him with enough for a new shirt, a packet of Benson & Hedges and a plan to buy something he’d never bought before.

*

The high street was busy: mums with prams, lads in denim jackets, girls in pastel skirts and white ankle socks. The air smelled of chips and L’Oreal Elnett. From the open door of Our Price, Madness blared out, the rhythm of the brass bright and cheeky, impossible not to move to.

Kevin crossed the road to Boots, his heart thumping. He’d rehearsed the words in his head all morning, but now they sounded ridiculous. He paused outside and pretended to study the random window display of Sunsilk, Bergamol and Impulse, before bracing himself and pushing the door open.

Inside, the air was cool, smelling of talc and TCP. A woman in a white coat stood behind the pharmacy counter, sorting boxes. She looked up.

“Can I help you?”

Kevin swallowed. “Yeah. I need… something.”

She waited.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You know. For… protection.”

Her expression didn’t change. “You mean condoms?”

He nodded, face burning.

She turned, reached for a box, then hesitated. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

She smiled faintly. “OK, I believe you.”

He paid, shoved the box into his carrier bag and left as quickly as he could. Outside, the sunlight felt too bright. He walked fast, head down, past Rumbelows and John Menzies, until he reached the park.

*

On the bench by the bandstand, his best mate Lee was rolling a cigarette. He looked up. “You look like you’ve robbed a bank.”

Kevin dropped the carrier bag beside him. “Mission accomplished.”

Lee grinned. “You actually did it?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s see.”

Kevin shook his head. “Not here.”

Lee laughed. “You’re a legend.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the faint music drifting from the café radio: Dexys Midnight Runners, Joan Jett, Haircut One Hundred. The park smelled of warm grass and frying onions from the van near the gates.

Lee said, “So who’s the lucky girl?”

Kevin shrugged. “Maybe Lisa.”

“Maybe?”

“She said she might come out tonight.”

Lee grinned. “You’ll need more than luck.”

*

That evening, the town assumed its other identity. The pubs were full, the air thick with Silk Cut and Charlie. The King’s Head had a new video jukebox. Its glowing screen and mirrored panels represented the future in miniature. Madness played again, their brassy beat bouncing off the walls.

Kevin and Lee stood by the bar, nursing pints of Carling and trying not to be obvious about ogling Vicki the barmaid in her low cut red blouse and gold hoop earrings.

She winked as she poured. “Big night?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Kevin said.

“Don’t get arrested.”

Lee laughed. “He’s planning romance.”

Vicki raised an eyebrow. “In this place?”

Lisa arrived just after nine, with two friends from the hairdresser’s. She wore a white blouse tucked into a denim skirt, her hair feathered and sprayed. When she saw Kevin, her smile of greeting was quick and uncertain.

“You made it,” he said.

“Didn’t fancy staying in,” she replied. “Mum’s glued to the telly. All that war stuff.”

He nodded. “Same at ours.”

They talked about small things: music, work, the heat. She worked at Littlewoods, but wanted to train as a beautician. He told her about the petrol station, about the smell of 4-Star that never left his clothes.

When the pub closed, they walked to the park. The air was warm, the sky deep blue fading to black. Somewhere, a radio played The Police.

*

They sat on the swings, talking. Lisa lit a cigarette, its tip glowing red in the darkness.

“You ever think about leaving?” she asked.

“Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

He shrugged. “I like it here.”

She smiled. “You’re the first person I’ve heard say that.”

He looked at her, at the way the streetlight softened the stiff wave of her hair. “You’re different.”

“Everyone says that.”

He laughed softly. “I mean it.”

She flicked ash onto the ground. “You’re sweet.”

He reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away.

V

The next morning, Kevin woke late. The sun was already high and the air felt heavy. On the radio, Dave Lee Travis talked about the latest Falklands victory: Goose Green taken, British troops advancing. His mum was in the kitchen, making tea.

“You were late in,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Who were you with?”

“Lee.”

She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him but didn’t care enough to argue.

He grabbed his jacket and went out. Being Sunday, the high street was quiet. The papers in the window of John Menzies showed soldiers smiling, beneath headlines about courage and pride. He felt a flicker of something he couldn’t name; certainly not pride, more like confusion.

At the park, Lee was already waiting for him, smoking.

“So?” Lee said.

Kevin grinned. “It was good.”

“Good?”

“She’s nice.”

Lee laughed. “You’re smitten.”

“Maybe.”

They sat in silence, watching a group of kids play football on the grass. The air smelled of creosote and hawthorn blooms.

*

The week that followed was warm and restless. The war dominated everything: radio bulletins, newspaper headlines, conversations in the pub. People talked about victory as if it were inevitable. Some dug out faded bunting from the Queen’s Jubilee and hung it in their windows to flutter in the breeze.

Kevin saw Lisa most evenings. They walked by the river, sat on benches, shared cigarettes. She talked about hairdressing courses and flats for rent she’d seen in Exchange & Mart. He listened, half-imagining himself living with her.

One night, they went to the fairground on the edge of town: bright lights, tinny music, the smell of candyfloss and diesel. The rides spun and clattered, the air shattered by shrieks of laughter and excitement.

Lisa said, “It’s tacky.”

“That’s the point.”

