Lively music pumped its way up the hill from a house in the hollow; a party was starting up. It was 1982 and garage parties were in vogue. My three teenagers, one of whom I was fostering, soon caught the vibes and curiosity overcame them. They wanted to join in the fun.
We didn't know the people living in that house, but no matter, the girls wanted to go. After a good half hour of nagging, I told all four of the girls to get ready (one was still a pre-teenager), I would chaperone them. There was a flurry of excitement as they dived into their cupboards, deciding which clothes to wear. I poured myself into my jeans, fluffed up my hair and added gloss to my lips. We were all ready to gatecrash the party.
I carefully picked my way down the narrow footpath in the dark across the corner of veldt which separated the houses, my gaggle of girls hot on my heels. The lights from the party lit up the driveway and was a beacon in the night for us. We were unsure of what reception we would get, so hung around the driveway gates, looking in till someone noticed us. We 'scoped out the place' (slang for weighed up the situation) and noted a lone pair of dancers on the floor. About seven or eight youths and two girls lined the walls, watching; it didn't look too exciting. My girls were soon spotted as they craned their necks to get a good view of the place. One of the young boys pushed himself away from the garage wall and came down the driveway. We were welcomed to the party, as there was obviously a shortage of females. Things got pretty lively after that. Shortly, we were all dancing to the beat. Even I was soon being partnered by one of the older teen boys.
About half an hour later, something strange happened. Those dancing nearest the big door suddenly stopped, we all followed suit and a whisper of "Skyes" rapidly circulated, tinged with a mixture of awe and trepidation. We looked in the direction of the large open door to see the figure of a tall, bulky young male. I had never set eyes on him before, but his reputation preceded him. He was part of a nefarious gang which ruled our town. The "H.. Gang", their repute probably exaggerated, were know to be big trouble. I stood still, weighing up my options - should I make a hasty exit with the girls, or should I wait to see if this was going to be an extended stay on Skyes' part.
Before I could make a move, a few words were muttered in the doorway and Skyes strode over to me. I quaked in my boots, as the saying goes. My previous partner disappeared like dark before the rising sun and I was left facing Skyes. No wonder his name struck fear into so many - he was huge with not an ounce of fat on him, just pure brawny testosterone. To my utter shock, I found myself dancing in his arms to the beat of "Baby Makes Her Blue Jeans Talk" by Dr Hook (which was played ad nauseam that night).
I felt like some exotic specimen as I was twirled and gyrated, Skyes' intense gaze never leaving me for a moment. It was almost as if my movements hypnotised him. After a long while, he decided to take a breather. I was led by the hand, out the pedestrian door and into the semi-lit garden. Skyes plonked himself into the only garden chair in sight, pulling me onto his lap. I didn't like this turn of events at all. I perched on his knee like a wild bird, ready for flight at the first sign of alarm. Other than putting his hand on my hip, he was the perfect gentleman. Imperiously clicking his fingers and motioning to someone that we needed something to drink, we were served in double quick time. We sat sipping our sodas as my girls came to investigate where Mom had disappeared to.
A lot more dancing ensued. Skyes never left my side once.
It was about eleven o'clock when I decided to call it a night. Skyes protested a bit, but I stood firm; my girls had to get home. To my utter amazement, Skyes scooped me up, carrying me down the driveway on his arm as if I was a two-year-old child. He set me down, gently, just outside of the driveway gates, turned and stalked back to the party without a backward glance. The girls and I shouted our thanks and goodbyes to the party-givers (who ever they were) and obediently trotted home. What a crazy Saturday night!
Skyes behavior reminds me of Tarzan. Like Johnny Weissmuller - putting you on his knee but treating you like a lady (it's a wonder he didn't beat his chest and let out his jungle cry). Also like Christopher Lambert with those intense stares (it's a wonder he didn't growl like a Leopard in your ear).
I've got a scene in my head of Tarzan carrying Jane out of the jungle and gently depositing her in front of her rescuers, then turning around and disappearing back whence he came!
Seriously, it was 1982, the year of my 25th birthday and it seems that Skyes followed the same code as us for how to treat women - particularly mums. Sometimes I wonder if that code still exists today.
Got to say - Dr Hook and blue jeans - not too different for us - Skyhooks and Levi's.
I really do like this one, Fergie!
