The Girls from Greenway

by Elizabeth Woodcraft

  He looked at her. ‘I suppose we do. Trouble is, I’ve run out.’

  ‘Well, that’s hopeless,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll nip out to get some,’ he said. ‘You’d better stay here and keep an eye on the shop.’

  ‘What do I do if someone comes in?’

  ‘Sell them something.’

  ‘All right, but make sure the biscuits have got chocolate on. Get some Penguins or something.’

  ‘You don’t want much, do you!’ he said, but he was grinning.

  ‘Ooh, you don’t know the half of what I want,’ she said. She wasn’t sure she did either, but they both laughed.

  *

  He was only gone five minutes. ‘Sorry, they didn’t have any chocolate. Why are you smiling?’

  ‘I sold two shirts and a belt.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Well, I smiled and said they’d look good and the lad bought them.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he repeated. ‘You don’t want a job, do you?’

  ‘Why? What are you offering?’

  ‘I dunno. Nine quid a week?’

  ‘And commission?’

  ‘Blimey. You don’t mess about, do you?’

  She shook her head. She didn’t need a job, she liked working in Bolingbroke’s. Now they had the money she didn’t need a job at all. But it didn’t hurt to show him how a real professional did the job. Two mods came in and she walked over to them. ‘Hello boys. What you after today? We’ve got some new trousers in that people seem to like. I just sold a pair actually.’ She took the trousers off the rail. They were stylish, iridescent with a narrow cuff. ‘See, they tell me these are very big in London, but I think they’re going to look better in Chelmsford! What size are you? These should be all right.’ The boys looked at the trousers, looked at each other, then one of them sagely nodded his head. ‘Yeah, I’ll take them.’

  ‘Bring them back if they don’t fit, mind, and we’ll replace them. Gene, can you do the business?’

  When the boys had paid and left, he laughed. ‘No honestly, do you want a job?’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m quite satisfied where I am,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right – bridal wear. You know, my wife used to sell wedding dresses. You certainly earn your money there.’

  ‘Yeah, people think it’s like shooting fish in a barrel – they’re getting married, and you’ve got the dresses – but it’s not that easy. Still, I like it. Where does your wife work now?’

  ‘Well, let’s be clear, she’s almost not my wife now, we’re getting a divorce.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s fair to say she runs the other boutique we’ve got. It’s just business.’

  ‘Business,’ she said slowly. ‘Well, I’d better be off.’

  ‘What about that cup of tea?’

  ‘Another day, I just came to see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ he said.

  ‘And I notice you bought malted milk. I could never work somewhere with malted milk biscuits.’

  ‘Someone else said that to me recently,’ he said.

  ‘There you are. Listen to the people.’ She looked round the shop. ‘You’ve got some nice stuff here, Gene.’

  ‘Call me Gerry,’ he said. ‘Special people call me Gerry.’

  She laughed. ‘But I think you should display it better.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Move that rail under the spotlight there. And that spotlight in the corner isn’t shining on anything. And get some more shelves for the sweaters, what are they? Cashmere? Show them off!’

  ‘You sure you don’t want the job?’

  ‘No thanks. But I’ll keep it in mind.’ She left the shop and walked back to her car. He was big, he was friendly, he had a nice smile. But why was he calling himself Gene when his name was Gerry? Idiot.

  CHAPTER 15

  FOR MONTHS ANGIE HAD BEEN APPLYING for jobs, trying to find something that would pay her enough to leave English Electric and allow her to work in the fashion industry. So far she hadn’t received a single offer of an interview, but she persevered, hovering in Johnsons, the newsagents, to scan the newspaper ads, occasionally dropping into the Employment Agency in Duke Street, sending off her letters of application with their stamped addressed envelopes for a reply. Now of course, she didn’t have to worry about the level of wages, but still the right job eluded her grasp.