They went on the Waltzer, the world spinning around them, her hair flying, her laughter sharp and bright. When it stopped, they stumbled off, dizzy and giggling.

She kissed him, quick and certain.

*

After the fair, they walked back through the estate. The streetlights flickered, the air smelled of imminent rain. He felt the box in his pocket, the one from Boots. His heart thumped.

At the corner, she stopped. “My mum’s working late.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Inside her house, the hallway smelled of Shake’n’Vac and boiled potatoes. Upstairs, her room was small and tidy, with posters of Adam Ant and Kim Wilde on the wall.

She closed the door. “You nervous?”

He laughed. “A bit.”

“Don’t be.”

The night passed in fragments of electric silence, hushed laughter and the sound of rain against the window. When he sneaked out in the early morning, the sky was pale and the streets empty.

*

The next day, everything felt different. The air was cooler and the papers full of victory. The Sun ran a headline in block capitals: GOTCHA. At the petrol station, customers talked about pride and revenge. Kevin listened, unsure what to think.

Lee turned up at lunchtime, grinning. “You look knackered.”

“Didn’t sleep.”

“Worth it?”

Kevin smiled. “Yeah.”

Lee laughed. “You’re a man now.”

Kevin threw a rag at him. “Shut up.”

*

That evening, Lisa didn’t come out. He waited by the park, then walked to her house. Her mum answered the door, hair in rollers, Players Embassy in hand.

“She’s not in,” she said. “Went to her friend’s.”

He nodded, pretending not to care.

At the pub, Vicki poured him a pint. “You look miserable.”

“Just tired.”

She leaned on the bar, watching him. “You’ll learn,” she said. “They always vanish for a bit. Makes you think you’ve done something wrong.”

Kevin stared into his pint. “Maybe I have.”

“Maybe she’s just busy.”

He nodded, not convinced.

The pub was quieter than usual. The television above the bar showed Top of the Pops: Tight Fit, Yazoo, Madness again, the endless cheer beginning to grate.

Vicki turned the volume up. “You can’t stay miserable with this lot,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised.”

*

The next morning, the sky was low and grey. Rain hung in the air, fine and persistent. Kevin walked to the petrol station, collar up, hands in pockets. The forecourt smelled of damp tarmac and exhaust fumes. Inside, the radio played BBC Radio 1: Mike Read talking about the charts, about summer hits and the war nearly being over.

Lee was already there, wiping down the pumps. “You heard?” he said. “They’ve taken Port Stanley.”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah.”

“Means it’s done, doesn’t it? We’ve won.”

“Guess so.”

Lee grinned. “Told you. Thatcher’ll be loving it.”

Kevin didn’t reply. He thought of the faces in the papers: boys not much older than him, smiling from ships, waving at cameras. He wondered what it felt like to be that far away, in the middle of a cold ocean, fighting for a place most people couldn’t find on a map.

*

That evening, Lisa turned up at the park. She looked tired, with her hair pulled back and eyes ringed by shadows.

“Sorry I disappeared,” she said.

“It’s fine.”

“Mum’s been on my case. She thinks you’re trouble.”

He laughed. “She’s not wrong.”

She smiled faintly. “I told her you’re harmless.”

“Cheers.”

They walked along the river, where the air was cool and damp. The streetlights reflected in the water in long yellow streaks. She stopped by the bridge.

“I’m going to London,” she said.

“When?”

“Next week. Got a place on a course.”

He felt something twist inside him. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They stood in silence, listening to the faint hum of traffic.

*

The days that followed blurred together: work, rain, the smell of petrol and wet grass. The war was officially over; the papers shouted VICTORY! in block capitals. People talked about pride, about heroes. The bunting came out in force, faded but defiant.

At the pub, Vicki poured pints and rolled her eyes. “They’ll forget it by August,” she said. “Back to strikes and bills.”

Kevin smiled. “You’re cynical.”

“I’m realistic.”

He looked around the pub: the smoke, the laughter, the jukebox playing Madness again. “Maybe that’s the same thing.”

*

Lisa came in on Friday night, her friends in tow. She looked different: lighter and more confident. She waved across the room. He felt the old rush of nerves.

Vicki nudged him. “Go on.”

He hesitated, then crossed the room.

“You’re leaving,” he said.

“Monday.”

“Big city.”

She laughed. “Scary, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

They talked for a while, easy and familiar. When she left, she kissed his cheek. “Take care, Kev.”

“You too.”

She smiled. “Don’t get stuck.”

*

The next morning, the sun returned: bright and clean, the air smelling of summer. The high street shimmered. Our Price had a new display in the window: Madness, Yazoo, ABC. The brass from House of Fun spilled onto the pavement, relentlessly cheerful and unstoppable.

Kevin walked past Boots, past Woolworths, past the park where they’d first sat. The swings creaked in the breeze. He thought of Lisa on the Waltzer, laughing, hair flying, the world spinning around them.

At the petrol station, Lee waved. “You coming out tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t mope.”

“I’m not.”

Lee grinned. “You are.”

Kevin smiled. “Maybe a bit.”

He looked up at the sky: blue and cloudless, on the kind of day that promised everything and nothing. The war was over, the summer beginning, the world still turning.