It was then that the door at the end of the car banged open and I heard the tramp of heavy boots and laughter and shouts.
"I fucking will do 'im if he don't fank me next time!"
"You fucking won't, you wally!"
"Fuck off—I will!"
They were loud—earsplitting—but the picnicking English people across the aisle, and the elderly people, and each young family in its own pew, did not hear a thing. The picnickers went on eating in their tidy way, and everyone else became silent and small.
"—because I fucking said I would!"
I had seen their heads at Chatham passing by the windows of this car. I hoped they would move on to another car, and they had. But they were loud and violent and could not sit still, and now that we were past Gillingham ("...the headquarters of the religious sect known as the Jezreelites, or the New and Latter House of Israel"), they had entered this car. There were seven of them. They called themselves Skinheads.
Their heads were egglike—completely hairless. But it was not baldness, there was no shine; they were pale gray shaved domes, with the bright white snail tracks of scars tagged over them. It was the size of the heads that I found alarming. A head without any hair is a small thing. It can look like a knob with eyes and ears. A human being is changed remarkably by hairlessness: the appearance is hardened and the person looks insectile and dangerous. They had tattoos on their heads, small symbols and words, and tattoos on their earlobes, and earrings. They were dressed identically in short leather bomber jackets, with a T-shirt underneath. The backs of their hands were tattooed. The Union Jack was the commonest tattoo among them. They wore very tight dungarees that were a bit too short, the cuffs reaching the tops of vicious high-laced boots. The boots were shiny; these boys were oddly clean; their faces were very white.
"Look at that fucking bloke out there—what a silly cunt—"
"'ey, leave off, you fucking wally!"
They were frolicking on the seats, thumping each other and still shouting. Mr. and Mrs. Mould were drinking tea out of plastic mugs.
"The long-range forecast called for fine weather," one of the Touchmores whispered.
Then, behind me, I heard, "Daddy—" It was a child's small voice: Dud-day.
"Please, darling, I'm reading."
"Daddy, why—"
"Yes, darling?"
"Daddy, why are those men saying 'fuck off'?"
"I don't know, darling. Now do please let me read my paper."
His voice was nervous, as if he had been holding his breath. I had certainly been holding mine. The seven Skinheads had disturbed the Sunday peace of this jogging train; they had brought uneasiness to the car. They were fooling, but their fooling was violent and their language was terrible and reckless. I am sure that everyone else in the car was paying close attention to our progress along the line. We had passed Sittingbourne and Faversham and were headed toward Whitstable.
"There, Daddy, they just said it again. 'Fucking hell.'"
"Hush, darling. There's a good girl."
"And that one said fuck, too."
"That's enough, darling." The man's voice was very subdued. He did not want anyone to hear. But he was just behind me, and his daughter was next to him—she could not have been more than five or six. I caught a glimpse of her. I was sure her name was Sharon.
"Daddy—"
Dud-day.
"—why don't they put them off the train?"
The man did not reply to this. He probably would not have been heard, in any case. The Skinheads were screaming and running in the aisle—one had the word Skins tattooed on his neck—and one little Skinhead, a boy of about thirteen, also tattooed and shaven and wearing an earring, was yelling, "You fucking cunt, I'll fucking kill you!" and kicking at another Skinhead, who was older and bigger and laughing at this little infuriated Skin.
Heme Bay had a reputation for riffraff, but the Skinheads did not get off at Heme Bay. They were still swearing and kicking the seats and pushing each other as we pulled out of Heme Bay. And at Birchington-on-Sea ("grave of D. G. Rossetti, d. 1882, memorial window in the church"), one Skinhead screamed, "I'll fucking kill you right now for saying vat!"
They had been an awful irruption, and they had brought a sense of terror to the car. Such language, such fighting! The day was damp-gray and peaceful, but these monkey-faced boys with their tattoos and their tiny heads had made it frightening. And all the while, the decent English people with lowered heads and mugs of tea were pretending that nothing was happening; and the Skinheads were behaving as if no one else existed—as if they were alone in the railway car. In that sense they were very English Skinheads.
We came to Margate. The Skinheads pushed to the door and fought their way out. Then we got out, politely—no, you first, I insist. None of us was harmed, but I think most of us would have said it was unsettling, the way you feel with drunks on board, or crazy people. We had felt threatened. I had meant to describe our progress to the coast, and when I had seen the mist over the Cooling Marshes I had wanted to recall the opening chapters of Great Expectations. It was too late for that. It was so hard to remember Dickens or Merrie England or "this scepter'd isle" or the darling buds of May so near to seven roaring Skinheads. All I could think was: "We will fight them on the beaches..."
***
The Skinheads had come to the coast at Margate to fight. There was something nasty and purposeful about them. Everywhere, those tiny heads on big shoulders and the clumping of their jackboots. Their enemies were the Mods. Mods wore knee-length army coats and crash helmets, and they rode motor scooters. They buzzed up and down the Promenade. The Skinheads gathered across the Promenade from the amusement arcade called "Dreamland," in a little park, several hundred of them—all those shaven heads.
It was bleak and cold, and the wind pressed from the leaden-colored Channel. I kept reminding myself that it was the first of May. But there was a holiday crowd at Margate, too, milling around, toting children, wearing hats that said Kiss Me Quick—Squeeze Me Tight.
On Margate Sands I went for a stroll and then looked back at the town, at all the boardinghouses jammed tightly on the terraces like plaster prizes on the shelf of the coconut shy, VACANCIES signs in the empty windows, and canned laughter and real shrieks from Dreamland, and Indian families walking in groups of twelve on Marine Parade, and the Skinheads and seagulls and Mods in helmets, and the broken fingernails of their dirty hands, and scores of policemen, and the low sky and the dank foreshore and the dark corrugated water of the North Sea, and a pop song playing, Kick it—Kick it to death. I could connect nothing with nothing.
Some people wore summer clothes in a hopeful goose-pimpled way, but most were warmly dressed. I saw a number of people wearing scarves and gloves. Mittens in May! There were about ten people standing on the sandy beach, but no one was swimming. They were peering at an oil slick that was a smooth puddle in the sea. On the seawall there were scribbles saying WASTED YOUTH and ANARCHY! and NAZIS ARE THE MASTER RACE. There were rain showers in the east, over the water, tall gray verticals hanging closely like wet towels on a line. It was no day for the seaside, and yet no one looked disappointed. Ten minutes later, when it started to drizzle, no one ran for cover.
Margate had never been fashionable. It had never even been nice. It had become a watering place because doctors in the eighteenth century believed that sea water was healthful—not only sitting in it or swimming, but also washing in it and especially drinking it, preferably in the morning. It was the quest for good health that brought people to Margate and later to Brighton. It was the making of the British seaside resort, not only the notion that sea air was a sexual excitant—this may be true—but also that sea water was good for the bowels: "A pint is commonly sufficient in grown persons to give them three or four sharp stools."