‘I was going to but I was worried my mum would find out. She’s ordered a new settee and a new bed from there. So Gene said he would lend it to me because, anyway, it will be cheaper and I’ll pay him back when I get my cheque book. Doreen bought us each a book. She says I’ve got to write it all down, all the money I’ve spent and what people have lent me, so I know how much I’ve got to pay back. That pound you lent me to get my hair cut, and the money Doreen’s lent me. There’s a bit from Graham at work too. But Gene’s lent me the most. He’s always flashing the cash.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! He doesn’t care. Anyway, he’s definitely paying on Thursday. He owes me a date in London. He’s been promising to take me to the West End for long enough.’
‘So what, will he come up to London with us? I thought it would be the two of us. Like it used to be.’
‘It will! Because he’s got to work in the shop, hasn’t he? We’ll meet up in the evening. Oh, but just to warn you, Doreen’s coming. And my mum and dad. Don’t say anything about why we’re going. I’m telling them we’re going shopping. We shan’t even see them. They’re all going to Australia House. They’re getting some more information or something, and Doreen’s got her interview.’
‘I thought you said Doreen didn’t want to go.’
‘She hasn’t made up her mind. We talked about it the other night. Mum’s been on at both of us. She really wants us to go with them, but I’m just not going. But Doreen, I don’t know. She’s started saying that perhaps she will go to Australia with them, after all. To get away from here. I don’t know what’s going on with her. Ohh, you know what that means?’ She looked at Carol as she put the Mel Torme record back in its paper sleeve. ‘If they all go.’
‘What?’
‘That means not just jobs, but you and me should probably look for a flat in London, too.’
They laughed softly and crept downstairs.
*
At home Mrs Smith and Doreen were in the living room, watching Armchair Theatre on television. Her mum was saying, ‘Who’s he again?’
‘He’s the one who left the parcel, but didn’t go home.’
‘Oh. Really?’
Angie came in and sat down. ‘Where’s Dad?’
Without taking her eyes off the screen her mum said, ‘He’s gone to the pub.’
‘I thought the money would stop all that.’
‘I don’t know why you thought that, now he’s got loads more money to spend. The only difference is, he wears a good suit when he goes out,’ Doreen said.
‘How come Dad’s spending all this money and we’re still scraping by?’
Mum turned from the screen. ‘He says there’s a good business deal on offer. He says he’s worried if he gives us all the money straight away, we’ll behave as if we’ve got money to burn.’
‘So Dad’s going to invest it for us!’ Doreen said. ‘At this rate there won’t be any money for any of us to burn.’
‘Shush,’ her mum said. ‘I’m losing the plot here.’
Angie gazed at the screen but she wasn’t watching. She was thinking. London. A new job. A chance. ‘Mum,’ she said.
‘Shh, this is the crucial moment.’
All three sat silently until her mum and Doreen exclaimed together, ‘Oh, no!’ And then the credits rolled.
‘Well, I never saw that coming,’ her mum said.
‘I think they got the wrong man!’ Doreen said.
‘Mum,’ Angie started again.
‘Yes,’ her mum said absently. She was peeling an orange.
‘Next week, when you go to London, I might come too.’
‘So we will all go to Australia, after all,’ Mum said. ‘Lovely. I’ll write to Ivy and tell her to expect four of us. Oh, that will be nice,’
‘Are you definitely going then?’ Angie asked Doreen.
‘I’m still thinking about it,’ Doreen said. They both looked across at their mum.
‘Well, I’m not,’ Angie said. ‘I’m just going to London for the day.’
‘No need to decide yet,’ Mum said. ‘So what are you going to do up in London?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Angie said. ‘Carol and I just fancied a day out shopping, looking around.’
