About Somethin' Else Set on the cusp of the ’60s, when everything seemed grey and staying put felt as scary as getting out, SOMETHIN’ ELSE is Jim’s story — a working-class lad grimly determined to get to university, but dreaming of nights on the town and the promise of rock and roll. Jim feels trapped in the post-war housing development, the routine of work and school, and with the girlfriend he can’t quite manage to fall in love with. Until he meets Edward — full of passion and possibility — and in an instant, Jim’s world is turned upside down and nothing is the same. Edward doesn’t seem to notice rules or barriers and helps Jim to see the world through fresh eyes. Jim and Edward long for escape, but in the end, escape means different things to each of them and brings with it as many questions as solutions.
Chapter One “Two silver top…one gold top…half a dozen eggs…three silver top… two gold top for Mrs Machin — no wonder she’s so bloody fat…Jesus my fingers are freezing…bloody crate…two silver top…one sterilized…fuck…” Jim crammed the last bottle into the crate at his feet and picked it up. The glass clattered as he raced up the nearest drive. Behind him, the electric float eased away. Bastard — can’t he bloody wait — this bit’s a nightmare — bloody bastard rich people with their drives that go on forever… Jim slammed the bottles down on the first step. He clutched the crate to his chest and pushed through the hedge to the next house, which was strictly forbidden. He was sick of being yelled at for it, but even more sick of legging up and down each drive whilst old Heron sat on his arse in the cab of his milk float. He was always furious with Jim if he wasn’t fast enough and equally furious if he bent so much as a twig and the posh people threatened to change their milkman. Tight-fisted bastards anyway — never tipped the milk boy, not even at Christmas. Milk boy. What a bloody joke. Streaks of pink were appearing in the lightening winter sky as Jim leapt off the float for the last drop of the morning. Coat half on and half off, he skittered up the narrow garden path, nearly slipping on the moss ’round the edges. He put the two pints he was carrying on the concrete step of the back door, hunkered down beside them and lit a cigarette. Leaning back, he closed his eyes for a moment as the smoke filled his lungs and cocooned his mind. How many more weeks, months, before I can afford a guitar? And what if I can’t play it? What if it’s all wasted effort? Maybe if I go via Archers on the way in, could at least look, could at least dream. Dream? That’s all you ever bloody do, sunshine... When the back door opened, Jim crashed backwards onto the door mat, half-sprawled across the kitchen floor, cigarette still in his mouth. Dorothy looked down at her brother and then poked
him gently with the toe of her stiletto. “Morning, milkman — d’you want tea?” “Mmm.” Jim hauled himself to his feet and followed her into the tiny kitchen, “Gotta get ready,” he mumbled. He hacked a rough slice from the loaf of bread on the counter and spread it thickly with jam. Then, with a furious twist, he wrenched at the clothes donkey above their heads, “What d’you need?” “Clean shirt.” “I haven’t got time to iron it.” “Well…” Jim looked pleadingly at his sister and then flattened the offending shirt across his knee. “It’ll do.” “I thought you were off to St. Stephen’s today?” “Oh, bloody hell — Fisher’ll kill me.” “God, Jim — give it here then — quick, quick — and pour the tea.” “Dottie, you’re a life-saver — how can I ever repay you?” “Two sugars, please.” “Only two? What’s up?” “Trying to cut down — that skirt I made is a bit of a tight fit, and I have to wear it tonight.” Jim slopped the tea into two mugs, ducking under the flex of the iron which trailed down from the light fitting. “I’m not messing around with the board — haven’t got time — I’ll just do the front,” Dorothy said as Jim edged out of the room to look for the rest of his school uniform. If it was absolutely tipping down, or if he was feeling particularly flush, then Jim would catch the bus. But mostly he walked and took the consequences. He was one of the only ones on the sprawling estate who had passed his 11-plus exam and was the only one who still seemed to be at school. Even the grammar school kids from ’round here had left after O-levels, drifting to the electronics factory where the money was good and the chance existed to finger the future — televisions, record players, smaller
and cleverer radios. They didn’t lie in wait for him as he trudged through the streets in his school uniform — they were all at work, doing grown-up jobs and earning grown-up money. Not pissing around being milk boys for a pittance. And when they did see him, they looked down on him. School-boy scum, too scared to join the real world. The secondary modern boys had always been bastards — pelting him with stones, trying to knock off his cap as he struggled along under the weight of his books. What a bloody joke. Seven years older, seven years wiser, and everyone else had moved on but him. Jim was still here. Still being peppered with stones by the kid brothers of his contemporaries. He gave as good as he got in the fights. Usually, they had a set piece quality, in which everyone played their allotted role, but sometimes the little ones didn’t seem to understand the rules. Recently, some twelve year old had caught him on the side of the head with a well-aimed piece of flint, and Jim had chased him through the estate and across the playing fields, finally managing to knock the wind out of him down by the railway line. He had earned himself a week’s detention as a reward — sixth formers were too old to be caned — “But, Brewer, that does not excuse dirty, cut faces, scruffy uniform, and lateness — a disgrace to your family and to your school badge.” Neither one thing nor the other. Caught in limbo. Not a child nor a man. A disgrace to his school and a disgrace to his estate. Jim walked briskly to school through the shivering February morning, remembering the excitement of New Year’s Eve and trying not to let the cold seeping through his bones congeal to disillusion. A new decade — the ’60s — and with it, an end to this. Leave school in the summer. University. Away from this town that thought it was a city, away from responsibility and rules. A place in London, where life really was. After school, the senior debating team squeezed into Mr Fisher’s Morris for the journey across town to St. Stephen’s. Squashed against the door of the small car, Jim narrowed his eyes,
rendering the shabby Midlands streets into an exotic blur. He loosened his tie, nose pressed against the freezing window. It was all very well, this education malarkey, but he was going to be late for his evening shift, and money was as important as education. A guitar, and a record player. Dorothy had a Dansette record player in a pink case. Jim tried to avert his eyes when he borrowed it. Despite her full-time job, she spent surprisingly little money on 45s or books. Instead, she went out every weekend — teetering heels and full-circle skirts, acres of net and bright lipstick. And sometimes she walked home in a giggling heap of friends, and sometimes a car or scooter dropped her off. On those evenings, the conversation was whispered, not shrieked. Sometimes, Jim suspected her of plotting her escape just as assiduously as he did his own. He tried to imagine her married, with children, with her own house. But somehow it never seemed right. Marriage, a house, what kind of escape was that? Besides, she was his sister; she worked in the typing pool at the Council, and cooked for him and their father. She spent her weekday evenings dress-making for her weekend jaunts. And that, really, was that. “St. Stephen’s proposes the motion that ‘the teenager is here to stay’ — Mr Harding will speak first.” Jim tried to concentrate as the debate began. Weird subject for a debate. Masters trying to be cool, or ‘hep’ even. How embarrassing — and what a group to ask, nothing looking less like teenagers. None of your DAs and louche poses here — all neat ties and shiny shoes. None of us is James Dean, or Elvis, or even Tommy-bloody-Steele. Mr Harding seemed to be warming to his theme with extravagant gestures and a soft inflexion that was surprisingly relaxing. Jim closed his eyes. “…After all, the teenager has always been with us in one guise or another — from the apprentice boys of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries through to…” At least it was warm in here. “…Mr Brewer will oppose the motion.”
