The Girls from Greenway

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Welcome to the world of Elizabeth Woodcraft!

  A letter from the Author

  Recipe

  Tales from Memory Lane

  Memory Lane Club

  Copyright

  For my mother Peggy Perry (1924–2016)

  CHAPTER 1

  CHRISTMAS EVE WAS COLD. THERE WAS almost snow in the wind that blew down the narrow street. Roger had finally decided what he wanted – a jumper from Battini’s. So, head down against the sleet, Angie made her way to the new boutique.

  She had hoped it would be a girls’ boutique. Chelmsford was no London, and if they wanted anything really up to date she and her best friend Carol had to trek over to Southend or Stratford. It was so hard to be someone who dreamed of becoming a fashion designer when the closest you could get to it was looking at the pictures in a magazine. So even when it turned out to be a men’s boutique she was still interested.

  It had been a horrible afternoon. She’d traipsed round a million shops trying to buy presents for people. She’d found the perfect earrings for her sister Doreen, but just as she was counting out her money on the counter a woman had pushed in front of her and snatched them up. Coming out of the shop Angie realised she’d lost half a crown somewhere, so she had no present for Doreen and even less money to spend on it. Money was always tight in their house and half a crown made the difference between sausages and a slice of toast for tea. And now she had to spend good money on something for Roger. And worse than what to buy for Roger was the problem of Roger. He was nice, he had a good job, he was everything her mother wanted for her. She honestly liked him, she felt safe with him, but he wasn’t exciting, wasn’t glamorous. She knew he was crazy about her, but she . . . she wanted so much more.

  Her head down, worrying about Roger and the money, she didn’t see the drunk man before he bumped into her knocking her off balance. Clutching her shopping to stop it falling, she stepped straight into a puddle. She looked down at herself. She always took such care with her clothes, and now her shoes were ruined and her suede coat was soaking. She hoped it wasn’t ruined; it was an early Christmas present to herself and she loved it.

  But now she looked more like a damp rat than a sleek mod.

  She was wet and miserable when she pushed open the door of the boutique. She’d been quite looking forward to seeing this Gene Battini; there were so many stories about him. In the Orpheus, the mods’ coffee bar in London Road, someone had said his name wasn’t Gene Battini at all, his name was really Gerald Battle but he’d changed it, trying to sound as Italian as Vespa and Lambretta scooters. All that talk of Rome and Milan was rubbish, they said, and in fact he came from north London – Enfield or somewhere. But the boys in Chelmsford were themselves all talk at times. Perhaps Gene Battini was the real thing. At least he was working in the right business.

  But now she really didn’t care. She just wanted to buy this jumper and get on with the rest of her shopping. The boutique was empty except for the clothes; racks of jackets and trousers and shelves of shirts. It smelt of the new wood that lined the walls, with the smell of new clothes added in. There was a small Christmas tree glittering on the counter in the corner.

  A man came out from the back, shrugging into a sheepskin coat. He looked older, twenty-six maybe twenty-eight, too old to be working in a boutique. He was very tanned; maybe he was Italian. He smiled regretfully, and in a loud cockney accent he said, ‘Sorry love, we’ve just closed.’

  On top of the awful afternoon she’d had, now she wasn’t even going to be able to buy Roger’s Christmas present. She felt she was about to burst into tears.

  ‘Hey!’ The man’s smile vanished. He looked worried. ‘You OK? Want to sit down? Want a glass of water?’

  ‘I want to buy a jumper.’ She dashed away the tears with the back of her hand.

  ‘I’ve got some funny ones,’ he said, ‘but they don’t usually make people cry.’

  ‘But you’re closed.’

  ‘Well yes, but you’re here inside the shop and so am I. So in a funny kind of way you could say we’re open. I know, how about a cup of tea?’ He looked at his watch again. ‘I’ve probably missed my train anyway. I’ve got a kettle out the back. And why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘Because there aren’t any chairs!’ she said angrily. She felt so stupid.

