The Girls from Greenway

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  He hadn’t seen them and he stood in the middle of the bar, casually, not looking round, not seeming to worry about meeting someone, someone he’d said he’d see at eight o’clock. The boy who had bought the Fred Perry went up to him and Gene slapped him on the back as if they were old mates. He said he’d buy everyone a drink. Then he’d looked round and made a face as he realised how many people there were and how much it was going to cost him. The gold rings on his fingers glinted as he took out a roll of notes. He was rich. Being rich didn’t count for anything with her. Although it might be nice not to have to worry about having enough for a drink and the bus fare home. Then she remembered, her dad had probably won a lot of money. She’d never have to worry about the bus fare home again. She couldn’t quite believe it. And now Gene was here. This was fantastic.

  Carol whispered, ‘Do you think we’re included in this round of drinks?’

  ‘We’d bloody better be,’ Angie said. ‘Take your coat off.’ She sat up straight.

  Carol looked at her.

  ‘What?’ Angie said. ‘What?’ She couldn’t stop smiling.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Well, something. He kissed me again!’

  ‘Really? When?’

  ‘Last week!’

  ‘You never said. You’re not safe to be let out on your own.’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  *

  An hour later they were still sitting in the Fleece, Angie with a rum and black, Gene with his second G&T and Carol now with a pineapple juice. ‘You can’t have the same thing every time,’ Gene had said. ‘Look at you, you’ll turn orange.’

  Angie was vaguely aware that she should say, ‘You can talk!’ or something similar. But she only smiled. She wondered if she was drunk.

  ‘I’m going home now,’ Carol said, at half past nine.

  ‘OK,’ Angie said.

  Carol looked from Angie to Gene. She shook her head slightly.

  ‘Bye,’ Angie said.

  Carol put on her suede jacket and Angie watched her make her way through the crowd in the pub.

  Five minutes later, Gene said, ‘I’m sorry, honey bun, but I’ve got to go too. I need to get back to London, and I don’t want to rely on the last train. Come on, let’s walk up to the station. We’ll get you a taxi.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. It was enough. She knew she had had too much to drink.

  *

  The next week Dad gave them all money. He put the notes down on the kitchen table – twenty pound for Angie, twenty pound for Doreen and twenty-five for her mum. He sat back in his chair, grinning with satisfaction. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’

  ‘So when do we get these new bank accounts?’ Doreen asked. He had said on the Monday after the big win that he had decided to open a bank account for each of them and divide the money up between them all.

  ‘Hold your horses, greedy guts,’ Dad said now.

  ‘Because I’ve already arranged an overdraft on my own account, and it isn’t cheap.’

  ‘Those who ask, don’t get.’ Dad leaned forward as if to take back the notes. ‘The money hasn’t come through yet.’

  Doreen snatched up her twenty pounds. ‘Well, thanks for this, anyway.’ She crushed the note in her hand.

  It was Saturday morning. Doreen was going into work late. She and Angie went into the hall. They were going into town together.

  ‘Let’s get the early bus,’ Angie said. ‘I want to be there when the shops open.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Doreen said. ‘Knowing Dad these are fake twenty quid notes and if you don’t spend them soon, the rozzers will come and take them all away. I’m just going to fritter this, I might buy a new bag. I’m going to spend a lot of money. And you should too. Do you know what you want?’

  Angie put on her suede. ‘Yes, yes I do.’

  *

  Angie went into Bonds and headed for the haberdashery department. Ever since she had worked here as a Saturday girl, it had been her favourite place. There was a hint of magic about the calm quiet area, as the rolls of rich materials and the brilliant embroidery silks waited to unlock the stories of the clothes they would help create. She enjoyed the tranquillity of the women standing at the books of patterns, turning the heavy pages with a soft crackle, pausing now and then, tilting their heads to imagine the dress or the jacket made up in their material, seeing what it would look like on them, and the quiet conversations with the assistants who advised and suggested. She’d been one of them. She felt at home here.