“Eh? Oh right, yes.” And Jim scrambled to his feet. He gathered his scribbled notes, beginning in a mumbling rush, “Teenager — the very word suggests transience — one of the shortest stages of life and doomed to be one of the shortest fads of the twentieth century…” Half-past six, stood at the bus stop in the pouring rain. What a miserable place. Dark and cold. Maybe even London would look miserable in the rain. Didn’t seem likely, though. There’d be something happening, somewhere to go. A smoky jazz club or an inviting cinema. Oh, c’mon, that stuff’s all here; you just can’t afford it. Which is why you’re waiting to catch the bus to work when everyone else is heading down to the Crown and Thistle — three stages y’know, Jim — you should come along more than once a year — lighten up a bit, have some fun… “Hey!” Jim peered through the gloom. “Hey what?” “Hey, here.” A car pulled up on the opposite side of the road. “Lift?” “What?” That Harding lad from the debate. What the bloody hell did he want? The boy grinned and spread his hands out wide. “You look drowned — lift anywhere?” “No, it’s okay.” “Come on — looks no fun standing there. Hop in.” “You sure?” “Of course, I’m sure.” “Thanks.” Jim climbed in carefully, conscious of his sodden jacket and dripping hair. “Where to, squire?” asked the driver, blazer collar up and dark hair all anyhow, same cheerful sing-song voice that Jim remembered from the debate. “Er…the bus depot.” “Sorry?” “Bus depot — on Cavendish Street.”
“If you say so, boss. Good debate, eh? Damn choke. This car thinks you’re trying to kill it if you stop for even a minute — too much and you flood the engine, too little and it just rolls over and lies on the ground with its legs in the air. D’you actually believe what you said about teenagers?” Jim glanced across at him and then beyond to the rain streaking erratically down the windscreen. “Does it matter?” he asked at last, gratitude for the lift making him belligerent. “You won.” “You sounded like you meant it,” persisted the other boy. “It was a debate, a rhetor — ” “I know — I know all that. Just wondered…” “Haven’t a clue,” said Jim flatly. “All I know is I’m not one — didn’t think any of us were.” “You can read and care and still be a teenager — music, threads, state of mind, you know.” Jim heard the sudden passion in the other boy’s voice, and felt a twist of anger. “Only if you can afford it. Teenagers are just drones…” “Spend it, though — Keynes says — ” “Damn Keynes — he could afford to.” “So, you’re not economically useless?” “No, worse luck — why d’you think I’m heading to the bus depot on a Friday night?” “Thought it was just how you got your kicks.” “Ha bloody ha.” “A real job…” “If you want to call it that,” said Jim heavily. “Straight to university, or National Service first?” said the driver, changing tack without a pause. “University, hopefully. English. You?” “Yes, I reckon. Unless…” “Unless what?” The doors of the bus depot loomed larger through the slanting rain. “Unless I have a better idea first.” “Good luck to you,” said Jim generously.
The car stopped, “I’m Edward.” “Pleased to meet you — ’m Jim.” “You debate really well, you know...a sort of passion.” Jim shrugged. “Thanks.” “Most people just pretend — just let it slide by. Don’t really have it…” “Mmm…” “Do you go out?” “What?” “Where do you go — in the evenings?” “Work, usually.” “Even tomorrow?” “’Til six, yeah.” “After?” “Look, I’m late…need to go…” “Tomorrow, half-seven, Copper Kettle…a group of us meet there…go for a dance…up the Crown …” “I’ll see.” “Great — see you then, Jim.” Almost before Jim was out of the car, Edward was reversing down the narrow street with practiced ease and disappearing into the darkness. Shivering in the sudden blast of cold air, Jim pulled his jacket closer about him and headed into the depot.
About the Author E.S. Parkinson is a writer and historian interested in and inspired by the lives of “ordinary” people. She has worked as a social historian and as a midwife, and these roles impact on everything she writes, in direct and indirect ways. She is fascinated by people’s stories; their ways of making sense of their world and their ways of getting through. She likes cricket, tea, and old books about cooking and housecraft. She lives in Nottingham, United Kingdom with her partner and teenage children.