  As she walked towards the bus stop Angie saw a figure she recognised. It was Miss Darling her old needlework teacher. Memories of those wonderful classes and all Miss Darling’s encouragement came back and Angie smiled with delight, then cringed inside with embarrassment that she was going to have to confess she was working at English Electric.

  Miss Darling smiled broadly, ‘Angela! How nice to see you! What are you doing these days?’

  Angie mumbled the words ‘I’m at English Electric’ and a fleeting look of disappointment passed across Miss Darling’s face. ‘But I’m still doing an evening class in fashion design,’ Angie added almost desperately.

  ‘Oh, I am pleased,’ Miss Darling said. ‘I always enjoyed teaching, but I have to say some of my happiest memories are of standing in one of the ateliers, watching one of my creations come to life. I always thought you were someone who could do that too.’

  Angie’s face coloured with pleasure. ‘I do look for jobs in fashion,’ she said, ‘I just can’t find one that I really want, or that really wants me.’

  Miss Darling patted her hand and said, ‘Don’t be discouraged. The job for you is out there somewhere. In fact, only the other day I saw something that might be just the thing. Why don’t I send it over to you?’

  ‘Oh, Miss Darling, thank you. That would be fantastic.’

  *

  The next day a smooth, square envelope covered in large flowery writing was waiting for Angie at home. It was a letter from Miss Darling. It contained a small advertisement for a job in London at a College of Art. It was a technician’s job ‘but it might be interesting,’ Miss Darling wrote. ‘The college has a fashion department attached.’

  Angie smiled. She couldn’t imagine anyone in an art college would want her as a technician but she wrote an application and enclosed the SAE they asked for. She posted the letter with the others on the way to work, getting off the bus a stop early to catch the first post. The detour only made her a couple of minutes late.

  *

  Three days later she got to work, hung her suede on the hook, put on her white coat and sat at her bench. She was bending over a small ceramic shape, manoeuvring pieces of copper wire with a tiny pair of pliers, when Graham came and stood behind her.

  ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘You’re in my light.’

  ‘I’ve got something to say.’

  The tone of his voice made her stop. She put down the pliers and turned round in her seat.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to lose you,’ he began.

  Angie’s eyes widened. ‘Why? Have you got to? Are you giving me the sack?’ Her heart was racing.

  ‘No, of course I’m not giving you the sack. You’re the best worker we’ve got. The best we’ve ever had, probably. That’s why I don’t want to lose you. But there’s a job going, over in Section F. It’s management. It’s a job I think you could do. And personnel think you could do it too.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

  ‘You should go for it. There will be some paperwork. You’d be in charge of a small team. It will be like keeping an eye on four versions of Mandy. But it would mean we wouldn’t see you. It’s in another building.’

  Angie looked at him. She looked at Mandy noting down with a pencil the measurements of the ceramic she was working on, the tip of her tongue visible as she concentrated.

  ‘It would be more money, obviously,’ Graham said.

  ‘Obviously,’ Angie said.

  ‘You don’t have to make up your mind
till next week.’ Graham had his hands in the pockets of his white overall. He looked so serious. She felt sad, a scraping inside her stomach. This was the time for a real decision. This was the offer of a big job, with real responsibility. If she took this it would take her down a different path, away from her dream. But it would mean more money, more respect. It was serious. But it wasn’t fashion.

  *

  When she came in from work the letter was there, lying on the seat of the telephone table. She looked at the envelope. She recognised her own handwriting. A reply to one of her job applications. Which one was it this time? It didn’t really matter. It would be negative. She knew what it would say:

  Dear Miss Smith

  Thank you for your application to work with us. Unfortunately,

  a) you are too young

  b) you are too old

  c) you don’t have the right qualifications

  d) you have the wrong qualifications

  e) you are too late, you would have been perfect, but the job’s gone

  She opened the letter. Even though it wasn’t personal, it was always a bit depressing, always another person saying, ‘You haven’t got a chance of a job in fashion.’

  It was a small piece of off-white paper. She glanced at the heading. Hornsey. She didn’t even know where Hornsey was. She read the letter.

