‘Well, if you really want to,’ Doreen said. ‘It’s your money.’
‘I’m feeling generous this morning,’ he said, dropping the stockings into Doreen’s bag. ‘Wanna cup of coffee?’
The stockings she had come for, she had now acquired. She’d thought she might investigate the shoes in Saxone’s or Lilley & Skinners, she still had the ten pound note after all, but she had no real plans. She looked at her watch. ‘OK,’ she said. As they walked out of the market, into Tindal Street, Cliff pointed to the pubs they passed, describing the standard of beer in each one, from bad to worse. She laughed. She wasn’t sure if that was because he was being amusing or because she couldn’t believe she was walking down the road with Cliff Evans.
In the Milk Bar she went upstairs while Cliff ordered two coffees. She could hear him flirting with the woman behind the espresso machine – making her laugh too. She was sitting by the window, looking out over the High Street when he came up, balancing the drinks and a Chelsea bun on a plate. He sat down with a sigh of satisfaction and took out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Do you always smoke Embassy?’ she said.
‘I usually smoke Bensons. I only smoke these when I’m running a bit low.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have paid for my stockings. Or the coffee for that matter.’
‘Oh well that’s me. Last of the big spenders.’
As Cliff lit a cigarette, Doreen stirred her coffee, then put a spoonful of froth in her mouth. ‘What was that all about? In the market. You and that woman.’
‘Joan? Oh, she’s all right. I had to sort out something about the flowers.’
Doreen frowned.
‘You know where I work don’t you?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m an undertaker.’
‘Really?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ He heaped sugar into his coffee. ‘I do a lot of lifting. And I help out when things get rowdy.’
‘Do people get rowdy at funerals?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Yes, I probably would.’ She took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Are we going to eat this bun?’
‘It’s for you.’
‘I can’t eat it all.’
‘Cut it in half and I’ll have some.’ He slid out of his chair and across the room to a jar of cutlery and brought back a knife. He presented it to her.
As she sawed through the bun she pondered how domestic this seemed, so ordinary.
‘Did my mum ever give you any of that jam she made?’ He leaned back in his chair, smoking.
‘I don’t know,’ Doreen said. ‘I’m not a great jam eater. I like marmalade.’
‘Marmalade!’ he said. ‘Thick peel or thin?’
‘Any way it comes,’ she said. ‘My mum only eats shredless.’
‘It’s not marmalade then, is it?’
‘That’s what I say!’ They laughed.
Suddenly he put his cup down, slopping coffee into the saucer. ‘Now there’s a man I do need to see,’ he said. ‘He owes me big time.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up, thrusting a piece of the bun into his mouth. ‘If I’m not back in five minutes, doll, go without me.’ He leaned down as if to kiss her again, in that easy, nonchalant way he had kissed her when she was delivering the jam jars. But he stopped and grinned. ‘Another day,’ he said and wove his way through the tables and ran down the stairs.
She watched through the window as he ran across the road and put his hand on the shoulder of a man in a grey gabardine mac. The man turned – he was old, forty at least, and he was going bald. He wore glasses. As he recognised Cliff a smile came across his face. They shook hands and Cliff briefly held his arm. They stood on the corner, moving in close to the wall as shoppers and pushchairs and other men in grey coats and trilbies walked past. The man in the mac put his right hand into the inside of his coat and drew out a slim envelope. He handed it to Cliff. Cliff opened the envelope and glanced inside as if he wasn’t that interested in the contents. He slid the envelope into the inside pocket of his own coat. The two men talked, they laughed. The other man looked at his watch and Cliff squinted up at the window of the Milk Bar. Doreen looked away quickly. She didn’t want him to know she had been watching all the time. He might get the wrong idea. He might think she fancied him.
When she looked back down both men had disappeared. She waited to see if Cliff would come back upstairs but he didn’t. She sat for a little while longer. Drank her coffee. Took a sip of his, just to see what it tasted like with all that sugar. And to drink from his cup. She cradled the cup in her hands. It was time for her to get back to work.