CHAPTER 20
ANGIE WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO THE day. She wanted to walk round Piccadilly Circus, across Leicester Square, through Soho, imagine what it might be like to do that every day, to be part of that world, to talk casually about fashion and art and how to cut cloth on the bias so it fell just right. She didn’t expect to get the job. She couldn’t believe that she’d be better than all the other people who applied for it. She was afraid she wanted it too badly. She couldn’t imagine getting it. But she did want to smell the possibilities, imagine herself in the place.
‘What do you think?’ Angie said to Carol when she got to the bus stop. She undid her coat to reveal a navy shift dress, with a high collar. It had a red diagonal stripe across the body. ‘It’s got long sleeves, and red cuffs.’ She pulled back the sleeves of her suede.
‘It’s fab!’ Carol said. ‘You look very arty. Did you make it?’
‘I designed it and made it. Do you think it’s all right?’
‘I think you look great,’ Carol said. ‘They’ll be falling over themselves to give you a job.’
‘And if they don’t . . .’
‘Well, it’s their loss. But what’s that?’
Angie was holding a battered briefcase. ‘It’s my stuff,’ she said. ‘In case they want to look at it.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Oh, some of my designs from my night class and some . . . some sketches and pieces of fabric. I mean, Miss Darling must have suggested this job for a reason. She knows I want to get into fashion. She said it would be the perfect thing for me. So I’m going to show them what I’ve really got to offer.’
‘They’re going to love you!’ Carol said.
At the railway station they queued to buy their tickets, then climbed the steps to the platform, Angie holding her briefcase close to her as if it might disappear if it wasn’t wrapped in her arms.
At the far end of the platform stood Mr and Mrs Smith and Doreen. ‘I thought you said we wouldn’t see them!’ Carol said.
‘They must have missed their train. I planned it so that we wouldn’t see them at all. I don’t want to talk to them any more than you do.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go with them? Have an interview? Book your ticket?’ Carol said.
‘No, I don’t. Who wants to go to Australia? You’d be tripping over koala bears and convicts and everyone would be singing “Waltzing Matilda”. I don’t think they’ve even heard of mods. Who’d want to go?’
‘Your mum and dad, obviously. Perhaps that’s why they missed the train. They’ve decided to kidnap you and get you on a boat today.’
‘Oh, ha ha. I’d like to see them try.’
‘Should we go and talk to them?’ Carol said.
‘Don’t worry,’ Angie said, ‘Doreen’s on her way over.’
Doreen walked up to them, smiling. She was wearing a new beige mac, with a tightly fastened belt. She looked very thin. The heels of her shoes were high. ‘I don’t know how she can even walk in those shoes,’ Angie murmured, ‘let alone go all the way to London in them.’
‘Let’s hope she’s got a pair of plimsolls in her bag,’ Carol said.
Doreen came up to them in a wave of sweet perfume. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to sit with you, I just needed a break from Mum and Dad. It’s all talk talk talk about Australia, what I should say, what I shouldn’t say in this interview.’
‘Are you nervous?’ Angie said.
‘Not really. I don’t care whether I get through or not,’ Doreen said. ‘Although with all this money we’ve won I reckon they’ll just say, “Here are your tickets. Get on the next boat.” Anyway, I’m wearing my highest shoes. If there’s any nonsense I’ll just stab a few people. G
od they’re killing me.’ She rubbed the back of her legs. You going for a job interview too, Carol?’ Doreen batted her heavy black, Dusty Springfield eyelids at her.
Carol didn’t reply.
‘Yeah, she is!’ Angie said. ‘She’s going for a job in the music business.’
Carol turned to Angie, her eyes wide. ‘I haven’t got anything organised. I’m just going to see what’s up there,’ she said stiffly.
‘Well, be careful. There are a lot of creeps in London. It’s what I say to Angie. Fashion is one of the hardest businesses to break into, followed closely by the music business. Everyone wants to be a pop-star, and it’s just not possible.’
‘Shut up Doreen,’ Angie said. ‘We might get lucky. If you must know we shall be in the middle of the music business tonight.’
‘Really,’ Doreen sighed.
‘We’re going to Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club.’
‘Are we?’ Carol said.