  Today it was even better. Today, as she walked into haberdashery she felt lighter, almost breathless, she felt rich. She smiled at Cath from her dressmaking class who was advising someone about the difficulty of a pattern.

  Angie had made another list:

  Dressmaking equipment

  Scissors – large, small and pinking

  Packets of needles

  Pins

  A pretty thimble

  Tailor’s chalk

  Maybe a new box for all the new equipment

  The money was going to buy all the things she needed for her dreams to come true. She wandered round the department in a daze, her fingers trailing over the racks of ‘notions’. Cottons, silks, bias binding, interfacing, Vilene, tacking cotton. She stopped in front of the rolls of fabric. She would buy three yards of some lovely cloth and lining silk to match, not with any plan in mind, but just because she could, and because it was a wild and extravagant thing to do. She moved over to the sewing machines, and she lingered.

  *

  Doreen had known all along what she wanted. The day after they’d won the pools, she’d discovered the Hillman had a flat tyre. It was a sign. Of course, the flat tyre itself was no problem. She could change a flat tyre, no trouble. She did it in five minutes. But she’d been thinking for a while that she needed something newer, something snappier, something that would look good parked outside their house. She’d had her eye on something in the motor showroom on the corner of Duke Street and Market Road for a while. She thought it was funny that Gene had said he’d imagined her having a sports car. How right he was.

  She got off the bus at the railway station. She tightened the belt on her white coat and walked into the showroom. She wove her way through the cars on display, looking at each car and smiling at the thought that they were all, all, within her reach. There was a small office in the corner of the room where a man and a younger man were drinking something that looked like tea. The cups had roses on. She smiled expectantly. The men looked over to her and said something to each other. Then the younger man stood up and came out of the office towards her. He looked all of sixteen. She could see fair, soft hair on his chin. They had sent out the boy. She was going to be spoken to by the boy.

  He grinned. ‘Good morning madam. Are you waiting for your husband?’

  ‘No, I’m here on my own behalf.’

  ‘Oh! Well – eh – we have some very nice ladies’ cars.’

  ‘Do you? Well I’m not a very nice lady,’ Doreen said.

  He went on, ‘We have them in colours that all the ladies go for. And as it’s for yourself, can I suggest an automatic car – that’s a car where you don’t need to use the gears. Many ladies do say they find them easier to manage.’

  ‘Really?’ Doreen shook her head. ‘Can I speak to your father?’

  The boy looked back at the office. ‘He’s not my father. He’s my uncle.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to him.’

  ‘He can only sell you the same cars I can, dear.’

  ‘Did you just call me “dear”?’ Doreen said. ‘Now you may be right and he can only sell the same cars as you can, but here’s the thing, if I’ve got to take attitude from someone in order to buy a car, I’d rather take it from someone my own size. Go on, go and get him.’

  ‘Well, madam,’ he said, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I can show you some of our newest models.’
<
br />   ‘Look, you little twerp,’ she said. ‘I’ve got money burning a hole in my bag that I want to spend on a car. I don’t have to buy it here. I can buy it down the road. Will your uncle be happy with that, do you think?’

  Reluctantly the boy turned and walked to the office. There was a short exchange of words and then the older man left the office and came, smiling, towards her.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, tilting his head towards the boy in the office. ‘It’s his Saturday job. I thought he could do with a little practice.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t want him practising on me. Now then, I want a sports car.’

  The man’s face lit up. ‘Walk this way, madam.’

  *

  On Monday, home from work Angie was hanging up her coat in the hall. ‘What’s that?’ she said. There was a table by the front door that hadn’t been there before.

  ‘It’s a telephone table,’ her mum called. She was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes.

  ‘Oh, ha ha,’ Angie said.

  ‘Doreen just brought it home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘We’re not – we’re not getting a phone, are we?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ Angie said. No more having to queue for the phone in Sperry Drive. No more having to go to people’s houses to deliver messages, now she could just ring them up. She could ring Carol and chat to her. Carol had had a phone for years. Carol could ring her and chat. They would be like normal people. She could drop it into conversation. ‘Oh yes, you can ring me. Our number is . . .’