  ‘I’ve got chairs too,’ he said. ‘And some malted milk biscuits.’

  ‘You can keep the biscuits.’ She didn’t like malted milk biscuits. ‘But yes, I’d like a cup of tea.’

  ‘Keep your eye on the shop and I’ll put the kettle on. Sugar?’

  ‘One please,’ she said. ‘Can I take my shoes off?’

  He looked surprised. ‘You can take off anything you like, darling.’

  ‘It’s because they’re wet,’ she said, but she laughed. She slipped off her moccasins and began to feel better.

  ‘By the way, I’m Gene,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Angie.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  While he was in the back, clattering spoons and cups, she ran her hands over the sweaters on the rail. She knew the one Roger wanted. It was bottle-green with two thick, vertical navy and white stripes down one side. He’d said Dave Clark had one similar, but not the same. She couldn’t think how you could tell when the telly picture was in black and white.

  Gene brought a tray through with two mugs of tea and a flowery plate of biscuits on it. He put the tray on the counter and then went back out, returning with two fold-up chairs. ‘Your tea’s the yellow one,’ he said, unfolding the chairs.

  ‘Mugs,’ she said, sitting down. ‘That’s very trendy.’

  ‘This is a boutique, darling. Trendy is its middle name.’

  ‘How does that work?’ she said. ‘It’s called Battini’s. There’s nothing to be in the middle of.’

  ‘The full title is Battini’s Trendy Boutique,’ he said. ‘We just couldn’t get it all on the sign.’ He switched on a small transistor radio and the Spencer Davis Group advised her, tinnily, to keep on running. ‘So why the tears?’ He held out the plate. She shook her head, but as he put the plate back on the tray, she realised they were chocolate digestives and suppressed a sob.

  As if he had read her mind, he held the plate out again. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  She took a biscuit. She loved chocolate digestive biscuits. They never had them at home. This was nice. It felt safe and cosy in the shop. There was a small electric fire behind the counter which was pumping out heat. She undid her coat.

  ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Make yourself at home. Nice outfit.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m a mod,’ she said simply. She was wearing her suede coat of course, it
was part of the mod uniform. It was maroon, straight and three-quarter length. Under it, she wore her brown and white dogtooth check skirt and her thin, loose, emerald-green sweater. Her dark brown hair was cut in a mod bob, shorter than the Cleopatra look a lot of girls went for, but with the same straight fringe. She was proud of her hair, although it didn’t look its best at the moment. It was damp and windswept. She ran her fingers through it, and smoothed down her fringe.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Gene Battini said, ‘what do you think of the shop?’

  She wondered if he was serious or was just making conversation. She didn’t care, she’d give him her opinion. She looked round. ‘I think there are too many thick jumpers.’

  He laughed. ‘Is that a comment on my outfit?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. He was wearing a sweater with a horizontal stripe round the chest. Another just like it was hanging on the rails. She took a mouthful of the strong sweet tea, then looked over at the window display. ‘I love those trousers.’

  ‘What mine?’

  ‘No! I mean, not necessarily.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘These days fashion is all about what people are wearing on Ready Steady Go!,’ she said. It was the mods’ programme on ITV on Friday evenings. ‘You should watch it then put the things that are on there, in the window. If you’ve got what they want, people will come in and buy it, won’t they? And it won’t just be me and you in the shop.’

  ‘Don’t forget I’m technically closed.’

  ‘That’s stupid. Christmas Eve is when everyone does their shopping. Like me.’

  ‘But that’s why I closed the shop – I’ve got to do mine.’

  She wondered briefly who he might be buying presents for.

  ‘But to tell you the truth,’ he said, stretching out his legs, ‘I don’t usually get home in time to watch the telly.’

  ‘You should.’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t mind telling people what to do, do you?’

  ‘You asked!’ she said.

  ‘I did. And it’s all very interesting. I’m glad you dropped in.’