‘I told you we’d go somewhere nice.’
‘Jazz?’ Carol said.
‘Jazz?’ Doreen said. ‘You know what happens in jazz clubs and it’s not just music. I know what I’m talking about, believe me.’
‘We’ll be all right,’ Carol said. ‘We’re going with Gene from the boutique.’
‘Oh, are you?’ Doreen said. ‘He should know better.’ She turned on her heel and stalked back up the platform.
Angie looked at Carol. ‘Don’t listen to her. She’s full of good advice for everyone else but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She doesn’t know anything about music, let alone the music business. She bought a Perry Como record recently. That’s what happens when you have money to burn.’ They laughed. ‘Too late to worry about it now, anyway. We’ve got our tickets and we’re going to London. This could be the start of a new life.’
They found an empty carriage and Angie sat by the window, holding her briefcase tenderly on her lap.
As the train left the station, Carol said, ‘Can I have a look at your sketches?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ Carefully Angie unbuckled the cracked leather straps. ‘I don’t want to be stupid but are your hands clean?’ she said.
Carol rubbed her hands on her hanky. ‘Yes.’
Angie handed over a pile of sketches. Carefully Carol looked through them. There were pencil sketches of tall thin women wearing simple shift dresses. In two sketches the woman looked like Doreen. ‘That’s the dress she’s wearing today,’ Angie said.
Further in the pile were more intricate drawings, different shapes and lengths with swatches of material attached to them. Then Carol said, in a surprised tone. ‘That’s me.’ There were some drawings of her – one wearing her mac, another of her in an interesting skirt. ‘When did you do these?’ she asked.
‘Ages ago,’ Angie said. ‘I did them at home. I didn’t stand outside your house trying to catch your best side. What do you think?’
Carol looked up from the pictures. ‘I think they’re fantastic. I love the dress with the black stripe down the side, and that one with the sleeves. That’s like the one you’re wearing, isn’t it? God, Ange, I really didn’t know you could draw like this. Honestly, they really are fab. When you go in for that interview, before you say anything you should just open the briefcase and say “Look at these. Now give me a job.”’ Carol handed the pictures back to Angie.
‘That might be a bit strange, as it’s a technician job, not a design job,’ Angie said. ‘But I want them to know I’m on their wavelength. And that I’ll be more than just a technician. I’ll be a technician with style!’
‘Oh they’ll definitely give you the job,’ Carol said.
*
Angie crunched up the gravel driveway of a large Victorian looking house. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into a spacious entrance hall. There was the smell of paint and charcoal and in the sunlight that came in through the skylight over the door, motes of dust dashed through the air. It was terrifying but also alluring. On her left was a door labelled ‘Secretary’ and the sound of rapid, expert typing. She poked her head nervously round the door.
‘I’m . . .’ Her voice was a whisper. She coughed. ‘I’m here for an interview.’
A young woman with whispy brown hair wearing a neat orange cardigan, looked up from her typewriter. ‘Oh yes.’ She looked at a list beside her machine. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Angie – Angela Smith.’
‘Yes. You’re a bit early, but that’s perfect. The last person didn’t turn up. I’ll tell them you’re here then I’ll take you up.’ She stretched over her machine to a large telephone affair and picked up the receiver. She dialled a number and murmured something. Angie heard her name.
The woman ushered her back into the hallway and led her upstairs. Angie was conscious of the briefcase banging against her legs. She wondered if it was a mistake.
In a large room, panelled with dull brown wood and hung with pictures of red cheeked men in stiff white collars and black jackets, and waistcoats straining over their large stomachs, sat a man and a woman, behind a large wooden table. The man invited her to sit down in a chair opposite them and then introduced himself and the woman, but Angie immediately forgot their names.
The man looked down at a pile of notes. He picked up a letter. Angie recognised the flowery handwriting of Miss Darling. He read it silently then passed it to the woman. She scanned it quickly then put it down in front of her and folded her hands on it.
