The Saturday Girls

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  I sighed. ‘But this is why we’re here. We’re trying to change the world.’

  ‘Well, that’s likely to happen.’

  ‘But if we don’t do something, who will?’ I wanted to stay, I wanted to be part of it.

  Sandra laughed. ‘Well, everyone’s going to have a horrible journey home if I don’t go soon.’

  I sighed. ‘All right.’

  It took time – finding the toilet, looking for pennies, struggling through the turnstile, queueing, and then we had to find a phone box and four more pennies so she could make a phone call. She pushed me out of the phone box. ‘It’s personal,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not ringing Danny?’ I groaned.

  ‘Funnily enough, no, because, newsflash, Danny’s in prison.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘No one you know.’

  I watched her as she took two pieces of paper out of her bag. She put the pennies in the slot, dialled a number I couldn’t make out, and then I heard the clatter of money as she pressed button A. A red double-decker bus rolled past and I couldn’t hear her first words, but then I heard ‘Chelmsford, Essex . . . When? OK.’ She said goodbye, but stood holding the receiver, staring across the road.

  I pulled open the door. ‘Who were you ringing?’

  She jumped. ‘No one, nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘That’s not what it looks like. Your face!’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you. Or me, really. It’s just . . . nothing.’

  ‘Tell me. You had two bits of paper.’

  She sighed. ‘They were both the number. One part came in one letter and the other part came in the next one.’

  So it was Danny. My stomach churned. I didn’t want to know anymore.

  But she carried on. ‘He had to send it in two parts, otherwise the screws would have found it.’

  ‘You’re mad. If he’s sending you letters with a secret phone number there must be something wrong with it, something you could end up paying for.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? He asked me.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t ask me! The letters come to our house. And my mum’s here today.’

  ‘But that was the thing. He was protecting us all. If I made a phone call in London it couldn’t be traced to him or me. Or you.’

  I shook my head. It still didn’t feel right.

  ‘Oh, Linda, leave off. It’s just a phone call.’

  ‘Sandra –’

  ‘Come on, we’ve got to hurry. Your mum will go mad.’

  ‘Yeah, she probably will,’ I said. ‘About everything.’

  CHAPTER 14

  The Milk Bar

  IT WAS FIVE TO EIGHT ON THE Tuesday morning after Easter – I’d never been in town this early before. It felt strange and empty, as if I was on a film set, waiting for the director to shout ‘Action!’ so the posse could gallop down the High Street. Even the air was different, fresh and unused. I walked past the Golden Fleece and the Corn Exchange into Tindal Street and past the White Hart, the Spotted Dog and the Dolphin. It was a two-minute walk – if you weren’t Danny. If you were Danny, it would take several hours.

  The Milk Bar was on the corner of Tindal Street and London Road. It had two entrances. I tried the glass door on the angle of the two streets; it was locked. I went to the London Road glass door. That too was locked. Perhaps it had all been a joke, there was no job, the Milk Bar was closed, permanently, and a Wimpy Bar was going to open in its place. I shook the door in frustration and it rattled loudly.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ a voice called from inside. A woman stepped out from behind the espresso machine. She had silver permed hair with a clip in the side, and she was wearing a red-and-black check pinafore apron over a white overall. She waved a large bunch of keys at me and unlocked the door. I walked in and she locked the door behind me.

  ‘Nice and early, that’s good,’ she said. ‘You’re Linda, aren’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m Elsie.’

  I’d seen her before, though I’d never known her name. The place was the same as ever with its cream and green walls, the long counter with high wooden stools, the low bench along the length of the glass walls that looked out on to London Road. The espresso machine in all its chrome magnificence was sitting on a special counter almost under the stairs, with its own particular supply of glass cups and saucers. The staircase curved up to the tables on the first floor, and beside it was the dumb waiter that ran through the whole building from the kitchen at the top to the counter on the ground floor. All this I knew.

  But today the Milk Bar felt very different, because now I worked here. It was quiet and empty and I was talking to Elsie.