In the middle of the zebra crossing there was Cliff coming towards her. He began to walk backwards, so they reached the corner together. He held up a packet of Benson and Hedges. ‘See, we’re really in the money now. Where do you want to go, girl? To see the pyramids in Egypt, or a beach in Tahiti? How about a lion hunt in Africa?’
‘I’m going to work,’ she said primly. ‘Some of us have proper jobs you know.’ But she stood there. ‘What did that bloke give you?’
‘So you’re interested in me, all of a sudden.’
‘I’m interested in what goes on in Chelmsford, doing business in the street, brown envelopes, handshakes, dirty dealings.’
‘You’ve got a vivid imagination.’
‘Have I? I don’t know how your mum puts up with you.’
‘She loves me really. Look, I’ll walk you to work,’ he said.
‘Don’t put yourself out.’ She laughed.
‘Why, where do you work?’
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Bolingbroke’s.’ They walked the few feet to the anonymous grey door that was the staff entrance.
‘You work here? I never knew that.’
‘Clearly you don’t know everything.’
‘I think I knew you worked in a shop. But Bolingbroke’s? Swanky.’
‘I’m glad you noticed,’ she said. She put her hand on the door handle. ‘Well, thanks for the coffee. And the stockings. Really you didn’t have to.’
‘Look, Doreen. Do you wanna go out?’ he said.
‘Why?’
He laughed. ‘I dunno. Have a laugh. Chat. Talk about old times.’
‘Really? I didn’t enjoy school and from what I remember you didn’t enjoy it that much either. I don’t know anything about you now.’
He frowned. ‘What do you want to know? I work in an undertaker’s. Apart from lugging coffins out of hearses and onto my shoulders plus a bit of crowd control, there’s not much to tell.’
‘So why aren’t you at work now? What were you doing in the market this morning?’
‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Oh, ha ha. You were having that big discussion.’
‘I was sorting out flowers.’
‘So what happened to them, the flowers? And that bloke in the street? What was that all about? What do you really do?’
‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s wrong. Where do florists make most of their money? Funerals. We sort out deals so people can afford it, she gets the business and we get a cut. And that bloke Chris, he’s just a mate. I put a bet on the gee-gees with him. And for once I won. There you are – the story of my life. So how about it?’
‘Well, now I know everything about you, what would we talk about?’
‘This and that. I dunno. The weather? God, you don’t make it easy, do you?’
‘In my head I keep seeing you in your school uniform.’
‘Didn’t I look cool?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, if you went out with me, you’d get used to seeing me like this!’ He spun round in front of her and the ends of his leather coat flew out, like a magician doing a trick.
‘Now you’re making me dizzy.’
‘That’s something.’
‘I’ve got to get back to work.’
He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Sure?’
‘I am.’ She
looked at her watch. ‘I’m almost late.’
‘You’re really sure?’
‘Why? What’s the hurry?’
‘You’ve got to get back to work. And hey, we’re not getting any younger.’
‘So do you think we should run off together now?’
‘If you like.’
‘I don’t think so.’
He gazed at her with a small smile. Then he said, ‘OK, you win. I’ll see you around.’ He leaned towards her as if to kiss her, and she flinched. He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, doll. I don’t kiss on a first date.’ He paused. ‘Well, not usually.’ He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘But that’s our secret, isn’t it?’ He turned and walked towards the High Street. Then he stopped. He looked back. ‘And I’m not talking about the night with the jam jars.’
A woman walking past looked at him and he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, madam, we don’t use the jam jars in public.’
The woman turned her head sharply as if she had suddenly smelled something bad, and Cliff and Doreen both laughed.
Then, ‘Our secret? Our secret?’ she called, but he was gone. ‘What do you mean?’ she murmured to herself as she pulled open the door and walked up the stone staircase to the staffroom. She didn’t know what he meant, idiot. But as she hung up her coat and tidied her hair, she realised she’d enjoyed the last couple of hours. She’d got two pairs of stockings, and she still had the ten pound note. Cliff Evans. Who’d have thought? She shook her head. She was quite happy with the easy relationship she had with Gene. She didn’t need Cliff to complicate matters.
