‘Oh Angie! I just think it’s great. You’re so lucky to be able to do this’
‘Well, now I’ve got that off my chest, let’s put a record on.’
While Carol carefully put The Chiffons’ LP on to the turntable and the words of ‘He’s So Fine’ filled the room, Angie went to the wardrobe and pulled out a carrier bag. She took out some pieces of bottle-green velvet. ‘I’ve got to finish this for the class,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry I can talk and tack at the same time.’ She put a pot of pins between them and pulled the material onto her knee.
‘How long have you been doing this class?’ Carol said.
‘About a year.’
‘Have you been doing this all this time?’ She indicated the carrier bag and the fabric and the pins.
‘Yeah.’
They were silent, listening to the record, occasionally singing along.
Casually, but with pins in her mouth, Angie said, ‘You know that Italian in the boutique.’
‘The one who’s not really Italian.’
‘Do you think he is actually married?’
‘Angie. You’re not still thinking about that kiss, are you? That was weeks ago! Everyone kisses everyone at Christmas. He probably would have kissed me if I’d gone in there.’
Angie was silent.
Carol looked at her. ‘Oh, all right. I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he thought you were the most amazing person he’d seen ever since the boutique opened.’
‘Really?’ Angie said hopefully.
‘I don’t know. But what about Roger?’
‘Oh Roger.’ Angie sighed. ‘I don’t think Roger’s even heard of Italy. And sometimes I wonder if he’s even a mod at all. I mean, that thing he gave me for Christmas!’
‘The umbrella? I thought that’s what you’d asked for.’
‘Yeah, but I wanted a maroon one. A maroon one. And what did I get? What did I get, Carol?’
‘You got a red one, Ange. A bright red one.’
They both laughed.
‘How can he not know that red is not a fashionable colour, and that I don’t like it? I’ve only told him a couple of hundred times. Sometimes I think he doesn’t listen to a word I say. But how can he expect me to carry that around with me? For a start it clashes with my suede, which he’d know if he even looked at me for five seconds.’
‘Perhaps he thought you’d like it, since you’re so artistic.’
‘Oh, you mean like modern art. Colour clash!’ Angie spread her hands theatrically, the material lying on her knee. Her face fell and she picked up the cloth once more. ‘Yeah, perhaps he did. Or perhaps he forgot till the last moment and went into Bonds and it was the only umbrella left in the department.’
‘He tries,’ Carol said.
‘I know he does,’ Angie said. ‘I just wish he’d succeed. That’s the difference between him and the Italian.’
‘Do you think he’s succeeded? I mean, he’s come to Chelmsford, hasn’t he? Some people might say that’s a bit of a . . .’
‘An experiment. A wild and crazy experiment,’ Angie said. ‘At least he’s got out of his home town.’
‘Perhaps he’s escaping.’
‘What from?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘I’d have to talk to him to find out, wouldn’t I? I’d have to go back there, wouldn’t I?’
‘That’s not really what I meant,’ Carol said.
‘Ha. Well either way I’m off to my “shorthand” class.’
‘Yes, of course. We wouldn’t want you to miss that.’
The girls walked down the stairs laughing. As they walked into the kitchen there was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be Reg,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘Oh I feel lucky this week.’ Reg from the flats always came on a Thursday to collect the pools coupon.
Mrs Smith snatched her bag from the table and opened the door. ‘Hello Reg, come in. I’ll just find my purse. Have you got time for a cup of tea?’
Reg stepped on to the doormat. He was a small man in a beige mac and a flat cap. ‘Thanks but no thanks Mrs S. I got a load more to get to yet and I don’t want to be late.’
‘Don’t want to miss Top of the Pops, I suppose,’ Angie said.
‘No, I’m hoping I’ll miss it,’ Reg said with a straight face. ‘But I’m taking the wife out for a drink at the Clock House.’
‘With all your ill-gotten gains?’
‘Now then, Angie. I don’t know what we’d do without Reg sending in the coupons.’ Mrs Smith rummaged in her large cream purse. She pulled out half a crown. ‘A drink at the Clock House will be very nice. And my coupon is . . .’ She walked across to the sideboard and looked behind the teapot. ‘. . . here.’ She handed over the money and the completed coupon and he gave her a blank coupon to fill in for the next week.