  ‘What’s our number?’ she said.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Mrs Smith called.

  Doreen was coming downstairs ‘How come we’re getting a phone?’ Angie said.

  ‘Every family should have a phone,’ Doreen said. She ran her hand lovingly over the small, low teak table. ‘This is G Plan. See it’s even got a seat to sit on.’ She sat down, then immediately stood up, following Angie into the kitchen. ‘I need a phone to keep in touch with my friends.’

  ‘I can ring you when you move to Australia,’ Angie joked.

  ‘Well, you could,’ Mrs Smith said, ‘but if you come with us, you won’t need to.’

  ‘But I’m not coming.’

  ‘Well, don’t count on getting phone calls from us, because they cost a fortune.’

  ‘I thought we had a fortune. I thought we had so much money we could do what we wanted, so I can pay the rent on this place after you go, and I can keep the phone too.’

  ‘Ringing up people abroad would be the best way to spend it fast. Anyway, that’s what paper and envelopes are for – so you can write letters.’

  *

  The next day Angie lugged a large heavy box up the stairs.

  ‘Well!’ Doreen said, coming out of her bedroom. ‘What have we here? Your face is all red.’

  ‘You said I should buy something big. I’ve bought a sewing machine.’

  ‘I didn’t mean buy something so . . . so boring. I meant something special and exciting, like a ball gown.’

  ‘This is special and exciting for me,’ Angie said, leaning against the bannister. ‘Our sewing machine is always on the blink. I know it was Nan’s and I know she loved it, but that was 1923. We’re living in the ’60s now. Let me put the box down. It’s really heavy.’ She walked into her bedroom and carefully eased the box onto the floor beside the dressing table. ‘This one is perfect. It’s top of the range. The tutor in my class said it was the best money could buy. It does everything.’

  Doreen followed her in. ‘How does a shorthand tutor know what’s top of the range in a sewing machine?’

  Angie rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Because she’s not a shorthand tutor . . . I might as well tell you, before you say something you shouldn’t. She’s a tutor in fashion design. I’ve been doing a course.’

  ‘In fashion? You kept that secret.’ Doreen sat on the bed.

  ‘Because Mum and Dad kicked off when I said what I wanted to do. But I suppose now that money’s no object, I can tell you. I want to be a fashion designer.’

  ‘Thank God. I thought you were going to say you wanted to be a model.’

  ‘My tutor says I’m good. And with this sewing machine I shall be even better.’

  ‘Can it make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear?’ Doreen said.

  ‘Probably.’ Angie knelt on the floor and began to open the box. ‘It does zig-zag, overstitch, button-holes. It’s fantastic. It even does eyelets. Eyelets!’ she said proudly.

  ‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying,’ Doreen said. ‘But you don’t need a sewing machine. We’ve got money now. You don’t need to make clothes or eyelets or whatever. You should be out buying up all the fashionable clothes in town.’

  ‘But it’s not just about having all the fab clothes, I want to make them. I want to design them.’

  ‘Design them?’ Doreen repeated.

  ‘Oh, Reen, it’s something I’ve wanted to do for ages. And the money’s giving me the chance.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Doreen said, ‘if you can make them, we could wear them.’ She laughed. ‘We could walk round town in them, and then you’ll be discovered.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ Angie looked at her sister.

  ‘Why not?’

  Angie laughed. ‘Well, I’ve already spent the money Dad gave us.’

  ‘What on?’

  ‘All the things I bought in the haberdashery department in Bonds – I told you. I got loads of things, some lovely scissors.’

  Doreen rolled her eyes. ‘And how have you paid for the sewing machine?