Angie sat on the edge of her chair, ready to give answers to any questions they might ask. But for now it was just silence and the rustle of paper. This seemed to take about three hours but Angie realised it was probably only a few minutes. She tried to relax.
‘Well Angela. Can you tell us a little about yourself and why you want this job?’
Angie took a deep breath. She’d prepared for this question but now she wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I love design,’ she blurted. They looked at her, nodding in what she hoped was a kindly way. ‘I mean, I know this job is fairly straightforward, or I imagine it is, sorting out the rooms and the studios and making sure the students have what they need. I know I can do that. I could probably do it standing on my head, although that’s probably not what you’re after.’ The woman smiled slightly. ‘But . . .’ She stopped. Already she loved the atmosphere of this place, the smell of it, the trees outside the windows, the old men in their shiny waistcoats. She wanted to come here so much. Did she dare to say what was in her heart? Would she sound stupid? She didn’t care. She lifted her head. ‘But, because I love design and fashion, and I think I’m quite good at it, what I really want is to work in an atmosphere where everybody loves it. Where I might have conversations with people about the way things look, how the light catches them, what is behind it all.’
There was silence. Had she messed it up? Had she ruined her chances by talking arty rubbish, that was nothing to do with the job? Had she given herself away?
‘Well.’ The man leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. ‘That’s a very . . .’ What was he going to say? ‘That’s a very refreshing thing to hear,’ he said. ‘You know you come very highly recommended by Miss Darling, who was at one time a student in this college. She tells me you do in fact do some designing of your own.’
Angie took a breath. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said. She bent down to the briefcase beside her. ‘I’ve brought a few things with me. To show you. If you’re interested.’
‘I think we’re very interested,’ said the woman.
Angie opened the briefcase and spread the sheets of paper on the desk. Seeing her own designs, designs she was proud of, that were hers, gave her confidence and made her feel comfortable. Even if they didn’t give her a job, they had to like her designs because she knew they were good.
*
At five past four Angie appeared, smiling. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said cheerfully to Carol. She held out her arms, the briefcase dangling from her hand.
; ‘So,’ Carol said, ‘how did it go?’
‘Oh, I liked it there. It’s this huge old house, in the middle of this enormous garden. And I think they liked me. They talked to me for hours. And they looked at my sketches and they liked them. And they bought me a sandwich at dinner-time. And when I was leaving one of them winked at me. So, fingers crossed. They said they’d let me know soon. That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah! That sounds great.’
‘I know. It was fab. Oh, I would really love this job. But what about you, what did you do?’ Angie asked.
‘I walked around. I looked at the adverts outside an employment bureau in . . . somewhere, Crompton Street, Old Compton Street. And then a bloke came up and asked me if I wanted business.’
‘Oh my god, he didn’t think you were . . .?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘He didn’t!’
‘Yes, because then a woman came along with a really tight skirt and took him upstairs.’
‘Lucky escape! Good job Doreen wasn’t there, she’d have carried you back to Chelmsford straight away. She hates that kind of thing.’
‘Well, I wasn’t mad keen on it, myself. I found a couple more employment agencies but they had nothing and then I went to the pictures.’
‘On your own? Where?’
‘Yes! It was in Oxford Street. The poster looked good. It was called Suzanne’s Career – I thought I might get some tips. And it was just about to start. But it turned out it wasn’t that sort of career, and it was French! It had, what are they called? Subtitles. You had to read as well as watch. I was so tired when I came out, I had to go and have a cup of tea. So there wasn’t time to go looking for Brian Epstein.’
‘Next time,’ Angie said. ‘There’s bound to be a next time. We’ll be coming back because I’m bound to not get this job.’
‘Oh, I bet you do,’ Carol said. ‘It sounds like you made a good impression.’
‘Oh, I hope so.’ Angie looked at her watch. ‘We’re meeting Gene in an hour. He said he wants to take us to his favourite café before going to the jazz club. What are we going to do till then?’
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