‘When I win the pools I’m off to the sun,’ he said, as he always did, followed by his customary, ‘Fingers crossed!’
‘It’s all pointing one way,’ Mrs Smith said, as she closed the door.
*
Having said goodbye to Carol, Angie headed off to her class. She liked to imagine that doing the evening class was almost as good as having passed the eleven plus. Every Thursday she scraped together her pieces of cloth and sometimes a dress she had half-finished and pictures she had taken from a magazine. She shoved them into a plastic bag along with the notepad and pencils, then walked along Pierce Avenue, past the parade and turned into Patching Hall Lane. Other people were walking that way, some girls she was sure were doing typing, giggling and laughing, and boys doing carpentry lugging bags with pieces of wood that might be shelves or stools or coat hooks sticking out. A lot of people looked tired as if they’d already used up their daily ration of energy at their day job. She was pretty tired herself, but her step always lightened as she got to the steps up into the grounds of the school.
In the class she sat in her usual seat, near the front, to the side.
She had created the pattern for the new dress she was making and the teacher was impressed. She was always one of the first to finish the tasks set by the teacher. Often she would help other girls who were slower or who were having trouble threading the cotton on to the machine.
In the break in the school dining hall she bought a cup of tea and chatted to the other girls in the class. There were two she liked particularly, Maureen and Cath. They always brought in interesting pictures from magazines. She’d known Cath before, because she worked in the fabric department of Bonds. She knew all about cloth and materials. Maureen worked in a wool shop on the parade. They all shared a similar interest in the new fashions that were appearing in the newspapers and on Ready Steady Go!. They discussed trends and colours and dancing and music.
She loved this class.
CHAPTER 7
DOREEN LOVED HER JOB IN BOLINGBROKE’S. She knew exactly what she was doing when she smiled at the nervous and excited brides-to-be creeping in, anxious and hopeful. She instilled them with confidence and courage. She knew how to find something in everyone, because everyone had something – ‘The net falls perfectly over your soft shoulders,’ ‘He will love the way your curves are there; a promise for him,’ ‘You have the loveliest back I’ve ever seen!’ but she didn’t take any nonsense. She knew how to be firm, still with a bit of a twinkle, because there were always appeals from a future bride for a lower cut or a shorter skirt or from a mother for a cheaper version, or easier terms. Mrs Preston said she was the most successful assistant she had ever had. And over Christmas she had excelled herself.
So today, Friday, two months after Christmas, a good period of time for the accounts to come through, and before the shop closed for the day, Doreen asked for a raise. And she got it. She tripped lightly down the stairs from the Accounts Office. Just in time to buy a new set of underwear in Ladies Lingerie.
She went home elated, hugging the bag with the new purchases, and with the promise of an extra £2 a week. She would surprise the fam
ily, give them a treat, suggest an outing. A trip to the Odeon, maybe, her mum loved the pictures. Or they could go out for a meal. To the Chinese restaurant in Baddow Road – no, her mum and Angie would never cope, she’d suggest the County Hotel. She would pay. ‘I’ll pay!’ she would say.
She opened the backdoor and stepped into the kitchen. Her smile drooped.
Dad was trying to change the plug on the Hoover, swearing under his breath. From the expression on his face and the clumsy way he was holding the screwdriver she could tell he’d been drinking. Mum was silently peeling potatoes. Angie was at the table, flicking over the pages of the Daily Mirror. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared.
For once, she thought, couldn’t they just, for once, be a normal family? Smile when a person comes in, say, ‘Hello. You look pleased with yourself, have you had a good day?’ Or just ‘Put your feet up. Have a cup of tea.’ It was as if they were all strangers, living in some sort of rough boarding house. It was too bad. Well, from now on, she thought, as she had often thought before, she would look after herself. Oh, maybe she’d keep an eye out for Angie, but Mum and Dad, no. Well, perhaps Mum.
‘I’m going out,’ she said, flinging onto the table the bag of sweets she had bought at the kiosk in the bus station.