  ‘So am I.’ She was feeling better. ‘I like fashion,’ she said.

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘I could be your fashion adviser.’

  ‘You could.’

  She dipped her biscuit into her tea and skilfully lifted it to her mouth, tipping her head back to catch it before it melted. Gene Battini watched her.

  ‘Now that’s a nice jumper,’ he said. She wondered if he was looking at her breasts. ‘What’s it made of?’ He leaned forward and she trembled as his hand stretched out to touch the fabric. She didn’t know if she was disappointed when he caught the hem, folded it over and rubbed it between his fingers. His fingers were brown, tanned. His index finger had a deeper stain of tobacco at the tip.

  ‘Wool,’ she said. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Wool mixture,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m not sure what. I got it in Romford.’

  ‘Romford,’ he said. ‘I go there a lot. To the dogs. Have you ever been to the dogs?’

  ‘I feel like I go to the dogs most weeks,’ she said.

  He laughed again. He had a rasping, coughing sort of laugh. She liked it. She liked that she’d made him laugh. ‘Well, you’re here now. And I hope this is better than Romford dog track.’

  She looked round the shop again. ‘Not bad. Nice cup of tea.’

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘who’s the lucky man who’s going to find a Battini jumper under the tree on Christmas morning? I’m hoping it’s your dad but I’m afraid you’re going to say it’s a big burly boyfriend.’

  ‘I don’t know about the big and burly, but yes—’ she coughed; she had a frog in her throat. ‘It’s for my boyfriend.’

  ‘Just my luck,’ he said. ‘So, what’s his name, this boyfriend of yours?’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘What does Roger like in the way of jumpers?’

  ‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘But I know the jumper he wants for Christmas.’

  ‘So he’s a bit of a mod, is he? Like you?’

  Angie smiled. She pointed out Roger’s chosen jumper and Gene Battini rose and took it off the hanger. He checked the label.

  ‘He’s medium,’ she said.

  ‘That’s a bit unkind.’

  ‘Shut up.’ She laughed.

  ‘I’ll put it in a nice bag for you.’ He wrapped it in tissue paper, then slid it into an expensive-looking carrier bag. Standing at the till he said, ‘And because it’s you I’ll knock ten bob off the price. Four pounds nine and eleven – how’s that?’

  ‘That’s very nice, thank you.’ She stood up to go but she rather wanted to linger there in the warm, eating chocolate biscuits, surrounded by modern, sharp clothes and talking about style with this man with the exotic name.

  He held out the bag. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said.

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Let me give you a Christmas kiss,’ he said.

  She made a face, then smiled and they leaned together and he kissed her on the lips.

  ‘Next time we’ll have a longer one,’ he said.

  ‘Next time!’ she snorted.

  ‘You know where I am,’ he said. ‘Ten ‘til five every day, except Sunday and Wednesday afternoon.’

  Now she really didn’t want to leave but she still had her mum’s present to buy. She was trembling as she walked away, past the Saracen’s Head, past the Essex Weekly News office. She could still taste him faintly on her lips as she crossed over to the milk bar where her sister Doreen was waiting.

  Doreen was upstairs on the first floor, gazing out of the large window. Two cooling cups of tea sat on the table in front of her. She looked at her watch. ‘What time do you call this?’

  Angie held up the expensive carrier bag and explained what had happened.

  Doreen said, ‘You what?’

  ‘I kissed him.’

  ‘What about Roger?’

  ‘It was a Christmas kiss. Everyone kisses everyone at Christmas.’

  ‘No they don’t. How old did you say he was?’

  ‘I dunno, twenty-five? Twenty-six?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘He’s twenty-six? And he kissed you?’

  ‘For God’s sake. It’s not like I’m pregnant.’

  Doreen shook her head. ‘What’s he doing with a girl of your age? That’s what? Six? Seven years difference?’

  ‘He might be twenty-five or twenty-four. Or younger.’