  Or rather, she was talking to me. I was staring at her in silence. ‘You don’t have to be scared of me. Although I do the expressos. And that can get dangerous.’ She cackled with laughter. ‘Except when Mr Wainwright’s in. He does the expressos then. Stands by the machine all smooth and nice. That’s when he talks to people like your dad. And he’s still got all his teeth.’ Later she told me the espresso machine was the reason her two front teeth were missing, because once the handle had shot back so fast it had smacked her in the mouth. Then she laughed, so I didn’t know what to think.

  Elsie was looking me up and down. ‘Try these.’ She picked up a pile of crisp, ironed clothes from the counter and handed it to me. The clothes mirrored exactly what she was wearing. I hung up my duffel coat on the hooks in the far corner beyond the stairs and changed into my uniform. I looked down at myself. I loved it: the stiff white cotton overall and the simple, contrasting red-and-black apron.

  Two more people came in – Val and Noelle. Noelle worked there full time and was small and pale and Irish. Val was a Saturday girl like me; she was at the Tec, which was next to Sandra’s school, although I’d never seen her. She was pretty in a brown-wavy-hair, grey-eyes kind of way. They said hello, hung up their coats, picked up their piles of overalls from the counter, put them on and got to work, all within about thirty seconds. Methodically, Val lifted clean white Pyrex cups and saucers out of the dumb waiter and put them on shelves. Noelle took two huge chrome teapots from under the counter and began measuring tea into them from an enormous grey tin of tea leaves. While Val checked the number of milk churns at the end of the counter, Noelle filled one of the teapots with hot water from a tap that hissed and spat. My stomach churned. Noelle and Val were so efficient and useful. How would I ever know the right thing to do?

  Doris came in, the cook from the kitchen. She was short and dumpy and she smelt funny. ‘This is our new girl,’ Elsie said. Doris nodded at me without speaking. She heaved herself up the stairs and disappeared. ‘The smell is Germolene, she has bad legs,’ Val whispered to me. We both snorted and coughed and she nudged me, and I felt better.

  Elsie asked me to sweep the floor. The broom was large and unwieldy and suddenly the room seemed three times as big. We never swept at home, certainly not with a broom, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I had to crouch down to reach under the benches and the broom got stuck behind the table legs and I banged my head. There didn’t seem to be any point; I couldn’t see any dust. Gradually the others all stopped working and stared at me, smiling. Elsie cackled, ‘Go the other way, you’re treading in it.’ I wanted to say, ‘If you gave me a hoover there wouldn’t be any treading and I could do it twice as fast.’ I wanted to say, ‘I’m going home now.’

  But I couldn’t; I’d made such a fuss about getting the job. I just hadn’t thought there would be cleaning involved, apart from perhaps giving the tables a swift, efficient wipe with a damp cloth. I wanted to smile charmingly at people and give them golden-coloured cups of tea and offer them their change. I carried on sweeping, turning the broom this way and that, until there was a small pile of dust in one corner and the floor was apparently clean. Everyone cheered. ‘She’s really getting the hang of it,’ Elsie announced, and gave me a hug. ‘They all start off hating the broom,’ she said to me qu
ietly, and I felt I’d passed a test and I started to enjoy myself.

  It was Noelle who showed me how to balance two cups of tea in one hand and how to work the till and, as the sandwiches arrived in the dumb waiter, sent down by Doris in the kitchen, she told me how much the different fillings cost: egg, fish paste, salad. I was muttering prices under my breath when she said the best thing. ‘Now you’re going to make milkshakes.’

  ‘Really?’ I breathed. I had always watched the magic of the process when I ordered milkshakes, and now I was weaving the spell myself. I took the silver metal flask, poured in a measure of rich-coloured syrup, added the milk and then hooked the flask onto the heavy yellow electric whisk on the wall. I stood holding my breath as the whisk hummed thickly, transforming the mixture into a foaming, pale pink milkshake. I poured it into a glass.