‘You’ve just got in,’ Angie said, without looking up, reaching for the sweets.
‘I’ve come home to change.’ There was no way she was going to take them out for dinner, miserable sods. She would go for a drive. Perhaps she’d ring Janice. They could have a drink, somewhere. Or maybe she could see if Gene was in the Saracen’s. That had been a good evening.
She went upstairs and threw off her work clothes, the pink cardigan and the straight blue skirt, and put on the new underwear. You never knew, she might get lucky. She admired herself in the mirror. Yes, these were nice things. They had class. She opened the wardrobe. The green dress? The red? No! She slid a sheath of blue taffeta over her head.
She went downstairs, her black handbag under her arm. The Hoover lay beside the kitchen table, its cord slithering across the floor, still without a plug. Her dad had disappeared. Angie was studying a picture of two girls in short dresses and white stockings, posing in front of a bus. Her mum was still at the sink.
She took in the scene. It was so sad. She relented. Perhaps she wouldn’t go out for a drive. Janice might not be in and Gene probably wasn’t in the Saracen’s. ‘Who wants a treat? Who wants to go out for tea?’
‘Who’s asking?’ Angie said
‘I am.’
Her mum turned round. ‘But I’m not dressed.’
‘You are!’
‘But not nicely!’ She slid her hands across her pink overall.
‘I don’t care. Do you want to go or not?’ Doreen looked at her watch. ‘We’ll go in the car. Go on Ange. You can borrow my black jumper if you like.’
‘I don’t think so!’
‘It’s nice. It was very expensive. You should learn to appreciate good clothes.’
Angie raised her eyebrows.
Doreen looked at Angie unwrapping a chocolate caramel. ‘On second thoughts, don’t wear it, you might spill your dinner down it. Don’t eat that, you’ll spoil your tea.’
Angie grinned and wrapped the sweet back up. ‘OK. I don’t know what to wear though.’
‘Well, are we going out or what?’ Mum said.
‘Ask Angie. She doesn’t know what to wear.’ Doreen picked up the lead of the Hoover and the discarded screwdriver.
‘What about Dad?’ Angie said.
‘Yeah, what about Dad?’
‘He’s gone out,’ her mum said.
Doreen snorted. ‘His loss. Now go and get ready! Be quick.’
‘Come on Mum. The Queen has spoken. Perhaps I’ll wear my Fred Perry.’
Doreen slid the red, green and black wires into their places and screwed them in tight.
*
The restaurant was busy, but Doreen smiled at the man in the black suit and bow tie who welcomed them at the door, and he smiled back longingly. Two small tables were pushed together in a corner by a large Swiss Cheese plant, the tablecloths and cutlery were rearranged and they were seated.
‘This is nice,’ her mum said. ‘I’ve always wondered what it looked like inside.’
‘Oh my god,’ Angie said.
‘What?’ Doreen twisted in her seat and followed Angie’s gaze. ‘Oh my goodness!’ She turned her back.
‘What?’ Mum was holding her serviette uncertainly.
‘Nothing.’ Angie and Doreen spoke together.
Doreen looked at Angie.
‘It’s that Gene Battini! From the boutique,’ Angie whispered.
‘Oh Angie,’ Doreen said. She felt a jolt of guilt.
‘Don’t you remember? I told you.’
‘Yes, I know. And remember what I said?’
‘What?’ Mum said.
‘Nothing!’ they chorused.
‘Do you think he’s seen us?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Doreen said.
‘Who’s that he’s with?’
‘How do I know?’
‘It’s rude to stare, Angie,’ Mum said.
‘God, I bet that’s his wife.’
‘I bet it’s not!’ Doreen stared at the table, straightening her knife and fork. This was so unfair. Gene looking relaxed in a tweed jacket and tie, chatting easily with his companion, their heads together. She’d felt they might start something special when they met again, and now here they were both in the same room, but she was with Angie and he was with another woman.
‘It must be his wife. Mick Flynn in the Orpheus said he was married. And he said she wears glasses. I don’t know anyone who wears glasses.’ Angie was peering across the room.