  ‘Then you must have led him on.’

  ‘I didn’t. He was nice.’

  ‘Yeah, they always are. At the beginning.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Angie complained. ‘I’m going to get Mum’s present.’ She stood up.

  ‘What about your tea?’ Doreen said.

  ‘Not thirsty,’ Angie called as she ran down the stairs, the bag from Battini’s banging against her legs. She ran across the road and ducked into the bright, sparkling Christmas light of Bonds, the department store, where she bought her mum some soap and bath salts.

  CHAPTER 2

  ANGIE CAME IN FROM TOWN, SMILING. The afternoon had ended successfully. She’d forgotten about the row with Doreen. She had bought all her presents and on top of that there’d been the kiss from a new, exciting man in town.

  She was surprised to see her dad was indoors, in the kitchen chatting to her mum while they got things ready for tea. This meant it would be a good evening. Mum was putting cups and the teapot on the tray and Dad was standing by the stove, heating the frying pan. On the draining board was a loaf of bread – always an uncut loaf on a Saturday – a packet of Stork margarine, and a box of six eggs. In the living room, beside the small Christmas tree with its array of coloured lights, the telly was on.

  Angie and her family had lived in the Crescent for almost ten years now. They’d been some of the first residents on the new council estate. It was perfect in every way. The once-hourly number forty-five bus ran right through the estate, a dark-green, double d
ecker which chugged in from the town, into a bus-driver’s road of dreams, straight, straight to the top, passing the redbrick houses, the neat gardens, the small parade of shops, and the other roads that turned off, including the Crescent.

  The family had moved onto the estate in the mid-fifties, when Angie was in her last year at primary school and Doreen was on the verge of leaving school altogether. Angie could still remember how on their first day in the house, Mum had walked in and out of the rooms for a long time, wondering at the joy of the space, the cleanliness, the dryness. From the perfectly appointed kitchen they could walk into the hall, or alternatively go through the arch into the living room. The front room, which would be for best, had two doors, one from the hall, and one from the living room. There was a sturdy staircase up to the bathroom and three bedrooms. They had stood in the living room and looked out at the neat plot that was their back garden. There was a shed for tools and a lawn-mower next to the coal shed and the outside toilet. Two toilets for one family. Luxury, they had thought. As the years had gone by the newness had worn off, but Mrs Smith was still house-proud. She used the carpet sweeper every night and the windows were cleaned every week. When they had first moved in she had refused to have the sooty paraphernalia of Mr Smith’s job as a chimney sweep in their lovely new house.

  Angie had heard the argument. At one point her mum had said she wasn’t prepared to have him there at all. But he came. And one day, after the rent man had been, Angie had caught sight of the rent book and saw that instead of the name Mrs Smith, or even Mr and Mrs Smith, her dad’s was the only name on it.

  At first it had seemed to Angie that there were arguments all the time, as there had been in the flat. Sometimes her dad would storm out of the house, banging the door, leaving Mrs Smith sobbing quietly in the kitchen. Sometimes the police came and stood in the hall and talked calmly and reasonably to him, and he replied equally calmly and they would go away, then the next day her mum would have bruises on her arms, and once she had a black eye. But that was years ago, and now he had calmed down, her mum said, and when he came home now he carried a ladder and a bucket. He had become a window cleaner. He said it was seasonal work and that was the only reason he never had much money.

  But Doreen still said his earnings were poured down his throat or gambled away. She said it was the women in the family that kept things going, her wages, with her mum’s and Angie’s were what they lived on. But it was hard at home. Some weeks Angie would buy the Spam and the Pan Yan pickle on Saturday for her sandwiches for the week, but by Wednesday it would all be gone. Even if she hid everything in the biscuit tin or right at the back of the cupboard, behind the plates, her dad would come in after drinking all evening in the Railway Tavern or the White Hart, fancying a snack, and he would find them. Her mum couldn’t stop him. ‘At least he comes home,’ she’d say.