The Girls from Greenway

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  ‘And where are you off to?’ Doreen said.

  ‘I’ve got my class,’ Angie said, ‘And not that it’s any of your beeswax, after that I’m seeing Roger.’ She ran into the hall to fetch her coat and her bag. It all seemed a bit irrelevant, tonight, the class, her relationship with Roger, the worry over Gene, after this bombshell from her mum and dad. Her family wanted to move to Australia. She could hardly take it in.

  ‘You seeing Roger?’ Mrs Smith said, coming back into the kitchen. ‘Ask him if he wants to come to Australia with us. Then he can make an honest woman of you and I’ll get some grandchildren.’

  ‘Not likely!’ Angie said. ‘I’m still young. Speak to Doreen, she’s the oldest.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Doreen. ‘I’d have to find someone first, someone who fulfilled my strict requirements. And that is why I’m spending tonight in.’ She was spreading jam onto a slice of bread. ‘It comes to something when all I have to look forward to is ogling Dr Kildare on the telly. Is there any hot water? I want to have a bath first, in case a miracle happens and he steps out of the TV screen and into our living room. I want to be prepared.’

  ‘Is it Thursday? Oh my god, my coupon.’

  ‘Oh Mum,’ Doreen said. ‘Why do you do it? You never win. It’s a waste of money.’

  ‘If Viv Nicholson can win the pools, so can I. And then, you’ll see. I shall spend, spend, spend!’ She looked at Doreen, wiping jam from the draining board. ‘The jam jars!’ she went into the pantry and came out with four empty jam jars. ‘Drop these round to Mrs Evans for me.’

  ‘What, me?’ Doreen said. ‘What about Angie?’

  ‘I’m going out. You just said you were staying in.’

  ‘Yeah, staying in. Not going out in the cold and dark, tramping up and down the streets. Why don’t you take them with you? The bus doesn’t go for ten minutes.’

  ‘No time,’ Angie said and was gone.

  *

  Angie walked down the stairs of the Orpheus with her sewing class materials in her basket, tucked under a head scarf. Roger sat at a table with a glass of hot blackcurrant. Angie smiled when she saw him. She always smiled when she saw Roger. He had a reassuring face, not handsome exactly, but he had a friendly smile and calm blue eyes. It was a face that would see you through any difficulties. He had taken off his parka and he was wearing a new pale grey Ben Sherman shirt. He plucked at the sleeve as she sat down opposite him. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Nice,’ she said. She took a breath. ‘My mum and dad want to go to Australia.’

  ‘Australia. That’s a long way to go for a holiday.’

  ‘No, to live, forever.’

  ‘Australia,’ he repeated slowly. His face had gone pale. ‘Are you going too?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What is there out there for you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing, probably.’

  ‘Do you want me to come?’

  ‘Why? Do you want to live in Australia?’

  ‘It would make a change. I’m a mechanic. Well, I’ve nearly finished my course. And they need mechanics.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My mum and dad were talking about it last year.’

  ‘You never said!’

  ‘We’d only just started going out. I didn’t want to jinx it by saying I was leaving. But if you’re going anyway, we could go together. You could really make something of all your fashion ideas. I’d mend a few cars. We could have a sheep-farm and you could knit all the jumpers they need in Australia. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Yeah, a glass of milk please.’

  As he stood at the counter, she watched him. Did she want to go to Australia with Roger? Did she want to go to Australia? Of course, they probably did need fashion out there but here in England was where fashion was really happening, all the markets in London – Petticoat Lane, there was one in Soho, other places. People were making clothes, thinking up styles and shapes. The Beatles were wearing all kinds of weird jackets, with odd necklines and fake pockets. And she’d just discovered some fabric by a company called Rose & Hubble, with intense flowers in deep colours. She was thinking of a blouse with interesting sleeves that she could use it for. She was sure they wouldn’t have Rose & Hubble in Australia. They probably didn’t even have Liberty’s. Knitting jumpers for sheep farmers wouldn’t be much better than working for English Electric.