‘Your Uncle Sid wears glasses,’ Mrs Smith said.
‘I mean people we know,’ Angie said. ‘Oh, what does she look like? Those glasses! And that hair! It’s like Carol’s mum’s. Oh my god, she’s got a clip in it.’
Doreen threw a quick glance over her shoulder. Gene’s wife, if that’s who she was, had glasses that flew up at the ends yes, but the cardigan over her shoulders was a pretty plum colour, and it matched her lipstick. She could see the attraction. Five years ago, maybe. ‘Stop staring and look at the menu.’
‘What’s he eating?’ Angie said. ‘I’m going to have the same as him.’
‘I can’t see and I’m not turning round again,’ Doreen said. ‘Oh Angie! what are you doing?’
Angie was waving, a small, embarrassed wave. ‘He smiled,’ she said. ‘Oh, I think they’re on their afters. Do you think he’ll come and say hello?’
‘He’d better not,’ Doreen said. That would be just too awful.
The waiter came. His white jacket already had one or two small gravy stains. ‘Have you decided?’
‘We’re all going to have steak,’ Doreen said. ‘And all well done, thank you.’
‘They’re leaving!’ Angie said. ‘You’d have thought he’d come and say hello.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Doreen said. ‘You hardly know him. Or –’ a terrible thought struck her ‘– or do you?’
‘No,’ Angie said sadly. ‘I’ve only spoken to him that once.’
Doreen gave a sigh of relief and sat back in her chair. She’d been right, Angie’s Christmas kiss was nothing.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Mum said. ‘Does it come with potatoes?’
*
Doreen had asked if she could take home her dessert – pineapple upside-down cake. The bag started to leak pineapple juice and cream onto her mum’s skirt as they drove along Broomfield Road.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, a bit of Surf will bring that out,’ Angie said, sitting forward in her seat at the back of the car.
‘Or you could eat it,’ Doreen suggested.
Her mum giggled. She’d had a small bottle of Mackeson’s with her meal. ‘I should have worn my apron,’ she said.
‘That would have lo
oked very nice in the County Hotel,’ Doreen said.
‘They might have mistaken you for the staff,’ Angie said.
‘If you were a member of staff, we could have brought home the whole cake!’ Doreen said, as they got out of the car. She walked round the car, locking the doors.
‘That’s an idea, Mum, you could get yourself a little night job at the restaurant,’ Angie said. ‘You could really bring home the bacon!’
They walked into the kitchen laughing. Their dad was leaning against the sideboard, holding a bottle of beer. On the sideboard were three empty beer bottles. His face had the red and purple hue that they all recognised.
Mum turned to Doreen and Angie. ‘Go to bed,’ she said. ‘Now.’
Doreen ignored her. ‘Sorry we’re a bit late, Dad. That was my fault. Something went wrong in the car.’
Angie snorted.
Dad pulled himself up to his full height. He was almost six feet tall. As he opened his mouth to speak a wave of beer breath made them all recoil.
‘I’ve been waiting in here for an hour,’ he said. His eyes didn’t seem to focus.
‘Where were you before that?’ Doreen asked.
‘Hush,’ her mum said.
‘We waited for you,’ Angie said. ‘You could have come out with us and had your tea with us.’
‘You went out. You didn’t care where I was.’
‘I think we knew,’ Doreen murmured.
‘I come back, the place is like the bloody Mary Celeste. It’s freezing. I’ve had no tea. Where was my wife? She was out gallivanting! Look at you.’ He spoke directly to Mrs Smith. ‘I can see you’ve had a drink.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk!’ Doreen said.
‘You shut up,’ he said without looking at Doreen. He stepped towards his wife.
‘Leave her alone,’ Doreen said. ‘It was my idea.’
‘Your idea! Since when do you have ideas? Fucking stupid bitch. The two of you.’ He turned his face towards Angie. ‘What did I do to deserve two such stupid daughters?’
‘Ohhh, don’t start that, Dad,’ Doreen said, coolly, angrily. She took Angie’s arm. ‘Angie, go to bed. I’ll sort this out. Go on. Go on!’
The Girls from Greenway Page 5