Grease and Eyeliner
A Mills and Swoon Short by Sarnia de la Mare
And a pair of fishnet tights.
Brighton, August Bank Holiday, 1964: Mods in slim-cut Italian suits and dustbin-lid parkas swarmed the seafront on Lambrettas like a horde of well-coiffed hornets. Rockers in leathers growled back from their café tables, the chrome on their motorbikes gleaming like polished knuckles.
Amid the crowd and chaos, Lulu Green, seventeen and already infamous for smoking menthols behind Woolworths, strutted along the promenade in a white PVC mac, Mary Quant lashes, and the most scandalous miniskirt East Sussex had ever gossiped about. Her Mod badge flashed silver against her chest, daring the world to look away.
And then she saw Johnny Raye.
He leaned against his Triumph Bonneville like it was a wealthy parent, black leather tight across shoulders built for sin, a sneer so well practiced it was practically choreography. The only soft thing about him was the curl of Brylcreem that dropped artfully across his forehead.
He was, quite obviously, a Rocker.
Which made him, quite obviously, forbidden fruit.
But Lulu’s eyes didn’t blink. “You staring or just brain-damaged from the fumes?”
He grinned. “Depends. You offering fresh air?”
So began the secret affair of beach huts and backbeats. Lulu's aunty owned a beach hut along the seafront in Hove. It was typically pink for an elder who wore her curls even to swim in.
"I will give you a key dear," she had said, "for you and your school friends."
Love blossomed in the pink beach hut in Hove, not in daylight, but in snatched moments between Mods vs. Rockers brawls and mum’s weekend meatloaf. The had to replace a bowl after one night of hurried fumbling, and then a table leg after the first night they 'did it'.
On Saturday's, Lulu tap-danced through Carnaby Street boutiques, collecting eyeliner pots and 45s of Dusty Springfield. By night, she’d hop on the back of Johnny’s bike, clinging to him like a second skin as they tore down coastal roads under a moon that approved of rebellion.
In the wooden shadows of Brighton’s painted beach huts, he’d play her Everly Brothers songs on a beat-up guitar, his fingers smelling faintly of engine oil and licorice Rizlas. She’d hum along, heels kicked off, hair backcombed to heaven.
“You know,” she said once, “I should be scared of what my mum’ll do if she finds out.”
Johnny kissed the inside of her wrist, soft and slow. “So should I. But I’m more scared of not seeing you.”
It didn’t take long for word to spread. Brighton had ears. Lulu’s father, a jazz-loving ex-army man with strict opinions on hem lengths and haircuts, banned her from leaving the house after six. Johnny’s mother, a chain-smoking former Tiller Girl, threatened to lace his tea with laxatives if he didn’t “find a nice Essex girl with a full fringe and some bloody sense.”
The lovers tried to part. They even had a trial separation.
Love blossomed in the pink beach hut in Hove, not in daylight, but in snatched moments between Mods vs. Rockers brawls and mum’s weekend meatloaf. The had to replace a bowl after one night of hurried fumbling, and then a table leg after the first night they 'did it'.
On Saturday's, Lulu tap-danced through Carnaby Street boutiques, collecting eyeliner pots and 45s of Dusty Springfield. By night, she’d hop on the back of Johnny’s bike, clinging to him like a second skin as they tore down coastal roads under a moon that approved of rebellion.
In the wooden shadows of Brighton’s painted beach huts, he’d play her Everly Brothers songs on a beat-up guitar, his fingers smelling faintly of engine oil and licorice Rizlas. She’d hum along, heels kicked off, hair backcombed to heaven.
“You know,” she said once, “I should be scared of what my mum’ll do if she finds out.”
Johnny kissed the inside of her wrist, soft and slow. “So should I. But I’m more scared of not seeing you.”
It didn’t take long for word to spread. Brighton had ears. Lulu’s father, a jazz-loving ex-army man with strict opinions on hem lengths and haircuts, banned her from leaving the house after six. Johnny’s mother, a chain-smoking former Tiller Girl, threatened to lace his tea with laxatives if he didn’t “find a nice Essex girl with a full fringe and some bloody sense.”
The lovers tried to part. They even had a trial separation.
Lulu dated a Mod named Colin who quoted Bob Dylan and couldn’t kiss properly.
Johnny flirted with a Rockabilly girl who wore a ponytail and called him "daddy" without irony.
But it was no use. It was like dating Elvis then dating Val Doonican. Johny Raye was Lulu's Elvis.
The final straw came when Lulu’s dad caught her sneaking out of the window wearing go-go boots. He grounded her indefinitely and took her Dancette. “You’ll thank me one day,” he said.
She did not, but she did understand his motives, albeit twenty years later when Johny and Lulu's son was hanging with the wrong crowd.
Two nights later, with the help of sugar paste, a hairdresser mate from beauty college, and a bottle of stolen vodka, Lulu escaped. Johnny met her outside the old pier, bouquet of fish and chips in one hand, a ring pop in the other.
They didn’t marry in white. She wore a silver minidress and blue eyeliner that reached halfway to her temples. He wore a leather jacket and a smile he couldn’t shake. They said their vows in the Brighton registry office, then danced on the pier to The Kinks 'You Really Got Me'. The spent the night in a cheap hotel room with floral wallpaper and sticky carpet.
Because love, as it turns out, doesn’t care much for categories.
It doesn't check jackets or bikes or what your dad thinks.
It just shows up, revs its engine, and waits.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare
#ModsVsRockers #1960sRomance #MillsAndSwoon #VintageLoveStory #BrightonLove
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