  ‘Oh my god, oh my god!’ she said. ‘Oh my god.’ It was the offer of an interview. Her heart soared. Someone had liked what she had to say. She tried to remember what she could about this place. It was an art school but with a fashion department. Fashion.

  *

  Angie passed the whole long weekend in a state of high emotion, one minute thrilled at the thought of the London interview, the next filled with anxiety about the English Electric promotion.

  She hadn’t said anything to the family about the English Electric offer. She knew what they would say. Her mum would be pleased it was management. If her dad was drunk he wouldn’t even know what she was talking about, otherwise he’d probably say, ‘Ideas above your station.’ Doreen would say, ‘You should do it. You should be earning more.’

  She hadn’t even mentioned the job interview in Hornsey. There was no point. Everyone would be so negative. ‘London! Work in London! Who do you think you are! You call that a wage!?’ her dad would say. ‘Just because I’ve won this money, doesn’t mean you can’t still do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. That’s how I brought you up, pools win or no pools win.’ The decisions and choices bubbled inside her. She didn’t know what to do. She liked the idea of turning down a managerial job for the sake of fashion, but she knew there were consequences, not least how upset her mum would be. Perhaps she could take the English Electric job and then leave if she was offered the London job. No, her mum would be appalled. Did she have a hope of getting a proper job in fashion? This was just an interview, and even if she got the job it was just to be a technician. She’d be organising rooms, sorting out supplies, ensuring things worked. But it was the nearest she’d got, and it was London, at a fashion school. She’d be moving in the right circles, working in the right place.

  But now it was Bank Holiday Monday and tonight she wasn’t going to think about it. Tonight she was going out with Gene. Although first she had to prepare the tea for her mum and dad. She wiped up the plates on the draining board, before she started on the potatoes. She was humming, planning her outfit for the evening. She was going to dazzle Gene by wearing something she had made.

  Gene had said he liked the green dress, but she wondered about going a little brighter, her royal blue top with the fitted sleeves, maybe, or the red dress she had made for Doreen. The red dress would make him look. A small smile played on her lips. He was coming back from London early. Just for her. She might try asking him about the job offer. She wondered what he would say. Would he say, no, don’t take the factory job? Would he say, take a job in London and I’ll close the boutique and we’ll leave Chelmsford behind us? Would he say, marry me? Would that defeat the whole object?

  There was a knock on the back door. She started. Who could it be?

  It was Roger. Angie stared at him, ‘What are you doing here?’

  He looked at her with a long face. Angie’s eyes widened. His olive-green parka, his pride and joy, was torn. And where there were usually small stains, badges of pride from his work as a mechanic, now there were large dark patches all over, that looked like oil or even blood.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ she said.

  He stepped into the kitchen, looking anxiously round the room. ‘Is anyone here?’

  ‘No, my mum’s gone to Great Baddow to see my auntie. And Doreen’s out in the car somewhere.’

  ‘Where’s your dad?’

  ‘Who knows? He’s not here anyway.’

  ‘Can I have something to eat?’ Roger said.

  ‘Well . . . yes.’ He could have a quick slice of toast.

  ‘I haven’t eaten for two days.’

  ‘You were meant to be in Clacton having a good time.’ She went to the sink and filled the kettle.

  ‘I was in Clacton. Well, once we got there. The scooter conked out just outside Colchester, in Elmstead Market or somewhere. A nut came off the fly-wheel. I had to push it to a garage. Then after I’d paid for that I lost my wallet with my last three quid in it. I dunno where it went. It must have come out of my pocket when we were heading off again.’

  ‘Oh Roger!’ Angie squeezed her eyes shut with frustration.

