It had been at the celebratory party later, at the Warwick Castle, back near his home squat, that he’d met Penny. She was one of the few other people his own age around, and they’d met up taking a line of speed in the crowd at the back, hidden from the bar staff, who anyway didn’t give a shit. He’d seen her and a couple of other young punks in a huddle, had guessed what was happening and had quickly introduced himself and blagged a line. A quick boast about the day’s events south of the river, events that they had been to scared to be a part of, had got him attention and generosity from a group eager to hear the news.
She was pretty Penny, her blond hair dishevelled and punky, but not with the nihilistic look of a random pair of kitchen scissors, but with style and awareness of her own image. Her make up brash and challenging but still, it seemed to accentuate her looks with the same intent as any teenage girl down any old disco. And that was how she was – very confident and conscious of how she was perceived, sure of herself but ina giving, giggling and generous way. She didn’t just absorb the attention of others but also gave of herself.
Straight from her accent and the quality of the speed, it was clear she wasn’t exactly from the same social milieu as himself. Penny was from nearby Holland Park - not physically far, but definitely a couple of social brackets away. And she kept having to ask him to repeat things – she was having trouble tuning into his accent. She hadn’t exactly been exposed to many northern accents; they were rare even to be allowed on TV, let alone the more respectable parts of London. And of course she was high as a kit. But even despite the drugs, she would have struggled anyway with his accent. Dom still had trouble receiving the same amount and type of beer that he’d ordered from any Southern barman.
But there were many accents in the pub that night - rich and poor, Southern and Northern, Jamaican and Trinidadian, Kampala and Calcutta. Many, many had been down in Lewisham that day, and those who weren’t wanted to hear every detail from the returning warriors. Dom could charm Penny with his tales, because she had been rehearsing with her band and hadn’t gone. His tales not so much grew in the telling, as crystallised: those pieces he remembered and told now were those memories that would stay with him. The rest would remain scattered fragments, barely considered.
As they celebrated, there would be the occasional cheer go up - louder than usual from some section of the bar, as a captured protester who had been released made his way back to the welcoming arms of home and its liquid consolations. And Penny and Dom kissed, he ran his hands through her stiffened hair and she licked his face and smudged his black make up.
Penny too had her own fame, for she was lead singer of a local band, and they were playing that night at the party. Quite handy for Dom, as this meant he could get in for free. It was a benefit for the Grunwick pickets or some other cause, as half the gigs at the time seemed to be, and there was quite the little line up of the most popular local bands. Filled with the bravado of victory, drink, amphetamine and the promise of a woman, Dom felt like some anarchist viking returned to a punky Valhalla.
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