  But it wasn’t just about fashion. What about the Orpheus? She loved drinking coffee, wearing her suede, discussing RSG! and music with Carol, listening to the jukebox. She needed to be close to Liverpool and all the groups that came from there, and Newcastle and Manchester. She needed to be close to America and Tamla Motown, to Soul and R&B. And then, if she went to Australia, she would never see Gene again . . .

  She couldn’t go to Australia, she was sure. She needed to be here.

  When Roger came back, she said, ‘No. I’m not going to Australia.’

  ‘Oh.’ Roger sat down heavily. ‘I just put this on the jukebox for us.’ It was ‘Road Runner’ by Junior Walker and the All Stars. ‘That could be us, travelling across the world.’

  *

  Mrs Smith pulled a plastic bag out of a drawer. ‘I don’t know when Mrs Evans finds the time to make jam, not with all those children, but I said I’d give her some of our empties. I’ve washed these out for her.’

  ‘Well, I hope she’s going to give you a couple of jars for your trouble. Let’s hope it’s not gooseberry,’ Doreen said.

  ‘Would you run them round for us? It won’t take long,’ Mrs Smith said.

  ‘What about my programme?’

  ‘You don’t care about the news. It’ll only take you a couple of minutes. I’ve got to do my coupon before Reg comes.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Does she need them tonight?’

  ‘I saw her in the shop yesterday and said I’d drop them round today. She’s probably got the fruit on the boil already.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Doreen sighed. ‘You’re lucky I haven’t got a better social life, or I wouldn’t be able to do this sort of thing.’

  ‘I think you have a very good social life,’ her mum said. ‘Better than mine anyway. And it’s only five doors up the road. You don’t even have to take the car.’

  *

  The Evans family was well known on the Greenway Estate, because of the children. There were at least six, some of them foster children, living in the house in the Crescent. Mrs Evans was a cleaner at the schools round the Lane. She often popped into the Smith’s kitchen, ‘for a bit of peace and quiet,’ she always said, but Doreen thought it was more to do with keeping an eye on Mrs Smith. Mrs Evans knew all about Mr Smith and his pastimes.

  It was cold and dark outside. Doreen wrapped a scarf round her face and walked the few yards along the road. The jam jars clattered together in the bag. Was this what her life had become? she thought. Staying in and running errands for her mum?

  She was about to press the Evans’ doorbell when the front door opened. A wall of light, heat and sound hit her; a baby crying, toddlers screaming, a woman shouting and the urgent opening music of Compact shrilling from the telly. The person who had opened the door and now stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the hall, was Cliff. Cliff Evans, thought Doreen. I don’t see him for a hundred years and then I see him twice in two weeks. Today he wasn’t wearing the smart suit he’d been wearing in the Orpheus, now he was in jeans and a white T-shirt, and his dark hair, quite short at the back was a riot of curls at the front, glistening with some sort of grease, just like at school. He’d always wanted to be a Teddy Boy, she remembered.

  He was holding a leather jacket in his hand as if he had just unhooked it from the wall. He frowned. ‘I can’t talk to you now. I’ve got places to go.’

  Doreen looked round. There was no one else there. ‘Well I don’t really want to talk to you,’ she said. ‘I’m j
ust delivering jam jars.’ She held out the bag.

  ‘Jam jars?’ He gazed at her blankly. ‘Jam jars?’

  ‘Yes, real honest to goodness jam jars. You know, for jam. They’re not for you.’ He was reaching out for the bag. ‘They’re for your mum. Unless you’ve got a taste for cooking.’

  He peered at her. ‘Bloody hell, Doreen Smith!’ He laughed. ‘Sorry. I thought you were from the Conservatives, about the election. Doreen Smith. I haven’t seen you for ages!’

  She snorted. ‘Well, I saw you in the Orpheus the other day.’

  ‘Really? Yeah, that was a waste of time. People don’t turn up when they’re meant to. Well, well. Doreen Smith.’ he said. ‘You should have come and said hello.’ He was grinning at her.

  ‘What shall I do with these?’ she said.

  ‘Oh yeah. Put them there.’ He pointed to a table by the door. ‘Ma!’ he shouted. ‘Sadly,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to go. See you later.’ He bent down and kissed her on the cheek as if they knew each other well, as if they’d been together for years. She remembered him from school. He always had the chat, and the charm, and more cheek than was good for him.