  ‘You’d better drink this one,’ Noelle said. ‘Otherwise we’ll just throw it away.’ She opened her eyes wide, so I knew it was a treat. Elsie was carrying a tray of glass cups to her den under the stairs. ‘Drink it quick,’ she said. ‘It’s almost half past eight. I want to open the doors.’

  ‘There’s too much,’ I said, gulping, pointing at the half-full flask. Noelle emptied the flask into another glass and Val swallowed it in one go. I longed for my break so that I could make a proper one, all for myself, one that I could savour. I might even put ice cream in.

  Elsie unlocked the doors and people trickled in. By ten o’clock we were busy and I was running up and down behind the counter carrying plates and cups and money and change, just as I’d dreamed. Then the owner, Mr Wainwright, came in. He put on a short white cotton jacket and said, ‘Welcome, Linda.’ He spoke with a really posh accent, which I thought was funny for someone who worked in a milk bar. ‘I am sure you will enjoy working here,’ he said in a calm, low voice. ‘You will see the difference in our service, compared to the other cafés in the town. Here we like to foster the art of quiet conversation. There is no jukebox. I hope that poses no problem for you.’

  I shook my head.

  At dinner time Sandra came in and ordered a glass of milk.

  ‘The state of you and the price of fish,’ she said, looking at my overall. But I knew she was jealous.

  At a quarter to three, after another humiliating session with the broom, I walked out of the Milk Bar and along London Road, humming ‘Oh Boy’. My precious brown paper envelope containing 12s 6d, my first pay packet, was lying warmly in my bag. I felt mature, part of the real world, a person with her own money.

  CHAPTER 15

  Dress Sense

  WE WERE ALMOST HALFWAY THROUGH the summer term and I was starting to worry about my exams, when the letter came.

  The house was empty and the envelope was on the shelf in the hall, propped against the little wooden telephone box that read, To keep the bill small, please pay for your call. Mum’s friend Rene had given it to her. I recognised the flimsy bluey-grey prison envelope before I recognised the handwriting. It was from Danny, addressed to me, intended for Sandra. She came over to collect it after tea.

  Sitting on my bed, she opened the envelope and took out the yellowy lined prison writing paper covered in his neat curly handwriting. Another piece of paper fell onto her lap.

  Sandra glanced down and then looked up, her eyes shining. ‘It’s a Visiting Order. He only wants us to go and visit him in the Scrubs.’

  ‘Who?’ My breath disappeared. ‘He wants who to go and visit him?’ I was playing for time, hoping that if I strung out the question long enough, the answer I feared would change.

  ‘Me and you.’

  ‘He wants me to go? I’m not old enough to visit someone in prison.’

  ‘Yes you are. Look, he says since we are his loving cousins he would be very pleased to see us –’

  ‘But we’re not his cousins.’

  ‘And could we bring some cigs.’

  ‘I thought you said he was giving up.’

  ‘Yeah, but they use them, don’t they? They swap them.’

  ‘Is it allowed?’

  ‘Of course it is, or they wouldn’t let him put it in the letter. Ooh, what shall we wear?’

  ‘Yes, and my mum’s likely to let me go. I don’t think.’

  ‘Just say we’re going to Oxford Street. You want to buy that nightshirt up there, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t want to go to prison for it. Anyway, I’m at school, remember.’

  ‘You have holidays, don’t you? It’s half-term soon, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s when we’ll go.’

  ‘I’ll be at work,’ I said. ‘Probably.’

  ‘I thought you were on a probationary period.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You might not even have a job then.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But Mr Wainwright might not need you.’

  ‘It’s a holiday, we’ll be busy.’

  ‘But you need a holiday. You said we could go up to London in your half-term. You said that. Oh, go on. Please?’

  ‘Oh, Sandra.’

  ‘All right – just come up on the train with me, to Liverpool Street. Then I’ll go to the prison on my own. And we’ll both be able to say we’re going to London for the day, which will be true.’

  ‘Why? Why does he all of a sudden send you a Visiting Order? I thought he was coming out soon.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘But he’s never done it before.’