CHAPTER 13
‘WHAT DO YOU THINK?’ ANGIE TWIRLED round in her bedroom. She was wearing a new dress that she had made herself. She’d spent hours on it, sitting downstairs in the front room, long after everyone had gone to bed, using her new smooth, silent sewing machine.
Carol inspected the dress. It was moss green, with long sleeves. It was quite formal, with a small collar and two rows of buttons, military-style, down the front. ‘It looks very nice.’
‘I couldn’t have done it without the new sewing mac-hine. This material is quite thick. But do you think Gene will like it?’
‘I’m sure he will.’
‘He should, the time it took me. It’s lined as well!’ She turned up the hem. ‘It’s not all that mod, but it’s smart, and anyway he doesn’t really know what’s in for girls. But these shoes – they should be black.’
‘They look black. I only know they’re navy because I know,’ Carol said. ‘You look fab.’
‘Oh, but he’s going to see me eating.’
‘So?’
‘He’ll see me holding my knife and fork and cutting things up and chewing. Perhaps I should have something to eat before I go out, then I won’t have to eat at all.’
‘That’s mad. You’re going out for a meal. Anyway, you eat like a normal person.’
‘Do I? But he’ll be watching.’
‘He’ll be eating too. Honestly, Angie, if you’re worrying about anything you should be worrying because he’s married.’
Angie stopped looking at the hem of her skirt. ‘Don’t you like him then?’
‘I don’t know him. He seemed very nice when we had that drink. But you know, I was going crazy on pineapple juice, so I don’t remember much.’ They laughed.
‘Well, I don’t care that he’s married. He doesn’t care, so why should I? Plus, he’s practically divorced.’
‘What if she comes down and wallops you?’
‘I’d like to see her try. Anyway, Gene says that’s not her style. The only person she’ll have a go at is him. And she probably won’t do that.’
‘Do you really not care?’
‘I don’t know. Not at the moment.’
‘And what about Roger?’
‘Oh don’t. It’s not as if we’re married. We’re not even engaged.’
‘Only because you won’t say yes.’
‘Well there you are. What does he expect?’
‘Oh Angie.’ Carol shook her head. ‘Well, that dress does look fab. You’ll knock him for six.’
‘I hope so.’ She looked at herself in the mirror again.
Angie had been waiting for this for days, all her life she felt. Since that night in the Golden Fleece Angie had daringly rung him, and one day she had dashed into the boutique in her dinner hour and spent five minutes there, leaning on the counter, talking to him. This would be their second official date. They would meet in the Saracen’s Head and have a drink and then he said they would go to a restaurant. A restaurant. She shivered at the thought. Looking at a menu, making a choice, not worrying about the cost – even if she had to pay herself. Apart from the times Doreen took them out as a family, she’d never been to a restaurant before, not even on a date. She didn’t count going out for a Wimpy with Roger.
Gene was already in the Saracen’s. The saloon was full of people in groups, laughing, shouting. There was the early evening smell of perfume and spirits. Gene was leaning against the bar, alone, a glass of beer in front of him. He was studying the beer. He was wearing his sheepskin coat and she could see underneath a light grey sweater she had admired in the shop. That pleased her. She wove her way through the crowd and he looked up as she approached. He smiled that wonderful smile. It reassured her. It was going to be all right.
‘Do you want a drink?’ he said.
‘No, let’s get going,’ she said.
He swallowed some of his beer and pushed the glass away. ‘Right. Let’s go.’
They walked through the High Street. This was Roger’s night class night so she felt free. ‘Can I link arms with you?’ she said.
‘Cynthia’s not going to jump out from behind a bollard,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
Holding his arm, feeling the soft suede of the sheepskin, she felt proud to be with the most exciting man in Chelmsford. They walked over the river, past the Regent. There was a short queue. She hesitated, looking at the film title.
‘You don’t want to go to the pictures, do you?’ he said.