  She blinked and touched her face, then turned and watched him walk down the path, shrugging into his leather jacket, adjusting the collar. He had taken a few steps when he turned, as if he realised what he’d done. He smiled. She smiled back. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘What about that?’ Then he ran off down the road. She shook her head. What was it with these men? First Gene and now Cliff.

  ‘I thought I heard voices.’ Mrs Evans bustled down the hall. Doreen couldn’t imagine how she could have heard voices above the noise in the house. ‘Doreen! Hello! How are you love?’

  ‘I’ve brought you the jam jars Mum promised you.’

  ‘Oh lovely. Has he gone?’ She peered past Doreen and they both watched as Cliff turned the corner. ‘He owes me ten quid.’ She looked back at Doreen. ‘How is your mum?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s just filling in her pools coupon before Reg comes.’

  ‘Good idea, you never know your luck. Come in for a minute?’

  A small child with a drooping nappy came down the hall and draped himself round Mrs Evans’ left leg. ‘What’s for tea, nanny?’ he said.

  ‘You’ve had your tea,’ she said. She looked at Doreen. ‘He’s had his tea, he’s just trying it on.’

  Doreen laughed. ‘Better luck next time,’ she said to the boy. ‘I won’t stop, thanks. I said I’d only be out a minute or two. Dr Kildare might drop by and I wouldn’t want to miss him.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’ve been waiting for Leslie Howard for quite some time,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘He never comes. Another day.’ She looked down at the little boy. ‘Come on you, you can have a biscuit.’ The child hopped with pleasure and grinned at Doreen. ‘The lady’s going, say bye bye, Curtis.’

  ‘Bye bye, see ya,’ Curtis said.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE ATMOSPHERE IN THE HOUSE HAD changed and it wasn’t just that it was Saturday evening. Mum and Dad were happy and easy with each other as if the thought of a new life in Australia had wiped out all the bad memories of the past. Dad hadn’t said a rough word since the incident. But then he was always sorry afterwards. They were all sitting in the living room watching the telly. The fire was bright and everyone was in a good mood. Mum was quietly sure she’d succeed in getting Angie to come to Australia with them, and Angie was just as sure she wasn’t going.

  Dad had fried the eggs without a word and put a thick layer of marge on the toast. Doreen made jokes about the names of the football teams, and Mr Smith didn’t tell her to shut up. And Mrs Smith was smiling because everyone else was happy. The bruise on her eye was hardly visible.

  Mr Smith had the pools coupon on his lap. There had been some big matches today and the football commentators had been talking very excitedly.

  The Grandstand announcer was still ploughing through the list of results as Angie collected the plates and went out into the kitchen. She slid them into the sink to soak, while she put on the kettle for a second cup of tea for her mum and dad. Then, quickly she scrubbed the egg yolk from the plates and put them to drain on the draining board. ‘The kettle’s boiled,’ she called to Doreen, and ran upstairs to the bathroom for a bath.

  She came downstairs, buttoning her cardigan, ready to go out and lifted her suede from the hooks in the hall. Her mum and dad were in the kitchen staring at the pools coupon. The television was on in the living room and faint twanging guitar notes announced the start of Juke Box Jury. Doreen was leaning against the sink eating a last piece of toast.

  ‘Why aren’t you watching the telly?’ Angie asked Doreen.

  Doreen stood up straight and brushed crumbs from her chest. She lifted her eyebrows and nodded towards Mum and Dad.

  ‘It can’t be,’ her mum said.

  ‘It is,’ her dad said.

  ‘You must have worked it out wrong.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I know football.’

  Doreen slid her plate into the sink. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Five draws! Five draws! I’m telling you, this is all correct. Grandstand doesn’t lie. We’ve won a lot of money.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve managed to predict that, you can bet your bottom dollar half the country has too, so you’ll get about £10.’ Doreen looked at herself in the mirror of the door of the broom cupboard.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if I did get £10, but this is going to be a whole lot more.’