  ‘He’s lonely. And I’m his girlfriend.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he just say that in the Visiting Order?’

  ‘Because that way you wouldn’t have been related to him and you couldn’t come.’

  ‘But I’m not coming.’

  *

  I knocked on Sylvie’s door.

  ‘Linda! What a lovely surprise. Have you come to take Mansell for a walk?’

  ‘No, I just . . . came to see you.’ And I have a big worry in the pit of my stomach, I didn’t say.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Come in, I’ve just made a pot of tea.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘The boy’s asleep.’ We walked past his pram. I went into the living room while Sylvie brought two cups of tea from the kitchen. ‘How’s the new job?’

  Job, the word almost made me smile. ‘It’s good,’ I said. ‘It’s hard work.’

  ‘Good training for the rest of your life. Have any of the Beatles been in to see you yet?’

  I laughed. It was embarrassing that I had ever thought that. And that I’d told her. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Unless they were in deep disguise as two blokes who sent back their pie and beans because they weren’t hot enough. But that would have been George and Ringo, so I don’t care.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you since the Aldermaston march, have I?’ she said. ‘Did you enjoy it? Did it give you any ideas?’

  ‘What kind of ideas?’

  ‘About your future. About the people you might get to know. The ones who might come in to the Milk Bar and get chatting.’

  I didn’t want to talk about that now. I wanted to tell her about the Visiting Order, but I didn’t know how to put it. There was a pause.

  ‘School all right?’

  ‘I’ve got my exams soon.’

  She looked at me expectantly, as if she knew I had something to say.

  Hurriedly I said, ‘How’s that dress you were making?’

  ‘Oh, it hasn’t got much further.’

  ‘Do you want me to look at it?’

  ‘Would you? Really?’ She ran upstairs and came down with a large carrier bag.

  I pulled out the white and red material from the bag. It was almost finished. Then a zip fell into my lap. A zip. It was my own fault. I sank down onto the cushion of the settee. I found a reel of cotton and a needle case. I would tack the zip into the back of the dress. That’s all. Carefully I began pinning the thick cloth of the zip to the seam of the dress. ‘Sandra wants me to go Wormwood Scrubs to see Danny wit
h her,’ I said casually, then looked up at Sylvie to gauge her reaction. She had a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘And I don’t want to go,’ I added quickly, before she could say how thrilling that sounded and what a wonderful experience for me, and how she wished she’d been able to do something like that when she was my age.

  But she smiled. ‘Oh, I say.’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  She examined my face. ‘But . . . you feel you should go?’

  ‘Yes, except I shouldn’t. I mean, I should go for Sandra’s sake, but I shouldn’t go on my mum’s terms.’

  ‘And what about your terms?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘All right. Here’s my advice – if you want it?’

  I nodded miserably.

  ‘Don’t think about it, and make a decision only when you have to.’ That seemed so simple and sensible. ‘When is all this meant to happen?’

  ‘At half-term,’ I said. ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘When the bus into town arrives, decide at that point whether you’ll get on it, or simply stand at the bus stop and wave Sandra off with a jaunty smile.’

  ‘Oh, I’m definitely getting on the bus. I’m going to London. It’s what happens when we get there, that’s the problem. I want to go shopping, she wants to . . .’

  ‘. . . to visit Danny. Oh well, chicken, just see how it feels at the time, if it feels right, or wrong, or silly, or interesting. And then choose,’ she said.

  I looked at her. ‘I have chosen,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to the prison.’ I wanted to see what she said, see if her face fell, see if she was disappointed in me.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s your decision. And you’ve made it. That’s something.’ She paused. ‘But you’re troubled, aren’t you? Don’t think about it anymore today. Now, what can we do to lighten the mood?’ She looked over at the record player.

  She must have seen me wince. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘let me tell you about the casino.’ She arranged herself in the armchair, tucking her skirt under her knees. ‘So, where had we got up to? Ah, yes. I was just about to tell you what happened after I won all that money.’