It was The Greatest Story Ever Told. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to talking to you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He took hold of the hand tucked through his arm and stroked it. ‘I like that dress by the way.’
Angie’s heart soared, he’d noticed and he liked it. But now they were turning into Baddow Road and walking towards the Long Bar. Angie shrank against Gene. A mod so close to a rockers’ hang out!
‘What’s the problem?’ Gene asked.
She shook her head and whispered, ‘They’re rockers. I’m a mod. Let’s cross the road.’
‘They’ve got some nice bikes there,’ Gene said mildly, looking at the array of machines parked outside. ‘All right, all right, we’ll cross the road. But you’re with me. You don’t look like a mod, you look like a young stylish woman out for the evening with her stylish companion.’
‘I am wearing a suede coat,’ she murmured. ‘That makes me stick out rather.’
He drew her close to him.
They crossed the road and turned into the Chinese restaurant. The place was quite dark and completely empty. She was pleased about that. What if she was expected to use chopsticks? This meal would be humiliating enough without half of Chelmsford there to see.
As if he had read her mind Gene murmured, ‘Don’t look so worried. You won’t have to use chopsticks. Unless you want to.’
They were seated at a table in the corner, under the glow of a small wall lamp with a pink shade. Angie looked round at the paintings on the wall. Each one featured thin and wispy birds with Chinese writing. It was all so strange.
‘Cheer up,’ he whispered. ‘We’re here to have a good time. Look – you’ve got a knife and fork!’
She smiled, but when the waiter handed them each a menu she looked at it in dismay. There was only one thing she recognised, Chow Mein, because she’d had Vesta Chow M
ein at Carol’s once. She hadn’t really liked it.
She looked up at him. ‘I don’t know what any of this is.’
‘Shall I order a selection?’ he said. ‘Then you can just taste things and eat what you want and don’t eat the rest.’
He called the waiter and pointed to a hundred things on the menu it seemed. He ordered a bottle of white wine. But when the wine came she discovered that she didn’t like it.
A stream of dishes appeared on the table and there was a lovely smell. There was chicken and beef and mushrooms and rice and something with peas and carrots. She was hungry, she realised, and she hoped it would taste nice. She tried some chicken. It was soft and tender in her mouth. She took a little more. She added some rice and a couple of peas. Yes. It was very, very nice. Now she had to be careful not to eat too quickly. She was so hungry, but she would look like a pig.
Gene was drinking the wine. She looked at her glass, still there, still mocking her for her lack of sophistication. She picked it up and took a sip. If she had a mouthful of food it didn’t taste too awful. If you thought of it like vinegar on fish and chips it wasn’t really that bad at all.
She looked over at him and smiled. He smiled back. He picked up his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said. They clinked glasses. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he said. She nodded. ‘Next time we’ll go up West. I know a nice place near Leicester Square.’ He winked at her. ‘You’ll like it.’
Her stomach clenched. He was talking about another date. In London. ‘Don’t forget I’m at work till half past five, six sometimes. And I have to get up at seven.’
‘Or we could go to the dog track in Romford. You like Romford, don’t you?’
‘Still too far.’
‘Some other time. How is work, anyway?’ he said.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘All right.’
‘What exactly is it you do?’
She looked at her plate. There was so much more to eat.
‘If you have a pause it makes the food last longer,’ he said.
She balanced her fork at the edge of her plate. She took a sip of wine and she talked. She talked about her job, about the delicate pieces of wire and ceramic that seemed so simple but were vital to so much equipment. She talked about music, dancing at the Corn Exchange, the local group she liked, Mark Shelley and the Deans for their rock and roll excitement, the Four Tops for the pain and longing in their songs. She drank more wine and she found herself talking about clothes, her course, the lovely new sewing machine, her dreams of working in fashion. ‘My dad just won a bit on the pools,’ she said casually. She even talked about her own designs. He seemed interested. He asked her about them, about fabrics and cut. He said he would like to see them. He was impressed she’d made her dress for this evening. She revelled in his praise.
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