  ‘You hope. Anyway, I can’t stand round here dreaming the impossible dream, I’m going out.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Angie asked. ‘I thought you could give me a lift into town.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m not taking the car out. I’m going to the Clock House with Janice.’

  ‘Shut up girls, this is important. Looks like we’ve won big!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Doreen walked out of the kitchen. She stopped at the door. ‘Just so you know, when the men come to take your photo with the big cheque and they ask you what you’re going to spend the money on, I want a new car, a new bedroom suite, I want a light over my bed, and I want some new slippers.’

  ‘Oh, can we choose?’ Angie said. ‘I’d like a new record player and all the records Tamla Motown ever made . . . and a new suede. And one for Carol too.’

  ‘Be serious,’ Mrs Smith said.

  ‘All right. I’d like the Encyclopaedia Britannica – is that serious enough?’ Angie said. ‘And all the other stuff I said.’ She laughed.

  ‘It is serious.’

  ‘First thing I’m going to do is get myself some new gnashers,’ her dad said. He shifted his teeth in his mouth. ‘Apart from that, my life won’t change at all. Ha ha ha.’

  ‘He’s not drunk,’ Mrs Smith whispered. ‘I think he’s right. Well, I know the first thing I’m going to do next week. I’m going to try that new hairdressers on the Parade.’

  Angie looked at the two of them, her mum and her dad. Her dad’s eyes were shining in a way she hadn’t seen before. A natural shine, not the dull glow of alcohol. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he had won. ‘Do you mean enough for Doreen to buy a car with?’ she asked.

  ‘Two cars. Three. And a house.’

  ‘Really? Really? Can I tell Carol?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone till it’s all signed and sealed,’ her dad said. ‘And not even then. I put X in the box for no publicity. I don’t want every beggar in the world asking for money.’ But he grinned.

  Angie ran upstairs. She looked into Doreen’s room. ‘He means it!’ she said, breathlessly. ‘He thinks he’s won.’

  ‘God help us.’ Doreen was sitting in front of the mirror, carefully applying cream to her face. ‘He thinks he’s won,’ she repeated, ‘but it’s Mum that fills in the coupon and Mum that pays Reg.’ She turned to Angie. ‘But if it’s true this could be the best thing that’s ever happened to our family.’

&nb
sp; ‘Mum’s already going mad, she’s talking about having a new perm next week.’

  ‘A new perm! You see,’ Doreen said, ‘it’s going to turn our whole world upside down.’ They laughed.

  ‘Perhaps this will stop them thinking about Australia,’ Angie said thoughtfully. ‘If they’ve got money, they can have a new start here.’

  Doreen turned back to the mirror. ‘Maybe,’ she said, dabbing more cream on to her forehead.

  *

  At seven o’clock Angie and Carol caught the forty-five bus into town as usual. Angie had so much she wanted to say to Carol about the pools win but she didn’t dare. She felt it might almost disappear into nothingness if she said a word. She couldn’t even go back to talking about Australia for fear she’d mention the new development – the money could change everything. And she didn’t want to talk about Gene, just yet. They chatted about work, Angie’s problems with Graham being off, and Carol’s boredom with her filing job at the Britvic factory on the edge of town. ‘We should go and work in London,’ Angie said.

  ‘Good idea!’ Carol said. It was a conversation they often had.

  They got off the bus at the bus station and wandered, arm-in-arm, into the Golden Fleece. They ordered two Britvic oranges. Angie said, ‘We should get a discount since you work there. Like they do in Marks and Spencer’s.’ She kept looking at her watch.

  Carol said, ‘You’re not expecting Roger to turn up, are you?’

  ‘I hope not!’ Angie said. Roger was away playing football, staying overnight at his auntie’s house in Somerset.

  By half past eight Gene hadn’t appeared and she and Carol were on their second glass of orange. They’d said hello to Blond Don and his sister. Sailor had come by and had a chat. But Gene wasn’t here. Angie felt bitterly disappointed. She had so enjoyed that kiss, she wanted more of it, more of him. He’d been so confident in the way he’d put his arms round her, the lovely things he’d said. ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ she said sadly.

  ‘OK.’ Carol stood up and began buttoning her mac.

  Then the door opened and he walked in.