  ‘So we couldn’t afford anywhere to stay – Ron forgot to bring any money, bloody Ron, and Dave’s mum had taken his pay-packet. So we couldn’t afford the camp site Dave had said we were going to, and we had to sleep in a field. And it took us about an hour to get the tent up. It was Ron’s dad’s from the war. And the tent had a hole in, and it rained. Then we had to get up and out of there at the crack of dawn in case the farmer came, because we didn’t have the money to pay him.’ He slumped into a chair. ‘So we went down on the beach, just looking around, having a laugh, no rockers or anything, it was all great, and then the bloody farmer turns up in his wellingtons – on the beach! – belly-aching about how much we owe him and he grabs me – the others ran off of course – and then he beats me up. And there was this big patch of oil on the sand and he threw me into it.’ He looked astonished as if he still couldn’t believe it. ‘And I’m starving.’

  Angie was doing rapid calculations. She could catch a later bus. She’d be a bit late, but he’d wait, surely. There was a tin of beans in the pantry that was supposed to be for tea tomorrow, but she would think about that later. And a couple of slices of bread wouldn’t be too bad. She just wouldn’t have any sandwiches to take to work in the morning. She shook her head. This pools win didn’t seem to be making much difference in the kitchen. Her mum still didn’t have enough money to keep the pantry stocked. ‘There’s no need to waste money on food,’ her dad said, regularly, ‘just because I’ve won the pools. We didn’t starve before, you don’t need more housekeeping.’

  ‘Take your coat off,’ Angie said.

  ‘I’m cold,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t sit there in that. It’s soaking wet. And filthy. I’ll get you a jumper.’ She ran upstairs. In her mum and dad’s room she opened the drawers of the dressing table. There was nothing useful. Her dad only had one cardigan and it wasn’t here. He must be wearing it. In her room was her meagre collection of thin Marks and Spencer’s cardigans. They weren’t warm enough or big enough. She went into Doreen’s room. And there was her big Sloppy Joe, it was black mohair, soft and warm.

  Downstairs Roger was sitting at the kitchen table. He had taken off his parka which lay in a heap on the floor beside him. He was wearing his Christmas jumper, the one she’d bought from the Boutique. There were stains on that too.

  He followed her gaze. ‘Yeah, this got a lot of muck on it as well. Sorry about that. But you never liked it, did you?’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ she said stif
fly. ‘Here.’ She thrust Doreen’s sweater at him.

  ‘I can’t wear this, it’s a girl’s jumper.’

  ‘I know that, and you know that, but no one else is here and no one else will know. Put it on. It’ll keep you warm.’

  Reluctantly he pulled it over his head. ‘How do I look?’ he said, attempting a joke.

  ‘You look very cuddly,’ she said, surprising herself. She put her arms round him. ‘Phew, you stink.’

  ‘It was a pig farm.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  Roger laid his head on the table and closed his eyes. Angie got the clothes horse from under the stairs in the hall, propped it round the boiler and draped the parka across it.

  She clattered through the cutlery drawer and eventually found the tin opener. She looked at the tin of beans. Should she really do it? He looked so sorry for himself. A wave of tenderness came over her. Oh Roger. He was such a nice chap. He was so kind, and thoughtful. He tried so hard. He wanted to give her the world. And she enjoyed seeing him. He even made her laugh sometimes, with his silly jokes. That’s why she was reluctant to end it. She knew it was also because he was safe. He would never be like her dad. Roger was dependable, he’d never let her down. But he also drove her mad, he was so . . . so boring sometimes. The last thing you could say about him was that he was exciting. He was the complete opposite of Gene. Would she really leave him for Gene? Oh, she wasn’t sure. She had so many decisions to make. Her head was spinning. She looked over at Roger, slumped over the table. Of course she would feed him, she would take care of him. And then she would send him on his way. She banged the old metal opener into the lid of the tin and sawed her way round it. She eased up the jagged edges and emptied the contents into a saucepan. She found the matches, and lit the hob and the grill. It was all taking so much time. With two slices of Wonderloaf on the tray under the grill and the saucepan of beans on the hob, she put two spoonfuls of tea into the pot, then reached for a plate and two cups from the cupboard.

  She put a cup of tea in front of him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he murmured. He was half asleep.