  ‘I used my savings. Well, for the deposit. The rest is on the never-never.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have had to use your savings, Angie,’ Doreen said. ‘That’s awful. Where’s all the money they won? These bank accounts are taking forever. Dad’s says it’s the pools people’s fault. Sometimes I think he hasn’t won at all.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ Angie said. ‘That sewing machine cost the earth.’

  ‘But don’t you want anything silly? Luxurious?’

  ‘I’ve seen a really lovely suede I’d like. It’s full length with a leather collar.’

  ‘Well buy it.’

  ‘I can’t afford it!’

  ‘Get it on HP. Then pay it off when the money comes in. Or get an overdraft, like me. Or I could lend you some.’

  Angie pulled pieces of cardboard from the box. ‘Oh, it looks lovely,’ she said. ‘Help me.’ Doreen held the box while Angie pulled out the sewing machine. ‘Oh, look at that!’ She ran her hand over the smooth body of the machine. ‘They don’t seem to be talking about Australia so much since they won the money. Do you think they’ve changed their minds?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Doreen stood in the doorway. ‘Mum’s the one who wants to go. I don’t think Dad’s that bothered. He thinks he can live off the money for ever. He doesn’t need a new start.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll tell you when the new car arrives.’

  ‘Is it the blue one you wanted?’

  ‘Yes. God, it’s going to be lovely.’

  *

  A week later, when Angie came home from work there, sitting on a doily on the table in the hall was the phone. It was black and shiny, with a little tray underneath for notes. Its silver dial of finger-holes twinkled in the setting sun. A twisted brown fabric-covered flex snaked from the back of the phone over to a small box on the wall by the windowsill. Beside the phone sat a large thin book entitled The Chelmsford Telephone Directory.

  Angie gazed at the phone. In the middle of the dial was the number – Chelmsford 5135. Their number. They had a phone.

  It began to ring.

  ‘But no one knows our number,’ Angie said.

  The phone continued to ring.

  ‘Phone’s ringing!’ Angie
shouted.

  Her mum came out of the kitchen. ‘Well, answer it.’

  Angie snatched up the phone. The mere action felt wonderful.

  ‘Hello. Err, Chelmsford 5135, hello.’

  There was a rattly clatter of coins as the caller in a phone box somewhere pressed button A.

  ‘Hello!’ It was Doreen’s voice. ‘What do you think of the phone then?’

  ‘It’s great. I can hear you!’

  ‘That’s handy. That means it works.’

  ‘Where are you? Why are you ringing up?’

  ‘I’m in the phone box on Sperry Drive. I just wanted to say hello. Now you can ring up all your friends.’

  ‘I know! As long as they’re not in Australia.’

  ‘Of course. And don’t forget to pay for the calls you make. Or it’s not fair.’

  There was a click, then silence.

  They had a phone. She had a sewing machine. Angie’s eyes shone. She was so pleased they were rich.

  CHAPTER 12

  DOREEN WAS LOOKING AT THE HOSIERY stall, in the middle aisle of the market. Friday was market day. The place was heaving, people from the villages around Chelmsford who had come in for the morning to do their shopping and pick up some bargains, children hanging around the toy stalls, women from the estate who’d come on the same bus she had, to buy cheaper vegetables.

  She needed some new nylons. Both pairs of her work stockings had ladders and she had stopped them as far as she could with clear nail varnish, but she had a crisp ten pound note in her purse, so there was no need to keep dabbing.

  She was picking over the crackling plastic packets of stockings, marvelling at the long-legged, lean models on the front, wondering whether anyone really looked like that, when she saw Cliff Evans. He was standing in front of a flower stall, in deep discussion with the stall holder. She looked back at the stockings, but despite herself kept glancing over at Cliff. His dark hair was brushed back off his face and as he stood talking she could see his dark eyes and his interesting mouth. He looked good, if a little menacing, in his long black leather coat. And then he looked straight at her. He smiled. He walked towards her. He took the packet of stockings from her hand. ‘She’ll take these please,’ he said, ‘two pairs,’ and he handed the stall holder a ten shilling note.